19. Walls that Sing #2
One, two, three, checking they’re empty of ghosts.
Fingertips graze every ledge and countertop, muttering checks under my breath.
The stove is still cold, and nothing has been tampered with.
It’s when I step back, however, caught at the archway, when the music begins from somewhere inside my head.
A needle drops onto an invisible vinyl. Connie Francis croons, and with every note, the years peel away.
I notice the wallpaper brightening, trinkets appearing in every corner, and this place starting to feel lived in again.
Mum sings along with a wooden spoon microphone, occasionally checking the pot on the stove where I can smell koesisters wafting through the air.
There’s flour smudged on her cheeks, and she dips over, stirring the thick syrup in greedy little spirals.
Papa enters with the Sunday papers but quickly abandons them upon seeing his wife.
He scoops her up and wraps his arms around her waist before stepping into the rhythm.
Lucy lines two trays with wax paper, pressing my tiny thumbs into the dough as we whisper wishes into the koesisters.
There are fingerprints of flour all over the counter that I know Mum will later smile at.
The air swirls with cardamom and coconut, and little-me is riveted by the brightness pooling between my parents.
The way his grin makes her laughter spill free, how a singular touch makes her dimples break like the dawn.
Present-me weeps before I know it because everyone inside this kitchen is dead or changed beyond recall.
I want to step into the memory and warn them, beg them not to board the boat next summer.
But I open my mouth too late. The colours drain, my parents dissolve mid-spin, and I call out Lucy’s name as she looks up with a giggle, but she’s gone too. The place empties so quickly I choke.
The memory-light hasn’t fully faded from the kitchen tiles when there’s a knock on the front door. Three firm strikes, perfectly spaced. I wipe my hands on denim, then square my shoulders before approaching the door. The latch clicks, and cold air creeps in.
Eric fills the frame, blonde hair plastered by mist, and his eyes flicker—quick and worried—to the tear tracks I haven’t fully erased. “May I come in?” he asks, and something in his tone makes my spine hum.
I try to sound flippant, but I don’t think it’s a success. “Shouldn’t you be helping your brother pack?”
“He’s incapable of folding anything. My presence won’t change that.” One brow lifts. “He’ll survive, but I wasn’t certain you would.”
A breathless, dry laugh leaves me, and tears prick my eyes again. Mercifully, they don’t fall. “I’m surviving. Mostly.” I step aside anyway, and he crosses into my safe haven.
The door shuts with the finality of a tomb, and Eric feels too tall beneath the low cottage beams. He circles slowly as he removes his coat, taking in the crochet blankets, the stack of Percy’s romance novels close to the fireplace, and with each observation my lungs cinch tighter.
Everything his gaze falls on feels like a confession.
He’s pried open the grave of the girl I try to hide.
Ghosts press closer, Eric inhales, and for a beat I’m sure he can taste their presence.
But all he does is look over at me and say, “It’s warm in here.” Pleasantly surprised. As if he didn’t believe warmth could exist after our trek in the woods. “Your parents’ place?”
I nod mindlessly and reach for his coat. He doesn’t fight me, understanding that I need to do something with my hands. As a result, I take longer than necessary to hang it on the coat rack, tugging at the fabric and brushing away non-existent dirt.
Eric moves only enough to roll his shirt sleeves.
He’s unbuttoning the cuffs, folding the cotton and revealing lean and pale forearms. On the left one unfurls a tattoo of a dagger that begins at the crook of his elbow and runs the full span to the heel of his palm.
The opposite arm commands a viper, starting with a tail just beneath the rolled cuff and spiralling downward in tight loops.
Mid-forearm, it broadens, and the head stops at the base of his wrist, as if the creature drinks from his pulse.
When his arm flexes, the whole serpent seems to breathe, scales of fine dotwork shifting and rising from the skin.
He notices me stare—of course he does; he notices everything.My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth: I can’t rebuild the marble debutante of myself when he’s already seen the clay bleed through.
Between the two of us, he speaks first, voice low and oddly gentle.
“When we first met, you were frazzled. Your clothes wrinkled, hair still damp from a quick shower.” He steps closer.
“I thought perhaps you overslept, but no. You were at the lake. You found that locket, and you’ve been spiralling since. ”
The precision of his deduction strips away the last of my armour. I bite my lip, nodding. Admit it. Eric nods once before speaking again, “When did you last hear that song, Francesca?”
The answer tastes like brackish water. “Fifteen years ago. The day the lake ate the boat.”
And the ghosts give a long, satisfied exhale.
His throat flexes. Eyes, dark as a tempest, intensify.
“Let’s pretend I’m stupid. Upon arrival, you treat me to ghost stories and veiled threats.
” Another step. “Last night you sent Philip a message he never received. This morning, that song is on the radio. And then the woods start singing along. Help me connect those dots, Francesca.”
“There are no dots,” I respond, trying to convince myself more than him. “Sheffolk doesn’t deal in conspiracies. If you’re searching for logic, you’re trapped in the wrong duchy.”
“Oh, but it deals in ghost stories to frighten guests?” His smile is unkind, laughter low. “Curious, considering that a few days ago you weaponised those same stories to unsettle me. What, the game becomes sincere, and you no longer want to play?”
Heat stains my cheeks. “What’s your point?”
“My point is something strange is going on here. You know that too, don’t you?” His steady tone almost begs me to admit what he’s already noticed. “Tell me,” he exhales the words.
I’m thinking about the locket, how I dug it from the mud, how it vibrates against me, echoing my heartbeat.
I’m thinking about the song, about the fact that I’ve confirmed the prank for what it was.
That Godwyn wanted that hope to bloom, wanted me to have this small victory before he slit my throat with the song in the trees.
And I’m thinking about the scream, the one I’ve never let out.
About the paranoid girl I was at fourteen, fearing her hunter, only to realise he’s more patient than she ever could’ve imagined.
Cruelly, I’m thinking about how tightly I can cling to Eric before his ancestor peels me from him like a lemon.
Would it be madness to put my faith in him, or madness not to?
He’s already been digging for a key… Should I unbolt the door for him?
Should I just stoop and pick him up, this golden coin at my feet?
Eric seems to read my mind and see my predicament. “Shower, duchess.” He tips his head to the side. Though he doesn’t touch me, his voice does. That stare holds me in place. “Once you’re done, come to me.”
He doesn’t stay to see if I obey; he just leaves the cottage without even taking his coat. I stand rooted for about three minutes, ghosts reaching for the scent of him.
And then I obey.