23. Lessons in Erosion #2
“He doesn’t talk about politics, Gran. Half the time he doesn’t even sound like a man set to rule a country.”
“We need leverage,” she reiterates. “Prince Eryxon has been exiled by his own father, who tried to name it diplomacy.” That word makes me grimace.
“We need King Reginald to understand that Sheffolk isn’t theirs for the taking.
The man’s clever enough to know we can’t be bought, so he’ll send a son. A friend. Eryxon is bait.”
That protective urge stirs again, utterly ridiculous. “If the king meant to seduce the duchy back into his fold, I doubt he’d send someone who wants nothing more than to vanish. Eric isn’t a fool, Gran, please believe me. If he thinks he’s being used?—”
“So you think he’s here by accident, then?”
I’ve no strong enough response to that, because I myself haven’t figured out the meaning behind Eric’s presence.
God, I wish I could borrow Gran’s certainty, even if only for a day, to see what she sees.
But when I look at Eric, I don’t exactly see the king’s hidden dagger.
Maybe I’m the naive one. Maybe Gran’s right, and everything truly is a trap.
Yet the thought of using him churns my stomach.
There must be a hundred better ways to get what she wants: the lords on the Assembly, old debts called in, and even her circle of trusted allies.
Surely her only option can’t be this? For now, I hold my tongue on that front, too frightened to disappoint her and even more terrified of admitting that I don’t know how to be both her heir and my own person.
Instead, I say something else before I can think better of it. “Gabe wasn’t my traitor. The test isn’t finished.”
The room does something mean by squeezing all air out of it. Gran’s shoulders lock, but there’s less surprise in her expression than I expected. “That explains it, then. Your sudden defence of the prince—you think his arrival is tied to Hildebrand.”
“No,” I admit, prompting her to lift a brow.
“Not in the way you fear. Hildebrand has spoken to me through Tommy’s memory, and he’s rattled.
Frightened of Eric’s presence, I think. He doesn’t like him here, and maybe that’s why his presence is important.
There are layers to our history with the Atherbournes that we’re unaware of…
and I think Eric might have or even be the key to that. ”
Her mouth softens. “You’re certain?” When I nod, she gives a tremulous sigh, hand moving to fidget with her dress.
“I loathe that I have nothing to arm you with. That I cannot be more than a watcher; I hope you understand that. Be careful, Francesca. With the Red Reaping approaching, huskins have become hungrier. Three bodies have already been found in Westcott and Lanorythe: a girl missing from school as well as one of the men from the station. Locals are still naming this the work of a serial killer—despite what Victoria and her cult have to say. The people want a human monster, something they understand.”
“Human monster,” I scoff, letting myself smile without mirth. “There is one; he just happens to have died a long time ago and refuses to stay down. This is his tantrum, isn’t it?”
In any other circumstance, I would’ve laughed at her long-suffering sigh. Now it just feels like the same old shit we’re always dealing with. History’s tired joke.
“Did you know I never passed it? Is that why you stopped letting Percy and me attend Circle meetings?” I ask, masochist at heart, because anything, even failure, is preferable to her believing I’m unfit to take her place one day.
“Hm, I suspected. When I first passed mine, I felt nothing but relief. All I wanted was to forget, to put the trauma from my mind—but you never let it go. You kept digging, and I knew Hildebrand wasn’t finished. I didn’t want you buried under SRS nonsense lest you still needed to watch for him .”
I feel myself wilt at the confirmation. “I really thought I was free of it. Thought I could move on and properly step into the role of heir—maybe even try my hand at stitching names.”
She smiles faintly. “Don’t bury me yet, darling.
I’m still kicking.” Then, more gently, she adds, “I built the Circle to protect the duchy from Hildebrand’s poison.
They patch cracks before anybody can step on them and invite malice.
Pascoe and the others wouldn’t survive knowing what breathes beneath the floorboards they mind.
Huskins they can handle. But only a Sheffolk daughter survives Hildebrand.
Redford’s curse… that’s the true duty. That one belongs to us. To you.”
I’m tempted to ask if she does returns because I still have the receipt from that night—fear, all crumpled up and shoved into my back pocket.
Gran must take pity on me and decides to change the subject, but I realise that mercy is a double-edged sword as soon as I hear the name. “Lady Winifred is attending the birthday ball; I’m sure you’re aware by now. Pascoe told me you’ve been eyeing the invite list.”
Oh, Pascoe, that blabbermouth . For all he calls me ‘Wren’ and Percy ‘Magpie’, that man may just be the most talkative bird of all. He doesn’t look it, yet he’s a parrot hidden beneath layers of solemnity and the occasional dry comment.
“Since there’s no hiding it, yes, I was looking at the invite list,” I admit. “And I specifically recall not seeing Lady Winifred’s name present.”
That fact alone gave my heart’s beat an extra kick.
“Yes, that’s because your grandfather thought it funny to delete her name from the document before it could be printed.” My laugh barely has a chance to be born before she snatches it from me. “I’ve since corrected his error?—”
“ Gran? ”
“ Francesca ,” she mocks my tone of frustration.
“She’s your aunt, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how important her presence is.
Winifred Fortescue has a voice on the Assembly, whether we like it or not.
Scorn her at such a momentous occasion, and there’ll be talk—talk we might not be able to sway in our favour once she starts playing the victim. And you know how well she does that.”
I turn away, as though giving her my back would mean her comments won’t touch me.
And yet they do. They touch, they pierce, and they make something ugly coil in my chest, easily replacing the last few days’ horrors with far worse.
Trying to ignore it, I shove my feet into a pair of heeled Mary Janes, the leather dyed a shade of blue dark enough to pass for black beneath certain light.
The lace stockings make my feet slip around before I bend over and fasten the single straps running across the shoe.
“Darling…” Gran tries again, still waiting. There’s tension in her brow that she smoothes away with a shaky hand. My only comfort is she hates this topic as much as I do. Other than that, I’d rather throw myself from the window than give Winifred further thought.
“She’s missed almost every birthday Percy and I have ever had.”
Given that we are, as they say in court, ‘stepping into womanhood’, she’ll undoubtedly attend this one.
We’ll be paraded, and now that I’m to be weighed and scrutinised for the entirety of Sheffolk to see, Winifred will be present.
Her gaze will rake over us both, and I’ll be reminded that my skin isn’t pale enough for her liking.
Forget that I’m the one Godwyn hunts for; apparently I’m too brown for a seat at the ancestral table but worthy enough to be the ritual offering.
I wonder what she’ll say if I miss the Red Reaping and the huskins start eating her neighbours.
Will my skin matter then?
Gran shakes her head. “Winifred is an old hag; don’t let her frighten you. She wants nothing more than to sniff out weakness in this family, in each of us?—”
“And with me she doesn’t have to look too far, now does she?
” An apology is quick to follow. The words were too harsh, and my grandmother isn’t to blame for that woman’s behaviour.
Her reflection stiffens behind me. “I know what you’ll ask of me: no mistakes, no slip-ups or coloured slang, is it?
Nothing that makes me look too different. ”
Her mouth tightens at the corners in sadness. “Please, don’t make this into something ugly?—”
“Are you embarrassed of me?”
Gloom creeps inside as the sun is devoured by a blanket of clouds.
The room loses a few degrees of warmth, and I fold my arms around my waist to hide how my fingers tremble.
What cold breathes through the opened windows is no match for the inferno of guilt inside me, one I’ve lit myself.
It burns once I read the flash of hurt and anger in her eyes.
Heeled boots scratch against the carpet in the centre as she moves towards me. I turn once she’s close, and she untangles my arms, taking my hands in hers. “How dare you ask me that?”
I dare honesty. “Sometimes it feels that way, Gran. Whenever Winifred is involved in anything , you get so careful and give me rules I can’t break.”
With a voice full of defensive outrage, she tightens her hold on my hands.
“Listen to me carefully; your mother may as well have been carried in my womb—that’s how dearly I loved her, and I’ll fight anyone, including you, who says otherwise.
Do you hear me? She gave me you and Luciana.
” Her voice shatters on my sister’s name.
“My granddaughters, my blood. Both of you are part of me. Part of Sheffolk. How could you think—even for a moment—that I could ever be ashamed of you?”
“Then why does it feel like you’re telling me to hide the parts my mother gave me?”
“You mistake caution for shame, beloved girl.” She dips her head, her throat making a croaking noise as she wrestles with everything she wants to say.
“Winifred’s spite is legendary, and next week Saturday she will be watching you, ruthlessly .
If I could erase her cruelty, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
She’s been in your life so rarely I can count her visits on one hand, and that should tell you everything: she appears when she smells advantage.
The SRS want to see us falter; they build fear in our name, and Winifred will pose herself as the safer option for Sheffolk. I won’t let her teeth sink into you.”
The world tightens, cinches around my throat, and tilts sideways the instant I see fear ghost her face.
Last time I saw Winifred, I was ten. She hurt me in the drawing room with nothing but her smile, her hand closing around my wrist as she complimented how ‘civilised’ I sounded for my age.
Her nails dug into my skin until it felt raw.
Old people can be so fucking mean.
In front of other noblewomen, she made a great big show of straightening my collar, wiping at my thick brows and mumbling what a pity it was that my father’s genes didn’t win.
The women tittered and praised her for her worldly knowledge and her eagerness to discipline, but I stood there flayed, heart heavy with a shame I didn’t yet have a name for.
All I knew was that the shape of the first letter was a barbed W, and it ended somewhere deep and unpronounceable.
Later, I could call it by her name.
I tried not to cry until Pascoe found me in the basement close to the records vault, hidden under Mr Weekes’s desk while he napped.
I told Pascoe, and Pascoe told Gran, obviously, who then probably complained to Nanna.
That’s one thing I’ve always loved about her; Nanna never played the game the same way they did, and thank God for it.
At least, that was back when she was still herself, before the forgetting set in.
She must’ve said something truly nuclear to Winifred, because the woman never came back.
“Do you think it’ll ever end?”
The voice that leaves me sounds all too much like eight-year-old Francesca, who once hugged her Aunt Winifred, only to be pinched on the back so hard it bruised.
Gran pulls me to her chest, and when her hand slides under my braid, right next to my spine where Winifred once hurt me, I almost lose my composure.
“Yes, because we will outlast her,” she whispers against the crown of my head.
“Your mother’s blood is Sheffolk blood; her legacy is the one I choose and honour.
” A kiss dances over my skin, and I feel her lips tremble.
“When I say ‘be careful’, I don’t mean ‘be less’.
You’re intelligent enough to know the difference, so bite back. ”
She releases a long breath before letting me go, and for a second, she stands so utterly still. Her hands run over invisible creases in her woollen dress, as though she can iron her composure back into place. It makes me smile.
The look she gives me is half challenge and half affection; then she says, “I’ll leave you to it, then. You better bully that prince into confessing the monarchy’s best-kept secrets. I’ll have nothing less than treason, Francesca.”
I snort, tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. “Soon enough, you’ll stop thinking he’s some poor, unsuspecting thing. One conversation, that’s all it takes, I promise.”
She picks up on the hidden suggestion in my teasing. “Perhaps you and I ought to step into the ring with the prince. Who first? The duchess or her heir?”
“You, certainly. I’d pay to watch that go down. Besides, I’ve already tried and ended up walking away with more questions than answers.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too hard. “Plus, I’m almost certain he lets me think I’ve won our verbal sparring.”
Gran swipes her clutch from the dresser and swings open the door. “ Coward ,” the word bleeds through a pretty smile.
“ Realist ,” I correct. “Go on, then. We’ll see which Sheffolk woman he truly fears.”
The snort that leaves her is utterly improper, a sound I’ve only ever heard behind closed doors.
A heartbeat later, and she’s gone, footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
I’m left alone in my room, and my hand instantly lifts to the locket.
For once, the quiet feels cheerful, and the ghosts bound to this castle feel more like conspirators in a game.
Etiquette condemns it, but I still cross to the decanter and pour the wine, raising a silent toast: may my beloved Aunt Winifred encounter a small catastrophe and be neatly removed come my birthday.
The wine burns on its way down, landing in an empty stomach, and the ghosts stir, amused by my audacity. I pour another glass and toast to them.
For good measure.