33. Casualties of Kin #3
I pretend not to watch them all whilst I fork some dessert into my mouth.
Hamish pulls a silver flask from his pocket like a man unsheathing a weapon, throat working in a long swallow.
Not his first for the evening, then. Maybe it took some liquid courage for him to attend at all.
Edith mutters beside him, and though I can’t make out the words, I know they’re venomous.
Funnily enough, Edmund didn’t flinch for his crying sister, but the duchess-in-waiting? Suddenly his spine works.
Noted .
I chew slowly, savouring the moist sponge.
Excellent cake; shame about the company.
Pascoe’s watching the door again. And Frank?
That man’s mask cracked two minutes ago; now he looks old-man furious, calculating how many more insults his girls will have to endure tonight before he starts burying offenders.
Winifred eats her cake quietly, promptly ignoring Thalia, who leans in patiently, trying to speak to her again.
And again. And again, to no avail. She may as well be speaking to the tablecloth.
Poor thing hasn’t even touched her plate, because it’s her grandmother’s turn to indulge.
Unfortunately, she never runs out of turns.
I feel it before I see it. Attention wrapping around my neck like a noose, tightening with each passing second. Tempting figurative death, I choose to finish my cake with the slow ease of a man without any worries.
The sugary monstrosity seems a fitting metaphor for the evening: heavy and delicious, but hiding something rotting beneath the buttercream.
As soon as I set my fork down, I find Sylvaine watching me with an eyebrow lifted.
She raises two fingers, crooks them in my direction and beckons, expecting me to obey.
Chances are that I will, because I’m curious. And I’m nothing if not curiosity in expensive shoes. I take my time standing. Let her wait. If I’m to be summoned like a stray dog, I’d prefer the rope to be the length I wish.
“You didn’t follow her,” she says as soon as I’m behind her seat. We’re both watching the pianist seat himself to begin his performance. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata quickly drowns out the whispers.
“Did you expect me to, my lady?”
“I’m quickly learning not to expect anything from you, Prince Eric. So I shall ask whether you’re enjoying the celebrations. Was the cake up to your standards?” she questions in a velvet rasp.
Testing the limits of my new leash, I settle a hand on her chair and slouch forward slightly. “I’ve never had it served with such insincerity before, but yes.” Her laugh reeks of elegance. “I must say I’m partial to the darker flavour, however—Francesca’s.”
She releases a soft hum, a sound that could suggest approval or that she’s picturing my head on a spike. “Careful, dark tastes can become deadly. Ask any of the men buried here.” The latter, then.
Shit , I see where Francesca gets it from. “Only if you bite off more than you can swallow.”
There’s a sudden cough, a single, disgusting, wet sound that cleaves through the air.
My face twists into disgust on instinct.
It comes again, gasping this time. The attention of the room shifts in overlapping waves.
Thalia . She’s clutching her throat and hacking in ways I’ve only seen felines do on Animal Planet.
Winifred shakes out of her self-important reverie upon seeing her granddaughter’s blotchy face.
“Thalia?”
But the girl can’t answer. She’s clawing at the table, tearing the cloth right off. Cutlery clatters to the ground, and everyone is up on their feet in an instant. Just like that, we’re no longer at a birthday celebration.
Someone stands. It’s Edith, delicate sensibilities seemingly provoked. “Is she choking?”
“Thalia! Look at me!” Winifred yells, dragging Thalia’s chair back and kneeling at her feet. “You have to breathe , darling.” Someone shouts for a doctor as the crowd closes in, horrified.
Sylvaine has gone stock-still, having reached a conclusion I’ve yet to.
So I keep watching, throat drying at seeing Winifred sob helplessly as she throws the contents of Thalia’s entire purse onto the table.
Charlotte Tilbury products go flying. A powder compact shatters upon impact with the ground, and receipts are being tossed aside.
Winifred cares for nothing, not until her brittle hands wrap around the EpiPen.
“Hold still, darling. Just hold still for Granny, alright?” Her words are raw and stuffed with panic as Thalia spasms.
The details sink in with the agony of a thousand knives.
Thalia’s plate is now shattered on the ground, but beneath the porcelain shards is her smashed, half-eaten cake, fondant a verdant shade against the white.
My gaze slides to Francesca’s untouched plate, where the same cake sits.
Unease feathers in my chest, and my fingers start drumming against my trousers.
Winifred jams the pen home, and a doctor is summoned, but I’m lost in a memory that’s turned ugly, burning at the edges.
The only thing Thalia Fortescue and I have in common is that we’re both allergic to strawberries.
Horror crawls under my skin. Winifred cradles her granddaughter; Thalia sobs with the sheer terror of somebody who thought they were about to die. Francesca should’ve been sitting here, eating her cake.
Around me, the chatter is muffled, dissolving into fretful sympathy. Accident , some are saying. Sylvaine clocks Francesca’s plate. Once it’s confirmed her heir hasn’t eaten it, she’s out of her seat, sliding past me and absolutely furious, already plotting which chef to ruin.
By the time Winifred accuses Sylvaine of foul play, I’m already out the door, an opened bottle of Remy’s finest clutched in hand, and I don’t even make it ten steps before my phone pings loudly.
The screen glows in the dark when I pull it free and spot a number I don’t recognise with a message that makes my mouth twitch.
Unknown Number
You’ve had your fun, Your Highness. The arrogance was charming in the beginning, but I didn’t think you’d commit this fully to the role of saviour when it isn’t one written for you.
Do remember: guests aren’t supposed to integrate themselves into our affairs.
Go to Francesca right now, and I won’t hold back in showing you how easily guests are snatched from Redford.
That lazy ‘Your Highness’ knocks a memory loose, tugging harder at a slowly building smile. I’ve seen this before on folded paper on my pillow. At the time, I’d passed it off as Edmund’s idiocy, but now I see it’s part of the same pattern that runs beneath these grounds.
This person’s been testing my edge since the moment I arrived, circling the same reminder: that Redford isn’t mine.
Upon my second readthrough, the threat stops feeling like one. Someone as territorial as this will eventually have to show up at the place they believe is theirs. These lines they’ve drawn between me and Francesca will have to be defended. I screenshot the number and forward it to Henrik.
If this arrogance of mine has drawn out this nameless bastard, then I might just have to thank my father for nurturing such a useful flaw within me.