19. Walls that Sing
WALLS THAT SING
FRANCESCA
O nce, long ago, the lake fed me memories until my lungs were stuffed.
My ribs became pews, and these ghosts sit there in silence.
My breath carries incense only I can smell; I feel the press of their faces in the hollow of my lungs.
My spine is the altar upon which they walk when they want to remember.
When they want me to remember the words of what was lost. But I can’t, not fully.
Only in pieces and echoes. And it’s that forgetting that blooms into the familiar pressure at the base of my throat.
Into that scream that’s lived inside my ribs for years.
That non-sound .
That something trying to be born through me.
It doesn’t want to be released; it wants to be known.
Some nights I’ve dreamt of walking back into the lake, dressed in a gown of pale silver as the moon reflects onto the surface of my hell.
I always see them standing there— Mum, Papa, Luciana —rotten and waiting.
They smile, but their mouths are too wide, their sockets eyeless and their skin all grey.
Yet still they hum the song I’ve been trying to remember since I came back, coughing up water.
The song is gone from the air now, but it carves a hole into my chest and burrows there. Years without hearing it, and with a simple twist of the radio, I’m trapped in my oldest nightmare. My ears still ring with that sickly sweet voice.
Pretty little baby…
I didn’t even remember the damn tune until the radio breathed life into it.
Only one note was fed into it, and then the entire orchestra was rebuilt.
Mum’s screaming again as she lays eyes on the crushed leg of her husband.
Inside me, the ghosts stir. They’re not frightened.
Not in the way I am. Each one is hungry, drinking in the screams as they hum along to the deranged lullaby.
Icy palms press against the inside of my skin as they whisper to me.
They remind me that this body is theirs, and this morning their choir performs.
Not for the first time, I wonder if this is how it begins.
If this is the point at which Nanna began to fray.
She too carried ghosts within her ribcage, and they rattled her bones until it was crowded, until they were louder than her own voice.
I think back to what she kept whispering that day I took Eric to meet her.
‘ There’s blood in the water—there always was: our name, our secrets,’ over and over, her favourite omen on her worst days.
I once thought it was something leftover from the memories she got lost in; now I wonder if she’s talking about us and how there’s always blood in our story.
To be born a Sheffolk woman is to be cursed twice over—first with the burden of the name and then with the witchcraft.
And how strange, how cruel, that the both of us were chosen for this particular ‘gift’.
This vampirism that craves the blood of memory and thirsts for the violent veins most of all.
Nanna turned her skull into a library, filling pages upon pages of journals with notes on Godwyn so we might survive.
Will I pour out my mind as well, bleed it all out in this last test so no daughter afterwards has to suffer?
Eric’s reflection flickers on the windscreen, and I try hard not to look at him. It doesn’t work, and every few minutes I feel the weight of his concern brushing against me. He doesn’t ask questions, though. Should’ve known. He’ll wait, watch and dissect whatever he gathers before saying anything.
When we reach the estate, Eric clicks the button on the keys, and we roll into the garage.
He reaches out to cut the headlights, and the engine goes silent.
I refuse to meet his stare; I might sob all over again if I do.
This man is a living reminder that what happened in the woods was real.
I can’t blame it on grief or trauma. He was there, and he remembers.
Remembers how the trees sang with a throat full of history.
Remembers Godwyn’s first proper attack on me, even if he doesn’t realise it yet.
The skin beneath my eyes is raw, and I wince when I use the sleeve of my jumper to wipe at them. It’s futile, anyway. Lydia will clock my sadness in an instant. Eric unlocks the doors, and I force my legs to move. I don’t wait for him to catch up, already stumbling towards the doors.
Only to slam into a massive wall of wool and fury. Philip . His hands close around my biceps, taking stock of my expression. “Francesca.” My full name, no title. Bad sign. “Where the hell have you been?”
Shit, I’ve never heard him this angry before, not since I was ten and locked myself in the undercroft with a Ouija board.
He had to use bolt cutters to get past the chains because I got a nosebleed and fainted after trying to summon Lucy.
I woke up three days later with a priest at the foot of my bed.
Housebound for a month after that, Gran told everyone it was ‘pneumonia’.
“I waited for you; I promise I did,” I counter, voice thin. “But you never showed. Eric…” I glance back to see the prince waiting by the car, the furthest thing from rattled whilst every piece of me unravels. “He offered to take me.”
“Take you where?”
My fingers are trembling again, and I want nothing more than to lock myself in the cottage, but Philip is in my way, and I’m struggling to breathe. “The lake,” I choke out. “To the lake.”
Philip’s brows meet in the middle. “We had no plans to go to the lake this morning. Why would I collect you?”
“Because I messaged?” It leaves me as a question. Philip blinks slowly, noting my red-rimmed eyes before he casts the prince an accusatory look. “Last night. Before I went to sleep , Philip.”
He lets go of me to pull his phone from his pocket. I watch his thumbs fly across the screen. A second later he’s in our chat, and I’m staring at the absence of the very message I’m talking about. “Nothing.”
Something ice-cold slithers down my spine.
I deaden a whimper with my hand. I sent the message; I’m certain I did.
My words were wiped, swallowed by digital silence.
A ghost in my phone, a ghost in my bloodline, a ghost hunting me.
Philip cups the back of my neck as I tremble.
His sigh hits my forehead when he pulls me close.
“Protocol exists for a reason, my lady. Next time, wait inside. I’ll come find you, no matter what.” I’m nodding without being fully aware of the action. His gentle reprimand feels like mercy in comparison to whatever swallowed the message I know I sent—or whatever played that song.
As duty requires, Philip lets go of me and checks in on Eric, asking if everything is alright.
The prince lies through his teeth, and Philip believes the story that today was simply one of those days when the lake was more of an enemy than a friend.
All he has to do is whisper my sister’s name, point to my locket, and Philip understands.
I hate that he does, that everybody now knows of the boys I let send me into a spiral.
I don’t stay long enough to hear the rest of their conversation, my legs moving before I even give them the command.
The estate is up and running, the sun starts to rise, and something is aching inside me.
Servants greet as I pass, and their giddy expressions remind me that soon Gran will be home, and I’ll be forced into new skin, to wear diplomacy over what currently tears, pulled apart by dead hands.
The locket bounces against my sternum when I pick up into a jog, taking the freshly revived garden route towards the northern woods.
The song shoved boulders into my pockets, making it difficult to walk.
It’s been so long since I’ve been able to physically feel history weighing me down.
What used to feel like an everyday walk has now become a runway.
There are no seats, no audience watching me move, but I feel a sense of awareness.
Though I don’t see anyone hiding among the shrubbery, I can’t help but feel myself being examined.
The Keybearer is too far back in the gardens for me to see her. She’s watching. I know she is. Every nerve inside me says so. The ghosts say so. I don’t bother with going to check and quiet them; it’ll bring me no good. Not right now.
Upon reaching my cottage, I’m fumbling through the motions of finding the spare key tucked into one of the planters.
My main keys are still on my dresser inside the castle, yet the thought of going there alone has me choking on heavy inhales.
Dirt slides beneath my fingernails as I grab the silver metal and push it into the door.
It swings open with all my weight as I stumble over the threshold.
The first cry since the woods leaves me, and I heave like a baby whilst blindly slamming my hands against the wall in search of the switch.
Artificial light floods my living room, and my eyes take in the familiar shapes of the couches.
My laptop is still on the coffee table, pinging with emails.
An empty mug stands beside it, and I hear my mother’s reprimanding voice about that bad habit.
I drop the key onto the end table and move towards the kitchen.
The force with which I use to yank open the blinds nearly has them ripping.
Everything still looks the same. I struggle to move around the island and barstools, just to make sure nothing is out of place. Cupboard doors click beneath my palms.