37. How Redford Lost it’s Shield
HOW REDFORD LOST IT’S SHIELD
ERIC
T he curtains in my hotel room are as thin as tissue paper, so when dawn breaks, it chomps down on me like teeth.
Four hours of sleep is what I can claim (at most) and my eyes sting as I roll over to reach for my phone.
I hit call again, probably for like the thirtieth time since yesterday afternoon.
‘BASKERVILLE’ flashes across the screen until it’s routed to voicemail, at which point I end the call before having to hear her recorded message.
I try another five times before admitting defeat and scrolling through our chat.
Her phone had to have been going off like crazy with each message I’ve sent.
Eric
Are you okay?
They took me to the station.
I’m out, headed to a hotel, apparently.
No replies. I tell myself that her phone is probably dead or that Susannah had to take it by force because social media is no doubt flooded with speculation about what happened. I can only imagine what story Edmund and Charlie are running with whilst I’m away.
Yesterday comes back in fragments: Charlie’s face when he realised I recognised him, the sound of his skull hitting the wall, and the way he wheezed a cowardly explanation, ratting his friend out as always wanting to be the saviour.
My knuckles burn when I clench my hand around the phone; the skin is still raw and swollen over.
I lay in bed for another hour, phone on my chest and staring up at the ceiling. STAY gets pressed into my leg until I feel it bruise. Any moment now, an officer’s going to knock on my door and take me back to Lanorythe station, and then we’ll repeat last evening’s long-winded ordeal.
‘Why did you hit him, sir?’ Inspector Hartlynd would ask.
‘Personal matter’ , I would say each time, or ‘I’m not comfortable discussing that’ . Over and over again, my answer would remain unchanging even when they threatened to call in Chief Inspector Henderson—who was out over in Marathid, searching for a serial killer that doesn’t exist.
There was even mention of my father. ‘We’ll have to notify the Royal Household, sir; they’ll want to be aware of this incident.
There may be legal representation sent on your behalf, and it’s important that we properly establish what happened before this goes above all our heads.
If Mr Charles Henderson was a threat to you, now is the time to say so.
Otherwise it looks like you attacked an innocent man, unprovoked. ’
I said nothing, obviously, because Godwyn’s test isn’t mine to offer up in a statement.
Francesca placed every rotten detail of her history in my hands even though she couldn’t fully trust that I wouldn’t sharpen it and cut her with it.
The last thing I need is to prove Godwyn correct, that our bloodline remains as foul as it has always been.
Prison scares me less than betraying her does.
With nothing better to do, I get ready for the day.
I’ve got a brand new duffel bag filled with clothes and toiletries.
Some officer must’ve shoved a card at a hotel employee and pointed them at the mall.
The bathroom mirror shows me the bruise on my jaw Edmund left me with, further worsening my mood.
After showering, I disinfect my knuckles and put on the plain navy jumper and black trousers. Halfway through lacing the trainers that are about two sizes too fucking small, there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Inspector Hartlynd soon appears in the doorway, dressed in his drab brown uniform.
He’s shorter than me and rounder in the middle, the type of man you get when you boost his ego and let him marinate behind a desk for a decade whilst still giving him the impression that he calls the shots.
And his hair’s thinning too, but there’s still an attempt to pull off a comb-over.
Hartlynd bows his head. “Good morning, Your Highness. I trust that everything was to your liking?”
“I’m a man in custody; nothing is to my liking. What do you want, Inspector?”
He roughly clears his throat, fists clenching at his sides before he forces a jovial tone. “Good news, we won’t be needing you back at the station today. Arrangements have been made between your father’s office and ours. If you could please gather your things and follow me.”
He stands there, managing a reassuring smile as though that’s supposed to help. It doesn’t.
“What sort of arrangements?” I ask, going back to lacing my shoes.
“I suspect that a palace representative has arrived, or else you wouldn’t be so eager to wash your hands of me.
Just hours ago, you were threatening me with prison—or am I misremembering?
For that reason, I don’t feel comfortable following unnamed men to an unnamed location. Have Philip take me back to Redford.”
A flush creeps onto his already ruddy cheeks, turning them almost purple. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not how things work here. You assaulted a man, and the only reason you’re being let off is because certain parties wish to resolve this quietly?—”
“Oh, I apologise. Did I ask for a tutorial on how things work here?”
He goes silent for a beat, teeth grinding. Then he bows. “Your rep will be up shortly.” The door swings shut behind him with more force than needed, and as soon as he’s gone, the room feels smaller than before.
So do my shoes, apparently. The sides pinch my feet as I take to pacing and worrying my lip with my teeth.
To make matters worse, I’d forgotten to remove the tag on my jumper, and it scratches incessantly against my skin.
I’m too tense to give a fuck, though. I pull out my phone and hit Francesca’s contact again.
Voicemail. Then I try Percy. Nothing. Philip— nothing .
A hollow ache begins clawing at my chest. Fuck , I can’t reach her at all, and the two people I trust the most to get a message to her are unreachable as well.
“Come on, pick up,” I mutter, trying Francesca once more. The voicemail tone echoes in my ears again, and I stop by the window, running a restless hand through my hair.
“Hey,” I say, almost breathlessly. “It’s me.
Again. I need you to listen to me carefully, baby—don’t go anywhere near Charlie.
Do you understand? Just… stay where there are people you know you can trust. I’ll be there soon, I swear to you, and I’ll explain everything—” The beep cuts me off and I curse.
“ Baby , huh?” a deep voice drawls from behind me. “Interesting.”
My face empties of all emotion, and every muscle in my back locks.
That fucking voice. I turn, bracing myself for what I already know will greet me.
Anthony stands there in a pristine black suit, leaning against the wall with his big arms folded.
My father’s favourite hound, all dressed up for my humiliation, it seems. I didn’t even hear him come in.
The scowl blooms on my mouth before I can stop it. “Of course you’re my fucking rep. As if my father would send somebody decent.”
He tsks in that grandfatherly way, but his expression tells me he’s finding this all too amusing.
“Language, Your Highness. I would’ve thought a night in a five-star prison cell would’ve cooled you down.
” He peels himself from the wall, suit shifting over his biceps.
“You might want to rein that attitude in, though. I would like to point out that I might just be the only person in Sheffolk who won’t want your head on a spike.
Which makes me your best option; lucky you. ”
“I’m not in the mood for your crap, Anthony.”
His lips twitch into what has the potential to be a smile, as though he’s just confirmed Sheffolk hasn’t dulled my bite.
But I couldn’t care less about the argument he’s itching for, because I can’t wrap my head around what he just said.
Surely local news can’t paint me that badly, right?
For what, punching Charlie? The only people who give a fuck about him are Edmund, his mother, and whoever paid him to put his hands on my girl.
“Your father sent you here to play nice,” he goes on, dragging his stare across the room. “Remind them that the Crown cares… and now look at you.”
I let my face stay neutral and pick up my bag. The weight of the unnecessary crap inside it momentarily pulls at my bruised hand, and the tag scrapes against my back again. “How quickly can you get me to Redford?”
Anthony’s jaw flexes, full attention finally landing on me. “You’re not going to Redford, Your Highness.”
The room narrows further as I scrutinise his expression, but it remains irritatingly unreadable. My grip tightens around the duffel strap until my knuckles burn. The idea of Francesca alone in that haunted castle has my next words dripping with venom. “Try that again.”
“You’re not going to Redford, Your Highness,” he repeats in a smug tone. For added effect, he pauses before amending, “By order of His Majesty the King.”
Those seven words land like a slap, right onto my already bruised jaw.
I almost laugh at him, choosing to believe that I misheard him.
There’s no way in hell my father would be recalling me—he doesn’t care that much.
Sheffolk was supposed to be my prison cell; my sentence was already decreed.
His usual course of action would’ve been to leave me here to rot in the mess I made.
Instead of any of that leaving my mouth, I say, “Excuse me?”
“Your father will explain it better than I ever could. He’s waiting on the jet.”
Of course he is.
Of course he’s playing the benevolent monarch coming to retrieve his rebellious son.
My chest goes tight as though I’m no longer in an ugly beige hotel room, but I’m thirteen again, standing outside his study waiting to hear what he thinks of my speech therapist’s report.
An ugly anticipation bubbles in my gut. If he’s come himself, the decision’s already been made, and I won’t be able to fight against it.