30. A Dead Man Speaks #3
These are people I’m familiar with; I know all about Lord Octavian Halpine, who owns an array of lakeside villas, how he generates millions annually through high-end rentals alone, and how he’s the duchy’s golden boy and publicly loyal to Sylvaine.
I know of Lord Sylvester Bryn, whose estate has fallen into debt and now arranges countless events to entice paying clients.
And I know of Maurice de Laurier by reputation alone: how he married a girl of eighteen at forty-two, came back with her to Sheffolk and began laying down hotels to spread his influence.
Francesca is telling me nothing new, but I let her speak because she’s rebuilding control.
I let the information pass over me as though hearing it for the first time.
She rambles on about how she’s aware the Assembly of Lords are big names but the traitor could also be somebody smaller, all whilst pressing her notes into my hands.
Something splinters in my chest. I see pink ink.
Gel pens. Loops with hearts that belong in diaries, not whatever the fuck this is.
She’s been penning suspects since childhood, young enough to still smile as she draws hearts around potential betrayers.
I put on my glasses and read the horrifying text in glitter ink.
Shit , I can’t breathe. Circled twice is the name of a gardener’s daughter.
A barista at her favourite coffee spot. The old lady at the orphanage who thanked her for bringing presents.
I spot Thalia about five times, but it always gets scratched out.
The years in the pages are evident, folded over and over, scribbled with a new suspect.
I picture a little girl hiding in her room, writing down the name of every person because she couldn’t even trust a smile.
And now that girl sits before me, grown and bruised, still waiting for betrayal’s stinging blow.
The notes become unbearable and I shut the book like a coffin, setting it aside.
I can’t stomach seeing what this curse has done to her childhood, so I reach for her.
At first she jerks back, still latching onto her attempt at control.
But then she crawls into the space I’ve hammered her name into, settles within the nook of my elbow, and I cradle her until she allows herself to rest.
“We need to get through these notes.” Her speech is warped by the fabric of my sleep shirt. “So many people will be here later and?—”
“No, not now. Not while you’re still shaking.” She blinks up at me with furrowed brows, and they only soften once my nails scrape against her scalp. The strands smell like lavender, and I breathe it in until my lungs ache. “Rest; give me ten minutes of you. Just ten. Please, baby.”
“Ten minutes,” she parrots tiredly, unmoving for about twenty seconds. Through one simple embrace, her regret seeps in, so sharp I can taste it. “Shouldn’t have shown you these notes. It’s stupid. Childish.”
Her body tightens, bracing for agreement.
The air around her feels too warm, heavy with shame, and I recognise that climate in a way that has history clambering to the forefront of my tongue.
The chagrin being expelled with every breath reminds me of a boy who wanted to disappear, ridiculed for existing the only way he knew how.
She’s handing me her fragile ruin, and I can’t think of anything worthy enough to give her in return.
Nothing of value comes to mind.
Except, perhaps, my own ruin.
So instead of agreeing, I give her something else. Something I’ve never said out loud before. Into her hair, I mutter, “My father hates me.”
Her chest goes still, breath halting as Sylvaine’s hypothesis crumbles to ash. Politics has nothing to do with why I’m here with her in my arms. She tries to tilt her head back, but I tighten my hold.
“Please. I can’t do this if you’re looking at me.”
She nods against my throat, giving a small, “Okay.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the clicking of my jaw as the tension settles.
“When I was younger, I couldn’t make eye contact with people.
Each time I did, it felt like staring directly into headlights.
The worst was attending events… All those bodies packed into one place; I hated it.
It was invasive, and I could never get myself to move around.
To talk to people. He thought that was me being difficult.
Said I made people uncomfortable. Made him uncomfortable.
Princes, according to him, shouldn’t act like that. ”
Her breathing unlocks again, and she sags into me. I hear that little sound she makes right before she says something, but she swallows it at the last moment, lips pressing against my pulse instead. My spine nearly snaps at the softness of it.
“There was a supper once, with some minister of finance, I think. I was nine. The man asked me how I felt about being the top achiever in my grade that year—I could never forget it. A whole dining hall full of important men, and instead of answering the question… I repeated it. He asked if I was well, and I repeated that too.” My eyes sting.
“Echolalia. I used to do that a lot, especially when I was nervous or scared. Mostly scared.”
It happens midway through the second ‘scared’; my voice cracks right down the middle.
I hate myself for it because I’m no longer that frightened boy.
That crack sounds like proof that fear still lives somewhere inside me, and I want it evicted.
Francesca pulls away, gaze searching for mine despite my attempt to keep her close.
Hers is heavy with grief, lips parted in a tenderness that makes my skin burn.
Full third degree; everything disintegrates as she witnesses the boy who’s been hiding all this time.
“I wasn’t always this articulate, this in control.
” Like a coward, I rush to fill the space before she can.
“I had a stutter too, so violent that Kai had to finish my sentences for me. Pair that with the echolalia… well, you can imagine how thrilled my father was to have an heir like me. Didn’t think I had the right to look people in the eyes since I couldn’t speak half the time and borrowed words the other half.
That’s when the… tapping became useful. That’s what the Morse is: STAY.
A reminder to stay upright, stay in my body, and stay present. ”
My throat locks up as her mouth opens, and I’m nine again, praying to a god I don’t believe in that I don’t repeat whatever it is she’s going to say.
Because I know he’s going to hit me for it.
The heat in my cheeks is already prepared, simmering quietly, just waiting for the moment the adults begin laughing.
I wonder if she can hear my father’s voice, the way it rings in my ears.
Again , he says, say it again, lad .
Her voice trembles when she speaks. “The first time I met you, I thought… I thought, ‘ Fuck, this man’s so sure of himself’.
You walked into Redford like nothing scared you, and I envied that, in a way.
” She chokes out a single, humourless laugh.
“I wanted to borrow your confidence, just once. Your eye contact was the most intimidating thing about you. Still is.”
I attempt a small smile, for her sake, not mine.
“He beat me if I couldn’t hold it. And he was smart about his ‘corrections’.
Never left marks where people could see.
Sometimes it was a backhand; mostly it was his belt.
Mum lost her shit when she found out. That’s when the therapy started, the speech support—she believed I’d started months before because my father told her he had it handled and made me lie about it.
The therapy helped; it taught me things like breathing exercises, how to pause before I repeat anything and how to manage my sensory input. But…”
“But?”
“But if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t think it’s the professional help that got me where I am today.
Months of fear did most of the work. I’m not in control because I learned how.
” The admission hesitates on the tip of my tongue.
“I speak clearly, ‘ font ’ people, and manage my emotions the way I do because part of me is still scared of being corrected.” Kissing my teeth, I toss my head back against the headboard. “It’s muscle memory, basically.”
She pulls a face like she’s tasted something sour, nose scrunching and eyes fighting against a wave of tears. “You shouldn’t have had to learn it that way. God , what the fuck. My envy feels poisonous now.”
“Don’t envy me.” I reach out, lacing my fingers with hers. “You might think I’m cataloguing when I’m staring like that, but mostly I’m counting the seconds until I can breathe again.”
Her first tear falls unintentionally, prompted by the confused furrow of her brows. I see her remembering it, my small stutter of taps the day we met in the drawing room.
Realisation has her face relaxing, but just in case she didn’t catch it, I add, “I stared because you made me nervous, Francesca. And I’ve been trying to catch my breath ever since.”
For a whole ten seconds, she glitches, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Words make an enemy of her, and instead of putting up a fight, she surrenders.
That white flag translates into her leaning forward, soft palms framing my face before she kisses me.
The first brush of her lips steals all language from my brain, and the second shoves it back, void of any violent words.
The memories I’ve shared with her blur at the edges, unable to function without that brutality.
She’s blunted my father’s blade with her kiss.
Against my mouth, she whispers, “Do you want me to curse your father?” An unexpected chuckle rattles out of me. She cocks her head, grinning. “I’m serious. There are books for that, y’know. I could do it, and I will, if you ask me to.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“For you, yes.”
Fucking hell, she’s serious.
“Hey,” I murmur, running my thumb across her jaw to remind myself that this isn’t a phantom attempting to trick me.
“I’m not telling you because I expect anything in return.
I’m telling you because I know what shame does to a person.
And I’d rather tear open my ribs than ridicule you for handing me the softest parts of yourself. ”
At the mention of her notes again, I see the instinct to argue in her eyes. To claim that this wasn’t a fair exchange, that the pages and journals spread before us are worthless in comparison. Instead, she lets the fight leak from her and drops her head against my shoulder.
“I’m glad you told me. Really.”
I can’t think of anything to say in response, slightly fearful that I might ruin it with the wrong sentence.
Her right hand slides around me to my shoulder blade, gentle above the place she once claimed my heart crawled to hide.
As if she can hear me second-guessing myself, she locates the knot and presses her palm flat.
Stop . Breathe . You’re fine .
Then, her free hand finds my forearm, and she isn’t coy about the way she lazily traces the inkwork. She maps the blade of the dagger, then stalls at the hilt once she realises something. “It’s… words. The hilt’s made out of letters?”
“In Garamond Bold Italic.”
She shifts in my lap to get a better look and lifts my arm towards the light. Her eyes soften as though she’s discovered something fragile and is afraid to break it. “Your… your font?”
I have to stop my voice from cracking when I echo, “My font. The heir who shouldn’t be but is. It’s still Garamond, still belongs with my brothers—but tilts just enough to remind me I don’t exactly fit. Bent crooked by the weight of expectation.”
Her quiet snort takes me by surprise. “Bold and italic? That has to be the most dramatic self-diagnosis I’ve ever heard.” The corner of my mouth betrays me. “Could be worse. At least you’re not Arial.”
“And what’s wrong with Arial?” I tease.
“Dunno, but some weirdo told me it’s tap water. Something about bland tea in a beige cup.”
The almost direct quote makes my heart grow ten times in size. “Sounds like a man who knows what he’s talking about. Intelligent as hell, probably.”
“Hm, modest too.” I keep lazily scratching at her scalp, but my breath catches when she leans in and reads, “Say less, mean more.” Every syllable vibrates into my chest, like she’s branding my creed onto me. A soft laugh escapes her. “What does it mean?”
My longest tenant knocks again upon hearing her question.
I don’t know which words to string together to tell her that the blade is blood I’ve never spilt.
It’s a lesser violence inked into my skin.
My father wanted war, open rebellion to prove a point, and I gave him quiet.
I killed him a million times that way, with this weapon, and she has no idea she’s tracing the evidence of the boy who wanted to slit his father’s throat.
“It means I’d rather stay silent than speak a lie,” I say eventually.
She tilts her head back the slightest bit, glassy eyes meeting mine. “Hm. If you’re unable to lie, then tell me whether you think I’m a bad person. Y’know, for killing Gabriel.”
“I don’t.”
The answer comes fast. Absolute in its intensity, and her title cleaves me in half.
Murderess .
It should disgust me, but it tugs me closer, shoves me to my knees and yanks my head back until I’ve acknowledged what sits before me.
This manifestation of things I could only dream of.
This woman who has let her tenant out, and instead of disgust, I feel envious.
Which one of us is the sinner, then? The woman who spilt blood or the man who has only had the courage to fantasise about it?
Perhaps it’s both and neither. Perhaps there’s no difference between prince and haunted witch.
Perhaps there never was. Sitting here sanctifying her sin, I’ve wed myself to her crime, so I take her guilt and lock it tightly behind my ribs.
I breathe a little easier once she drifts off to sleep, and those ten minutes I’ve bargained for dissolve in my arms.
Ten minutes —as if I could ever measure her in anything less than an eternity.