16. The Art of Being Caught
THE ART OF BEING CAUGHT
FRANCESCA
I don’t bother waiting for the castle to wake.
Redford tends to sleep late when the lady of the estate isn’t there to command it, and I take full advantage of that.
As usual, I make sure to be up about three hours before Lydia usually strolls into my room.
She’ll try to stop me, if given the chance, repeating her same soft words.
But the lake is where every thread of my nightmare was first stitched together, and Uncle’s prank explanation floats upon the surface of it.
I want it to hold some semblance of truth, just to keep the target from being painted on his back.
If the locket is not part of Godwyn’s test, the water should be calm, and the wind shouldn’t feel pressured or alive.
The lake reeds shouldn’t be reaching for me, trying to grab hold and never let go.
Anything would be better than putting my family in danger because I was too foolish to stop and think.
Almost impatiently, I turn towards my wardrobe, only to spot a glint of white peeking from beneath my room door.
For one moment, I think it’s the note from the lake that’s been tossed back at my feet.
Curiosity has me crossing the distance and swiping it from the ground.
There’s my name neatly at the front. I flip it open.
Chess, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other day. I know what that word means to you and yet I still used it. God, I’m so so bloody sorry. Please forgive me.I love you.
Guilty heat injects itself into my cheeks.
Edmund never apologises. He’ll crack a joke here and there (as he’s done for the past two days), show up with some of my favourite Bakers Tennis biscuits or come and find me when I’ve spent too many hours alone in the cottage.
I can count on one hand the number of times he’s put ‘sorry’ into words, and all were back when we were brattish little children.
I thumb the edge of the note where there’s an ink stain.
I’m not surprised he’s chosen a note, one that stinks of shame, and that only exacerbates my guilt because I’m far from innocent in this.
Caitlin does help him, and I hate that I can’t argue against it.
She’s answered every late-night call and blunts the insecurities Aunt Edith always seems to be sharpening.
And I’ve gone and attacked that support system.
Well done, Francesca.
Blindly, I reach for one of the pens in the holder on my desk.
With the note pressed to the wood, I scribble down my own apology, though it’s less polished than his.
My bare feet are silent as I slip into the corridor with the folded paper in hand.
It’s silent beyond his door, which means he probably dropped this off before he left for the city.
I crouch before it, shoving the note through the gap.
Back in my room, I shut the door gently and release a heavy sigh. The tension in my body eases by a fraction so small it may as well be nonexistent.
But 0.0000001 percent progress is still progress when measured in the units of my cursed existence.
Especially this morning.
With that in mind, I dig through the back of my wardrobe in search of something to wear.
There’s barely a pair of jeans to be found, maybe two or three, but I’ve probably outgrown them already.
It’s been years since they started to feel like clothing meant for somebody who moves freely through the world.
For somebody like Percy. She wears whatever she wants when she travels and posts just enough to get in trouble with Gran, but not enough to cause scandal.
I, on the other hand, am always being dressed by someone, even if my hand is the one pulling the zipper.
The jeans I find are hers, of course, found folded and forgotten at the back.
I have to hop a few times to get it up my hips, and I wrestle the button to just beneath my navel. The jumper I pull over my head is a plain burgundy one that was a gift from Gran at some point in my life.
Don’t have time to pack any vials or herbs, but Gran stitched every seam of this jumper with protective wards.
If she was in a cruel mood, she could stitch a curse right into flesh—I’ve seen her do it once with a reporter that tried exhuming my father’s grave.
Suppose this is her version of a hug. The hem lands just above my waistband, leaving a stubborn gap of skin. I tug at it a few times, then give up.
If I freeze, I freeze.
I force my sock-clad feet into a pair of boots still stiff from last week’s rain.
They’re not dignified at all, but they’ll hold if I need to run.
Nobody will see me, except maybe the ghosts, but I know they’ve seen far worse.
I place Tommy’s doll into a drawer for when she returns and slip the bracelet back where it belongs.
Once my hands are snug in a pair of leather gloves, I slip out of the window, feeling the sill press against the back of my thighs.
The soles of my boots scuff against the damp stonework, and I dig my heels into the familiar footholds that await me.
The second-floor ledge splits into two paths, and I drop my weight slightly towards the one leading to the staff entrance where Philip usually stands waiting.
Some more shuffling later and I’m directly above it, white puffs of breath escaping my mouth.
I squint into the low light in search of my driver, expecting to see him with his usual air of indifference, a thick woollen scarf shielding his mouth from the cold. But there’s nobody. No Philip. And certainly no Plan B. I fight to recall whether I messaged him last night. I’m sure I did.
I brace myself and try to tug my jeans a little higher, but that only makes them catch lower when I nearly slip. The denim (worn from too many washes) moves traitorously until I’m certain the hot pink of my knickers peeks over the waistband.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Well done, Francesca! Gold stars for you and your impulsive stupidity!
The ledge gives slightly beneath my weight, reminding me that there’s no time for second-guessing. Philip’s absence leaves my chest tight, and I’m ready to call out for him when a throat clears. Directly below me.
It’s not Philip’s disapproving voice that reaches me, nor an apology for being late.
“You really should charge for this kind of view.”
It takes a heartbeat longer for my brain to catch up than it should; I’d recognise that smug tone anywhere.
Eric . He shouldn’t be awake. Not yet. The shock hits me hard enough to contemplate scrambling back up the wall like a frightened spider, but mortification keeps me rooted to the spot.
Cold air knifes across the bare strip of skin at my back.
For a moment I consider dropping straight onto his arrogant head.
“ What ,” I hiss, heart hammering in my throat, “are you doing up?”
I still can’t see him, but I hear the wickedness of his laughter. My palms are aching, and the ghosts of this place have dark enough humour that I know one will potentially yank my pants down completely.
Stranger things have happened.
Not as humiliating, but still strange.
“Cousin Edmund,” he starts with a low chuckle, “told Kai that before the sun rises, the vines on this wall begin to come alive, like they’re remembering something. Apparently they tighten. Writhe like nerves.” There’s a lethal, lazy pause. “I detest unsourced stories.”
I wish they came alive.
It would’ve saved me a few falls when I was first getting the hang of climbing.
But Redford’s ghosts tend to be less helpful like that.
The true weight of what he’s saying hits me.
It could be funny if it didn’t involve Edmund, because I know my cousin, and I know he had zero intention of being funny.
He took the brothers for fools.
“Edmund lied.” My voice is tight from the strain of trying not to fall.
“Obviously. But confirmation never hurts.“
“So you’ve wasted your time, then.”
“I came for verification, my lady. And thus far, the only thing I’ve verified are the effects of compulsiveness and ill-fitted jeans,” he murmurs.
Heat stings my cheeks. “Didn’t I mention this family enjoys theatrics?”
“So do I, darling, especially if the cast is this interesting.”
I try to peer at him again. At first, he’s nothing more than a silhouette: tall and composed, standing there with an opened coat.
The torchlights flicker, spectral hands attempting to turn it towards him to give me a better view.
Golden light catches on the high edge of his collar, but half of his face is still eaten by shadow.
I beg the light to move, and it obeys, dancing across sharp cheekbones and the laziest grin I’ve ever seen.
Dark blonde hair falls perfectly into his eyes, undisturbed by the wind that very much seems to hate me at this moment because I wobble again.
There he stands, my golden coin, completely unaware that Redford’s version of hell just admitted it can’t afford to spend him. Pity the bastard doesn’t know he’s just become my gilded shield.
Lucky me.
Unlucky him.
Shit.
“Are you going to help or stay there composing field notes of my underwear?” I throw the words out there, uncaring of my situation as more time passes.
I’d take mortification over a broken neck any day, despite what past therapists would have to say about this moment— cough , Dr Browning, cough . Spinal injury isn’t something I’d want to add to my trauma bingo card.
“Honestly, I’m still contemplating whether helping you would count as aiding and abetting. I’ve got a pristine reputation to care for, after all.”
“Oh please , your reputation’s been on fire for years—just look at you, you’re exiled.”
“All the more reason to refrain from aiding a fugitive,” he ripostes.
“ Fugitive ?” I nearly swallow my tongue. “It’s literally my castle.”