So close, I could pry open the coffin she’s been nailed into. “And you think I came to Sheffolk to live?” She’s warm, trembling when my fingers find her chin. A small, involuntary gasp slips out as my thumb coaxes her lips open. “Indecent. You want me to obey, hm?”
The single nod she gives is a clean, brutalyes. Damnation wrapped in silk. I lean in, memorising the way her lids grow heavy and still fight to stay open. To witness me. She tilts, moves onto the tips of her bare feet, and I’m weighing all that I’d give to hear her whimper. Shit, it’s going to happen. She’s going to beg, and I’ll have no choice but to ruin her. I bend, mouth hovering a breath above hers, noses brushing?—
Three hard raps hit my door.
We go still.
Cursing, I set my forehead against hers, and she lifts a shaking hand to cup my face. Another knock rattles the frame. I turn, obedient to the heat of her palm, and press a kiss to the soft point where her pulse riots. Thin fingers curl around my jaw when I lay a second kiss higher, open-mouthed, tasting lavender and salt until the skin blooms pink.
One more knock; I trail the vein higher and let the whisper fall right against her heartbeat, “That’ll be your butler, I suppose.”
“Fire him.”
I grin against her wrist before retreating. One step. Then another, all whilst reminding myself I’m a gentleman. Even as something more heated bangs their fists against the wall of good manners. Francesca moves to retrieve the book she dropped.
Pascoe enters with permission to collect the dishes. His stare lingers on me for a moment, heavy as a palm on a bruise only he and I know exists. I don’t answer, looking down at my glass instead.No thoughts of Edmund, for fuck’s sake.The last thing I need is his image circling my mind whilst Francesca’s pulse still sits warm on my lips.
They leave without a word, and I avoid them both the next morning, skipping breakfast because my brain suddenly can’t come up with any ideas. It has to be better, perfect even, now that I know the taste of her heartbeat. All day I turn over possible revisions for her gift, until at last, 5pm strikes and it hits me.
Now, hours before her birthday, I sit at my desk with the journal, the handheld embossing kit and the fountain pen I dispatched Philip to buy. The glasses dig into the bridge of my nose; I hate the way they make me look, but I can’t risk imprecision. Not tonight. Scattered around are pages of Wordsworth, Byron and Edgar Allan Poe, half crumpled in my indecision to choose just one poem. In the end, I’ve found it.
“Here’s to not fucking this up completely.”
The cold handle of the embosser bites into my palm as I dial the letters into place and then press down onto leather. Everything, to the very millimetre, is pinpoint thanks to the brief mental breakdown I had over this being perfect. I could’ve chosen something safer, like her initials, but watching the gold bleed into the indents, I know I’ve made the right decision.
Phantom of Delight.
It fits her. The more I think on it, the more accurate the title becomes. A little too perfect, then. I almost hope she’ll find the whole thing pretentious and mock me. Once the embosser is setaside, I uncap the fountain pen and turn to the front endpaper, the page with more resistance than all others. Fucking hell, should’ve just embossed the cover and been done with it. But I’m apparently the type of man who handwrites Wordsworth now.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight…
Kill me now.
I’ve double-checked the word ‘phantom’ like eleven times, and with each glance, the less it looks like a real word. By the second stanza, my hand is shaking, and I have to take a quick breather. That minute of contemplation is humiliating. Here I am, an allegedly educated man with the emotional range of a brick, writing out poetry.I can feel the ghost of Father Bariston leaning over me, the way he used to when wanting to be certain my writing was neat. He judges every dip and swirl the pen makes, all whilst I’m trying not to fuck up too badly. If this journal goes tits up, I’ve got no gift for tomorrow.
With the poem written out, I shift my attention to the pastedown portion of the journal and elegantly jot down the personalised birthday message that gave me way more grief than it should’ve.And of course, ‘Eric’ smudges. Of all the words to choose to look like it’s part of Rorschach’s inkblot test, it had to be that one. Brilliant.
Gentle, I internally repeat to myself as I try to fix it, but it doesn’t work, and I end up dabbing my thumb into the wet spot. Now half of my print is there, right beside my name. The ghosts here are laughing for sure, having watched me pretend this gift is impersonal only to force me to leave my mark—literally.
It’d be poetic if it weren’t so pathetic. I snap a picture of it because obviously I enjoy documenting my own humiliation.Why experience this on my own when I have brothers to partake in the public stoning of my hubris?
Heir & Spare²
Kai
bro. you wrote her a POEM??
and its in CALLIGRAPHY??
Eric
It’s her birthday, I’m just trying to be civilised.
Henrik
i think you spelt ‘sentimental’ wrong
