31. I Know Thy Name
I KNOW THY NAME
FRANCESCA
Eric looks nothing like the solemn prince or quiet academic right now.
His golden hair is darker in this light, untidy waves falling across his forehead.
Sleep has smoothed the ever-present furrow between his brows, and I catch myself marvelling at the traces of the boy he might once have been.
A faint spot of drool glimmers at the corner of his mouth, the universe finally giving me proof that he is indeed human.
I think I make a sound. Maybe a quiet laugh, but I’m so tired I don’t even think it leaves my head.
Prince Problematic barely stirs, affirming the latter.
Naked in the lap of Godwyn’s heir in that tub, I should’ve been ashamed, on my knees, pleading with Adelina for forgiveness.
Even though I’ve never been a believer in omens—at least not in the same sense as Gran and Nanna—something incorporeal pokes me in the left shoulder as my guilt tries to establish itself.
A phantom finger presses down, whispering, ‘Go on, you want him’.
My right shoulder echoes the sting in a strange agreement with its twin; I’m allowed want.
Allowed to deserve this. Deserve it to the point where I could become insufferable about it.
Deserve this soft catastrophe because his mouth is an off switch.
For a girl living with the dead, silence inside my skull is raunchier than any sex ever could be.
One simple ‘Just this’, and I’m no longer a girl trapped in a coffin. ‘ Just this’ , and the ‘ this ’ in question is resurrection.
Greedy girl, you should be staying far away from him.
I’m sorry, Adelina. I can save myself and pass the test; I’ve already spilt blood, proven that I’m willing, but is it so wrong to also want to be saved?
Urgh, does that make me less your heir or more human?
Maybe that’s my crime. If Adelina’s error was to confuse devotion with appetite and mistakenly dine on the poisoned dish, perhaps my own is the audacity to place a third plate at the table—still steaming and forbidden—and name it salvation.
I look at him again, my country’s scandal and the man the newspapers call arrogant.
His mouth twitches in sleep; I hone in on the movement.
Salvation, salvation, I can almost taste it.
Let’s pretend, for five fucking minutes, nobody’s trying to kill me.
A small delusion. Self-care, if you will.
I grin into his neck like a fool because he smells like he’s dry-cleaned every day, and it’s so obnoxious that it makes perfect sense.
I think about moving.
I don’t move.
Instead, I give another heavy blink that soon turns into a dreamless sleep. The next time I surface, the alarm laughs in 13:20.
After one?
Can’t remember the last time I slept in this late. Daylight bleeds into the room so aggressively that I groan into the pillow. That only aggravates the ache. Fuck’s sake, Bilbo Baggins must be tap dancing in my goddamn head.
Eric’s side of the bed is empty, and I realise he’s swapped himself out for the decoy pillow I’m currently clutching.
I press my nose to the fabric, feeling foolish and so utterly seen in one breath.
Another groan leaves me when I remember it’s my birthday, so I summon some positivity and roll over.
In another life, I’d wake to my bedroom door opening, my parents singing off-key.
Dad would be holding a cupcake (always vanilla icing), and Mum would be protecting the candles so they don’t die via the exaggerated huffing and puffing of her husband’s singing.
Lucy would be elbowing me awake, ready to clap the second I’ve made a wish.
Whole tradition gone, severed in two by one date.
I swallow my grief and grab the nightstand’s offering: a glass of water and two aspirins. Bless that expensive-smelling bastard. I chug it down and admire the rest of the product lineup. There’s a book-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied off with a length of twine.
Next to it, my phone practically vibrates itself towards the edge, screen flashing with well wishes, both genuine and performative. As I read through them, I listen to Percy’s drawn-out voice note and reply to the word vomit that Edmund could only manage to express via messages.
Gran, ever the technophobe, sends me an emotional wish alongside a GIF of some chipmunks in birthday hats and an accidental sticker of Pedro Pascal that she didn’t know how to delete.
As tradition dictates, I ignore the greater Sheffolk family’s wishes until later, but one more notification catches my eye.
The laugh that rips out of me upon seeing the contact name makes me glad I’m alone.
12pt Arial
You need a better password than your birthday, Duchess.
Took me less than ten seconds.
Also put my number in your phone, try not to delete it.
Consider it your first birthday gift from me.
I finish the rest of the water and swipe to answer him.
Francesca
waking up to a personalised birthday message from someone named ‘12pt arial’ might just be my sign to end it all
also just bc i almost died doesn’t mean you let me sleep like the dead
When his response takes longer than five minutes, I head to the bathroom and find the bag of toiletries he ferried in.
I brush my teeth fast, spit into the basin and grab my skincare that Eric seems to have arranged in military rows.
The mirror reflects the ugly bruises back at me, and I pull a jumper over my head, relieved to see that the neckline swallows everything.
Tonight’s neckline, however, will not. Foundation will have to do the rest. Sweatpants up, slippers shoved onto my feet, and I head back into his room to see that he’s responded.
12pt Arial
Not a soul laughed.
And I let you sleep because you needed it.
In a shocking turn of events, it turns out that almost being murdered takes a toll on both the body and mind.
Francesca
your comedic skills are wasted on me. where are you anyway?
12pt Arial
Your grandmother’s been taking me to meet some people. Why do you have so many relatives and why are they all here?
Francesca
lmao yah, i figured it’d be big this year. percy and i have a theory. there’s like a cooling period after each sheffolk tragedy
the longer it’s been since one, the more likely people are to show up bc we seem less cursed
12pt Arial
So your family’s Sheffolk’s weather app. No recent death means ‘sunny with a light breeze’, I guess.
Francesca
basically. last storm was my parents and lucy. before that was great gran priscilla drowning in the cellar.
12pt Arial
I’m not going to question the Priscilla thing, but speaking of tense weather, just met Thalia.
You neglected to mention she floats when she walks and that she’s… disarmingly perfect.
Francesca
did she sparkle? she usually sparkles
but now that you’ve met the family’s golden girl, i can finally fade into the background
12pt Arial
Francesca.
Francesca
wot
12pt Arial
I’m perfectly capable of getting along with Thalia and still preferring you.
Did he… Did he just call me jealous ? Without even using the word? I scroll up and reread the entire conversation, paying deeper attention to where Thalia’s name is brought up.
I’m not even jealous.
That was just me being charmingly insecure. Two completely different things— oh, fuck him . He’s doing it on purpose, letting me panic-type imaginary responses in my head, knowing I don’t have a suitable rebuttal. And there it is; he’s typing again. Should just mute him.
12pt Arial
Open the parcel on the stand before you come down, and you’re required to wear the resulting pretty smile.
Would hate to think I wasted the effort.
Pretty smile.
Like it’s nothing.
Like those two words aren’t going to dig a space for themselves beside my heart, shoving and shoving until it fits.
And then the coward goes offline.
He’s probably smug as hell right now, and I so badly want to prove him wrong. He can’t just command my reaction, nor could he possibly predict it. Not unless what’s wrapped on the stand is a box of Girl Scout Samoas flown straight from the States.
Anything else is a risky gamble, Your Highness.
The brown paper rasps as I tug the twine loose before giving way with a sigh. It’s not Samoas. Inside lies a journal in black leather so smooth I almost don’t want to stain it with fingerprints. Gold lettering catches the midday sun, spelling out Phantom of Delight.
Wordsworth. Of course.
Overthinking kicks in. The phrase isn’t really subtle; he had to have known I’d recognise it, and Eric doesn’t exactly seem like the type to Google ‘pretty things to say to a girl’. Now I’m left wondering what’s hidden between the lettering.
It would be almost flawless if not for the slight crookedness in the ‘D’ and how the ‘N’ tilts sideways the slightest bit.
Just enough to fall short of perfection.
Just enough to prove that he did this. Himself .
I can’t tell if my eyes burn because I’m delighted at discovering another flaw in him or so utterly demolished by the fact that he had to have sat hunched over somewhere, meticulously working on something he couldn’t guarantee would yield perfect results.
The spine creaks slightly and opens to his handwriting.
Black ink stains the heavy paper, the kind of script you’d see on royal wedding invitations.
Actual bloody calligraphy; he’s written the poem out in full.
There’s an almost imperceptible tremor to the words ‘delight’, ‘woman’, and ‘angelic’ that further distances this journal from the illusion of perfection.
More proof that he’s mortal.