22. The Birth of Baskerville
THE BIRTH OF BASKERVILLE
ERIC
I don’t know whether to be offended or not that Duchess Sylvaine couldn’t care less about me, but Francesca says I’ve dodged a bullet, so I believe her.
Honestly, the woman barely spat more than a few sentences at me before being whisked off by Pascoe and that positively vampiric-looking woman Ms Thorpe—who I’m still supposed to believe is the head of security and not Dracula reborn.
Something about the Annual Red Reaping and another thing about the quickly approaching birthday ball in honour of both Francesca and Persephone (I really don’t give a fuck), but everything was muttered just loud enough for me to hear and most definitely take offence from.
Celebrations being more important than the presence of the Crown Prince of Marzod? They’re probably pleased with themselves, predators circling my confidence in an attempt to chip away at my father’s reputation. Too bad I take just as much amusement from fucking with that sorry excuse for a king.
So I bow my head and watch Sylvaine click-clack off with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I say this out loud only to have Francesca pinch the skin beneath my elbow.
“What the fuck? Pinching people is a little juvenile, don’t you think?”
“So is calling people Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.”
“You disapprove of frank assessments?” She tries to pinch again, but I catch her wrist and murmur, “Easy, they’re gone. Enough with the corporal punishment.”
She holds my stare, fire burning behind the murky waters trapped within her irises. My thumb brushes over her wrist for a second longer than etiquette would allow.
Then I release. “See? Empty corridors, so relax the moral compass, my lady.”
She struts off, and I bite my tongue from likening her stance to that predatory grandmother of hers. The hair on my arms raises slightly when, as soon as I catch up with her in about four steps, she begins talking.
Brat already knew I was going to follow.
“Firstly, these corridors are never empty. Secondly, you don’t think I’ve got morals when I’m alone?” she questions.
Her mouth tightens into a hyphen when she stops at an arched window with the perfect view of the gardens. People are already at work in preparation for the birthday celebrations. Easy to pass off as being interested in the prep, but I know better.
I lean a shoulder to the window jamb, directly in her space. “I think you’re Catherine Earnshaw with better self-control.”
She blinks slowly, processing the comparison. “Are you seriously comparing me to a Bronte novel?”
“No,” I say gently, watching the way her breath shifts. “I’m just pointing out a pattern. Pretend you don’t feel things too deeply. Pretend that self-sabotage is clever until it kills you. Cathy had the same affliction.”
She turns away, chin tilted stubbornly. “Stop psychoanalysing me.”
“Then stop denying you’re frightened.” I inch closer until there’s no chance of her escaping my gaze.
A faint tremor runs through her frame. “You heard Connie Francis playing from the trees, and instead of acknowledging that it terrifies you, you’ve decided to pretend it was nothing.
Because nothing is easier to live with. Or do you forget that I was there too?
I heard that song on the radio, and I heard it from the woods too.
” She lifts her head sharply, almost petulant at my refusal to allow her to believe her lies.
“You don’t need to play sane. Not with me. Not after what happened.”
An uneasy truce sparks the longer she stares at me, and I sense the beginnings of a question her tongue refuses to shape: will you still be here if I admit to it?
I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t think her ghosts would strangle me in my sleep if I mocked her grief.
But there’s an obvious answer; she shouldn’t even need to ask.
We both heard trees sing a 1960s love song.
Unless we both hallucinated the whole thing, I’m not allowed plausible deniability anymore. The answer must show on my expression, or at least through whatever cracks I allow, and she nods once.
“I should see to my grandmother.”
Formalities shielding an exit. Lovely. She doesn’t wait for permission, nor does she look back.
I feel my eyes follow her before I’m even aware of it.
The devil alone knows why I decide to let my feet follow her too.
Maybe it’s because I’m irritated with the events of the past day or because I like the way her heels click against the stone as she does her brisk little walk.
Or it’s the fact that she moves so poised, with her shoulders tensed, that I wonder what she looks like relaxed.
I’ve yet to truly see it. I don’t know why she lets Edmund circle so close to her, whether it’s habit, familial love, guilt, or a secret I’ll never touch.
There’s the urge to shake her, ask what’s hidden behind all that dubitation, but the longer I watch, the less I understand.
I’ve never met a woman so unknowable.
So I follow her, hoping that as she rounds the corner, she’ll let out a breath and ease up a little. Instead, she tosses a question behind her without forfeiting her pace. “Is there something you need, Your Highness? Or are you planning on mauling me in a darkened corner?”
There’s no real venom in her tone, despite its cutting delivery. I should reply with something equally biting, giving her that particular expression I wear just for her. Half-amused, half-fuck-this-place.
What leaves my mouth is, “I can’t figure out your font.”
She pauses, turns slightly and raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Your font , Francesca,” I snap, waving a hand as though that would explain everything. “Usually, I can place people within minutes of meeting them. Ten seconds, and I know their font. Times New Roman. Helvetica if they’re a piece of work. But you…”
She stares at me in curiosity, not contempt or intrusion. I don’t know what to do with that. It kind of makes me itch somewhere beneath my ribs. The stone of the corridor throws my idiocy back at me. Should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut. I blame Kai’s absence. He’s not here, but he’s at fault.
I expect her to turn on her heel and saunter off, but she tilts her head slightly. “You categorise people,” she says slowly, “based on fonts?” I give a tight nod. “Like letters?”
“Typefaces,” I find myself correcting, shoving my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Style. Structure. How people carry themselves, how they speak. Makes things neat. Easier, if you will.” Lamely, I add, “ Fonts .”
My breath stutters when she gives me a once-over, like she can sense how unnerved I am by the anomaly she presents. The corner of her mouth lifts the slightest bit, and I hate that I notice it.
“And you’ve been trying to figure me out this whole time?”
“It’s nothing personal,” I lie.
She smiles at me. Small, almost hesitant.
It creeps onto her face without permission, in the same way mine does when Kai says something stupid and I forget to be annoyed for a minute.
It’s a little shy; she’s unsure what to do with the fact that I just blurted the inner workings of my mind.
The wind outside howls as she steps closer, just slightly, and the corridor suddenly feels about as wide as a paper straw and just as frustrating.
“Any hypotheses, Your Highness?” she asks softly.
Like it fucking matters.
And bloody hell, do I answer.
“I don’t know, really. One moment you’re speaking like Palatino: clear, crisp and a little bit mischievous—especially with your vague threats of death and rot.
I thought I had it pegged; it made sense, but then you go silent.
You sit there with that thoughtful look in your eyes, and then suddenly you’re Baskerville.
I keep trying to pin you down…” I sigh. “You’re a typeset fucking nightmare, and it’s pissing me off. ”
The walls continue to close in, and Francesca’s still bloody smiling. She nods once, briefly dropping her gaze to her feet as she lets out a small laugh.
“So what I’m hearing is that I speak like… Palatino, was it? And my silences feel like Baskerville?” Another stiff nod from me. “That’s, um, oddly lovely.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, but one rebellious strand refuses to be tamed.
I watch it like an idiot.
“You’re very composed for someone who just listened to a grown man explain his personality classification system using typefaces.” She laughs again; I die a little inside. “I’m deeply suspicious.”
“And I’m intrigued. You called me a typeset nightmare, and I’m unsure whether to be offended or not. That’s a remarkably creative way to insult somebody.”
“It’s not always an insult.” She cocks her hip to the side, expecting clarification. Ah, fuck it. The hole’s already dug. “It’s mere observation. An attempt to make sense of something as irritating as emotions. Personalities.”
“That sounds like an insult as well.” Her grin widens, and her eyes meet mine. Green, bright, and exceedingly cautious. “Though, I must say, the suspicion is unneeded. You just… Well, nobody’s ever really tried to make sense of me that way before. Not in letters. Not even in full lines.”
“You’re not exactly clean lines, duchess.” That makes her cheeks flush, and she shifts on her feet. “Who dares go beyond the surface when it looks so perfect? The duchess-to-be in mourning, raised from tragedy. It’s easier to just see the title. To admire it.”
Her hand drifts to the locket around her neck, freed from the weight of her woollen scarf. Just for a second. I can see she’s biting the inside of her cheek. Not too hard, just enough to stop herself from smiling too wide.
“And you think you’ll be the one to figure me out?”
“I’m arrogant enough to try.”
She looks to the side and then back at me, still biting her cheek. “And what font are you?”
“Dangerous question.”
Her smile slips free. “I can handle it.”