30
A DEAD MAN SPEAKS
ERIC
Atiny part of me is still attempting to persuade myself that I’m not watching the laws of physics fuck themselves out of the room. If they were even present to begin with; maybe I left them at the airport when Kai and I first arrived.
The mouldy scent of Tommy clings to the fabric of my cotton pants, but it’s not just her: there’s a coldness to the air, drifting across the skin of my shoulders and eliciting a barely suppressed shudder. The splintered pieces of the decanter sweep themselves into the patterned little bin, and Francesca’s vanity rights itself whilst a sodden cloth dabs urgently where water stains the carpet and floor. Multiple hands are at work, and I don’t even want to imagine how many.
Sudden cardiac arrest wouldn’t be the worst way to go right about now.
With Francesca ‘Andy Davis’ Sheffolk’s spectral toys continuing with cleanup, I latch the window that allowed her attacker entrance in the first place.Pullandliftfor it to secure, just like she explained about five damn times.
As though a fucking window is going to hurt me after the night we’ve had. Just above the silver latch catch, I note anarrow groove in the wood, the sort of chip you get by forcing a flathead screwdriver between the gap and pulling. I trace it with my thumb. Someone tried to muscle their way out of this room, completely ignorant of Francesca’s little trick of getting it to cooperate.
Alright. So then, there’s a ninety percent chance that her attacker didn’t enter via the window at all, not when the chip is on the inside. Which means her attacker was lying in wait, escape already prepared. Years of studies, and this is the moment right here when I wonder if my brain will finally suffer burnout at the hands of exhaustion. For my sanity’s sake, I check the latch again. I’ll tell her later, perhaps after the ball. Tonight’s done enough damage.
When I turn to the dresser, prepared to embarrass us both by rifling through lace and praying for mercy, there’s a paper bag placed atop the polished surface. Wasn’t there three breaths ago; that I’m certain of. The twined handles exhale the odour of rain-soaked linen and dry rope as I inch closer.
Tommy’s calling card.
I glance behind me, still seeing the spectral staff tidying the bed and organising her jewellery, and then I part the red tissue. Silk shorts come into view. My brain says anthocyanin-rich fabric (anything to detach myself from what I’m seeing, really), but my smile says it’s the aching purple-blue of hydrangeas. Beneath it is the matching top and the beginnings of something lacey, but I close the bag before I can even process it.
Bless the dead girl; she’s spared me the indecency of rummaging through Francesca’s panties like a Victorian pervert.
Satisfied with their domestic duties, the ghosts fade into nothing by the time I’ve sealed the secret corridor between our rooms. Fifteen minutes compress into a neat little task list: I hand off the package to a towel-wrapped Francesca with a muttered “Compliments of the dead” and watch her vanish backinto my bathroom, then I double back to the bed where my phone is blinking at me with responses from Henrik.
No sooner had I answered than he was already calling back.
“I traced the order through the barcode on the label. Your candle comes fromMara and Daughters, a small-batch perfumer and the only place in Lanorythe that takes custom scent commissions without a paper trail. It’s open twenty-four seven because they ship to clinics in, like, five different time zones. I had a granddaughter on the line earlier; one Bethany Cartwright.”
Henrik’s voice is practically an airhorn in the stillness of my room, periodically drifting from the phone on the now-clean coffee table where I put him on speaker.
“Did you get her to talk?” I ask, rubbing a towel over my still damp hair before tossing it onto an armchair.
“Talk?” Henrik parrots. “Couldn’t get her to fucking stop. She believed me the instant I said I was Prince Henrik Atherbourne. She let me remote into her laptop without any hesitation, clicked on my assist link so fast I heard her keyboard snap. No verification, no nothing. Just pulled up their order logs, PDF invoices, and WhatsApp exports. Tell me that isn’t bad for business.”
My concentration cracks right down the middle upon hearing the bathroom door open, and Francesca steps out. Her long hair is slick and wet, steam curls around her form like some fog-drenched witch, and the shorts are cut higher than expected. The silk of the camisole clings to her chest, and the robe hangs carelessly about her shoulders, just enough to make my throat go tight.
She tilts her head with a small pout, and the robe slips slightly from her left shoulder. “Poor thing,” she says softly, eyeing the phone. “Too trusting.”
I look over her, letting my stare brush across the bruises and snag at the hollow of her throat. All composed as she is now, you’d never guess that almost an hour ago, she was asking for permission to kiss me. Compartmentalisation feels like a Sisyphean task when her mouth is still wine-red, moist with the reminder that I know what it tastes like.
Pin the topic of conversation, you bastard, staring isn’t a valid response.
“Hm, poor nothing. She’s complicit in the fact that you almost choked to death; that whole business is. And she wasn’t exactly deceived either—Henrikisroyalty.”
She doesn’t contend this, evidently aware that my anger at the situation hasn’t entirely fled. Unwitting accomplice or not, it doesn’t cleanse their hands of the sin. A cog’s still part of the fucking machine, now isn’t it? That anger sinks into my brain, a hangover I can’t shake, tying me to the whisky drained hours ago. An unwelcome memory of my father emerges, one in which he tells me that anger is its own form of intoxication. Suppose for some people, indulging in fury turns immorality into justice.
Rein it in; she’s alive, she’s here—don’t drink from your father’s cup.
Henrik goes suspiciously quiet, so quiet that I wonder whether I’ve mentioned King Reginald aloud.
But then he swears under his breath and says, “Who’s in the room with you?” I don’t say anything, and he groans. “Holy shit. Hi, Lady Francesca. I didn’t realise—uh, Ericdidn’ttell meyou were present. I’m Henrik. It’s lovely meeting you… though, I wish it were under better circumstances.”
Her lips curve upwards at hearing how awkward he gets, and she moves to perch herself at the end of my bed. “The pleasure is all mine, my prince.”
He chuckles uncomfortably. “Um, just to clarify, I’mnota criminal. Degree in computer science and severalvery legalcertifications, I promise. My brothers just… you know, use me. It’s all ethically adjacent, depending on who you ask.”
