35. Heir Beneath the Veil
HEIR BENEATH THE VEIL
ERIC
F rancesca said she was going to give me smoortjie for breakfast.
And I, an educated adult supposedly skilled in linguistics, thought she said smooches .
We believed that momentary lapse in intelligence, and by ‘we’, I mean the entire council at fault for my humiliation.
Brain sent false intel; Tongue executed an embarrassingly cracked ‘pardon?’ , and my cock endorsed the interpretation without any argument.
In my defence, it’s early morning, and one-third of the council tend to be irresponsible this early.
Still, I don’t think there’s a suitable enough word to describe my reaction to the clarification.
Captain America’s shield is plastered across every centimetre of her tiny sleep shorts, and the matching t-shirt does anything but shield the fact that she’s not wearing a bra.
No wonder my fucking council threw in the towel.
I don’t even remember handing those pyjamas to her last night.
She’s grinning like she can read my mind.
“It’s smoortjie , Professor. Tomato, viennas and sautéed onion.
Usually bake some eggs on the side, and I’ll have, like, two slices of bread.
Lydia taught me how when I was thirteen.
” She leans over to grab the pack of Vienna sausages from the sink where they’ve been defrosting, and her shorts slide a little higher.
Thank you, Steve Rogers.
“You’re awfully chipper for somebody who tripped and nearly concussed herself last night. Expected you in bed with a hangover from hell.”
“Smile has to stay on my face, unfortunately. Give in to the exhaustion, and I have to think about how I begged you for a kiss.”
“I don’t mind a little begging. At least, not from you.” Still leaning across the sink, she turns slightly, gaze automatically dropping to the place beneath my jaw. Right where she left her mark. “You’re blushing, just so you’re aware.”
“Because you make everything sound indecent ,” she lowers her voice like we’re exchanging state secrets.
I tilt my chin, letting her get a better look at her work. “You begged for a kiss while half-drunk, clinging to me in the dark, left your teeth in my skin. I’d call that pretty indecent.”
“ Anyway ,” she says a little too brightly, shifting her focus back to her task. “I had something to tell you before you put me to bed like a plague-ridden child?—”
“Yes, how very dare I prioritise your wellbeing,” I deadpan.
She tries to glare but fails beautifully. “I was gonna tell you that you were right about the statue, by the way, when you said I’m frightened of it. I didn’t know then, but I asked Bertie about it yesterday. I dunno why I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“Excellent, you asked Bertie,” I echo, patiently waiting for her to fill in the gaps. I wondered what that madman was up to last night. Frank spent a solid fifteen minutes recalling how Bertie has always been the family’s chaos condensed into one man and I was looking forward to the drama.
Winifred x the son of the woman she hates ?
Catastrophe waiting to happen.
Only, it didn’t happen. But Percy, bleary-eyed at 3am, told me he’d been stuck in the west wing, talking Lady Delphine through a hallucination about a water-filled cellar.
“Well, you already know Nanna was basically the Redford archive before we built the modern version. She knew every name attached to the portraits and could tell you who died in what room. I’m not joking; she was like the bomb at Sheffolk history.”
The bomb , she says unironically, chopping up her Vienna sausages, onions and tomato in record time. This is a woman haunted by a generational curse, and she just spat a fossilised 2000s phrase at me.
“Good for her.”
She grins, dimple popping as she moves around me and gets the stove going.
“Her mind’s in pieces now, because of all the memories floating around in there, but before it got bad, she had Bertie document everything for her.
Nanna has a whole library filled with handwritten journals. And everything came from here.”
Because her hands are dirty, she tries (unsuccessfully) to tap the side of her head with her elbow.
The attempt makes me laugh. “Your Nanna sounds terrifying. The bomb, indeed.”
And of course, Francesca gets sidetracked by searching for a particular pan she promises won’t make the eggs stick. I refrain from nudging her back onto the road but information is oxygen, and her knee has been on my throat since she first mentioned that statue.
Minutes later, she’s deep into a story on how Lydia once made her use steelwool to scrub the bottom of the akhni pot after she let the food burn, and that’s when I slowly steer her back.
“Absolutely fascinating, but what did Bertie say about the statue?”
“Oh, that. He said there’s an old rumour that Adelina and Hildebrand had a daughter together.
Died around age five. A few centuries on, somebody ‘found’ the story, and they made the statue for her.
A life she didn’t get, or something like that.
That’s why she’s veiled; they don’t know what she would’ve grown up to look like. ”
I look out the window, knowing the statue isn’t visible, and yet it still feels as if her stony face has tilted in our direction, listening to her history be named. “Why does she hold a key, then?”
Behind the question lies the folded note Frank slipped into my hands after deciding I earned something he could no longer keep to himself.
Francesca frowns. “That’s the blank space. Bertie doesn’t recall Nanna ever mentioning the key—I mean, the woman doesn’t even have a name.”
She spoons her smoortjie around in the little pot, mumbling about the oddities of the whole thing and relaying what little information Bertie gave her.
There are comments on Cillian too, on how it’s imperative we figure out what he and Godwyn were up to.
But she makes no mention of hidden compartments throughout, which leads me to wonder if Delphine really was the bomb and merely forgot about it, or if she too assumed it was just a stone key.
But that stone key birthed Frank’s note, now stuffed into last night’s trouser pockets. Without a name or even a cemented history, all the Keybearer is right now is a tool, just waiting for the right hand to use it.
Should I be arrogant and assume it’s mine?
Francesca’s earlier words slip into place, and I question, “Wait, why would you be frightened of her?”
The spoon nearly slips from her fingers when she turns, and she absentmindedly scoops up some sauce with a finger to taste.
“I just… feel bad, I think. She was the last of her line, and then Adelina married Dorian, and— voilà —my line. I’m basically duchess-heir because she died young.
And mind you, this is all rumours, neh.”
More inherited grief: the Sheffolk Special .
I push away from the counter and grab a seat at the island where my phone waits.
I scroll absentmindedly through Henrik’s messages again.
The unknown number was a throwaway and the only thing it couldn’t hide was which cell tower it hit: the same one that’s a short drive from Redford’s gates. Which means he was at the ball.
And I’ve already got a suspect in mind. Instead of telling Francesca this, however, I ease the mood. “Personally, I’m more horrified than frightened. If that child lived, you and I would be related.”
She pivots again, finger dragging across the spoon before catching the tip with her tongue. For some ghastly reason, she looks mildly offended. “And that’s horrifying to you?”
I almost pity Edmund, imagining not being allowed this ache I feel now as I look up at her. Thank fuck for failed lineages. The council is betraying me again, and I remind them her family tree nearly merged with mine. ‘Rumours’, they shoot back, and I’ve got no suitable rebuttal.
My gaze drags across her bare legs; the sight yanks me back to two nights ago, the soft heat of her thigh pressed against my hip, knee almost nudging my ribs. Voice drier than stone, I ask, “I know our names start with the same letter, but do I look like Edmund to you?”
She freezes; I can almost picture the little buffering symbol on her forehead. Once it clocks to her, the apples of her cheeks heat, and she reflexively shoots out a, “You’re morsig .”
I’m already thumbing to the tab I’ve left open. “Oh, look at me, already utilising Google Translate, and it’s not even 9am yet. And what’s today’s word, you may be asking. Filthy , wow. If I’m filthy, it’s only because you’ve literally got ‘America’s Ass’ stitched into your waistband right now.”
I witness the smoortjie spoon become a weapon as she waves it around offensively. “For the record, they didn’t initially say that. Percy embroidered them; she had a phase.”
“At what age? Ten? Because those shorts have the surface area of my handkerchief.”
“No, they don’t— stop .” But she’s one more lip quiver away from bursting into laughter. “They’re adult-sized shorts, finish and klaar .”
I’ve spent enough time here to know that means she’s done with this topic: too bad I’m not. “And you never questioned the phrase she chose? Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” She scoffs so brattily and rinses that damn spoon just so she has something to do with her hands.
She flicks off the stove plate, moving the pot aside, then grabs some eggs from the carton and lays them along the dishtowel. “Since when are you this…” One egg cracks against the rim of the bowl. “...this flirty? And friendly. It’s alarming.”
I slouch on my barstool, elbows on the counter and phone discarded. “Might have something to do with all the Cheval Blanc I downed last night. Money might not be able to buy me happiness, but at least now I know it can rent me some personality.”