24. Dead Girl Breathing
DEAD GIRL brEATHING
FRANCESCA
I ’m halfway to the main drawing room when a flurry of staff members rush past me, hunched over trolleys in caricature-like imitations of Pascoe.
The numerous slices of cake give away the plan for the day, and I swallow down a groan because obviously Gran didn’t tell me. She knows how I detest cake tasting.
So once I hear Lydia’s commanding voice from somewhere down the corridor, I veer right and make the journey towards the window seat I occupy when wanting to avoid duties. I’ve just folded my legs beneath me when a ping comes from my phone.
Percy
bruh, I can’t with my mother’s fucking wifi fr.
Dear God, she’s alive.
Chess
how’s it going over there?
Percy
i messaged to ask you that. tryna process the fact that you signed up for round two of this test
did what you asked tho. bertie dropped off another one of nanna’s journal, lots of notes on how g-spot was v beloved by his servants.
nothing about that night w cillian.
Chess
urgh, haven’t dreamt about the man in the lake again despite wearing the locket
thought i could access more of his memories like that. feels like cillian’s tooth all over again; memory might be broken
but g-spot practically hinted at adelina’s death, like he wanted me to know im missing parts
Percy
still pissed that you touch a bracelet and see purgatory while i look at a dog and burst into tears bc i can taste how badly it wants a bone
sure, our abilities are totally balanced
msg if anything feels cursed-er than usual
also, how’s it going with the prince???
The tasting procession continues, led by Pascoe, who helps balance a five-tier red velvet cake.
The gag is reflex, and I slip from my seat before he can spot me.
I apologise to the footman I nearly crash into, ignoring the way Percy is spamming my phone.
One misstep, and my knee collides with a trolley, pulling another wave of apologies from me as I flatten myself against the wall to let them pass.
Pascoe looks over, but as soon as the road is clear, I take off in a brisk walk.
‘Walk’ because Gran always says the ghosts hate when we run inside, something about remembering how they ran before they were inevitably caught.
I believe her.Even now, the floors listen for that panic, but I don’t risk feeding them.
Once I’m no longer caught up in the traffic of cake tasting, my phone violently vibrates in my hand.
A video call request from Percy.
I swipe the green icon, and her face momentarily appears upside down before she rights it with a sigh.
She’s wriggling around, and the phone drops once, and I’m flat on the floor until she picks me up again.
There’s a faint squeaking noise in the background that sounds like Aunt Edith calling her name.
“Fucking hell,” she mumbles, shoving bright pink tulle away from her mouth. Her mascara is smudged, and there’s a red tinge to her eyes, one I don’t comment on despite already knowing who caused it. “You picked up!”
“You expected me not to?”
She burrows deeper into her hideout, peeking out in the gap between two dresses before returning her attention to me. “How should I have known? You’ve got Prince Rebel holed up with you in a haunted castle. I wouldn’t have picked up.”
I almost laugh at her deadpan tone but settle for the words I’ve been cradling since she left. “God, I miss you.”
More cakes go sailing past on silver trays. “I miss you too, counting down the days until our birthday.” She squints at the wall behind me. “Oi, what are you doing in the tapestry corridor? Thought you said those eyes watch you.”
“I’m hiding from buttercream.”
Her grin lights up her face, but something hides in the curve of it. “Trade places? I’ll taste cake, and you can be my mum’s doll whilst she lists out your flaws in alphabetical order.”
The very thought sours the words on my tongue. “Hard pass. I prefer my self-confidence slightly bruised as opposed to entirely annihilated.”
Percy rolls onto her back to rest her head on a pile of pastel fabric, giving me a glimpse of the polished hardwood floors and boxes of shoes off to the side. “Can’t even blame you. Mum has her eyes on this vintage dress, but we both know ‘vintage’ to her means?—”
“Made for somebody without a ribcage,” I finish with a thin smile, and the quiet laugh Percy gives makes my heart ache a little. She’s been saying that exact line since we were fifteen.
“You’ll look perfect,” I add, bringing my mouth to the microphone, close enough that my voice will buzz through the speaker.
Percy moves at the same time, phone tilting, and I know she’s resting it against her temple. She lets my voice land there, just like when we were younger, and I can almost feel her hair brushing against my lips as I whisper to her.
“Dad really likes the green one, says it goes well with my hair,” she mutters thickly, and the mic goes muffled as she repositions the phone on her chest. I have the perfect view up her nostrils as she stares up at what I assume is the mannequin’s ass.
“He tried getting some pics to send Gran, and Mum started fussing over me, as she does, you know. Says, ‘Tilt your head, darling, just a little; your jawline looks too loose’ , and then tugs at the bodice of the dress.”
“What the hell does that even mean?” I ask, dragging my gaze upwards until it lands on the tapestry before me. A woman stares back, all demure and dressed in extravagant ribbons of fabric. Not unlike what Aunt Edith is trying to shove Percy into.
She blows a raspberry. “I think it means I have two chins; you never know with her.”
My fingers curl against the skirt of my dress, and I soften my anger enough to offer one of the maids a smile when she gestures towards the staircase.
Gran’s waiting, it seems. I motion for her to go on without me.
Percy still hasn’t looked back at the camera, but my view rises and falls rapidly as she tries to breathe through the situation.
Marathid Manor might be beautiful, but I’d burn the entirety of it to the ground if given the chance.
Under the command of Edith, those walls never made Percy ( not even Edmund ) feel welcome.
Call me superstitious, but homes absorb the lives that reside within them.
Some are born cursed, and others, like Marathid, earn their curses.
If a residue of broken promises, old arguments and harsh words braids itself together and finds a corner to fester in, there’s no getting rid of it.
Percy’s home marinates in unhappiness like that.
It’s funny to me, in a tragic sort of way, that this castle should be worse off.
But the dead won’t let it become so. The ghosts keep the ceiling up out of sheer spite, refusing to let Redford fall.
The tapestry opposite me shifts slightly.
Percy’s rant becomes background noise; a single filament has fallen free from both irises, the same green as my own.
They drop, pendulum-slow, sliding down the nameless woman’s cheeks.
My skin crawls. With every word that falls from Percy’s mouth, the eyes lose shape, unspooling into nothing.
Two black holes remain where there should be light, staring from a face centuries dead.
Somewhere in the hush that’s fallen in the corridor, the faceless press close, whispering through skin.
There’s no menace, just soft hands on my arms. A voice without a mouth teases the curve of my ear.
An unspoken ‘Easy now, blood of our blood’ .
They absorb the anger in my chest, tasting what Edith’s poison does to me, what apprehensions Winifred’s impending arrival breeds, and they deaden it.
‘Go blind for us, dear girl, and we will keep watch.’
Heat bleeds from my body, and my fist unclenches.
Delicately, the rage in my veins lessens, drained by fangs unseen and settling everywhere at once.
Tapestries ripple, the rafters creak, and wind whips through the crawl spaces.
I recall the glass I lifted just earlier, toasting to Winifred’s misfortune, the liquid sweet and the spite even sweeter.
My sigh is half fear and half reverence.
What happens when these corridors fill come the following Saturday—Edith, Winifred, and so many who hide behind ambition, who harbour concealed hatred for me?
My anger, it seems, has found strong custodians, yet the price for this contract is yet to be named.
I make two mental notes in that moment. One : tell Tommy to inform the others that a sense of humour won’t kill them.
They’re already dead, so what exactly are they so afraid of?
And two : stop making jokes about wanting people dead, considering I live in a castle with ghosts who have fuckall chill.
It’s only funny until they actually kill someone and end up paying Godwyn for my insolence.
Percy’s voice rises. “Chess, are you even listening?”
I hover my thumb over the mute button, but I don’t know what I’m listening for through Percy’s rambles.
Part of me wishes to say something, to acknowledge that I’ve heard their promise of protection.
But two more footmen appear with trolleys, taking the bend of this corridor to reach the drawing room, and the moment dies down.
I’m left staring at that hanging green thread, an omen in the colour of me.
The space exhales around me, and I kiss my teeth, shifting my attention back to the screen.
Percy’s cheeks are flushed with residual frustration, and she has no idea what an anchor she presents in this moment, my tether to the living.
“Yes, Percy,” I say after clearing my throat, “and I’ve decided what’s to be done. I’m driving to Marathid at this very moment.”
She cracks a smile. “You can’t drive.”
“I’ll walk.”
“For three hours? Your vitamin D-deficient legs would give in the first few minutes?—”