And then the coward goes offline.
He’s probably smug as hell right now, and I so badly want to prove him wrong. He can’t justcommandmy reaction, nor could he possibly predict it. Not unless what’s wrapped on the stand is a box of Girl Scout Samoas flown straight from the States.
Anything else is a risky gamble, Your Highness.
The brown paper rasps as I tug the twine loose before giving way with a sigh. It’s not Samoas. Inside lies a journal in black leather so smooth I almost don’t want to stain it with fingerprints. Gold lettering catches the midday sun, spelling outPhantom of Delight.
Wordsworth. Of course.
Overthinking kicks in. The phrase isn’t really subtle; he had to have known I’d recognise it, and Eric doesn’t exactly seem like the type to Google ‘pretty things to say to a girl’. Now I’m left wondering what’s hidden between the lettering.
It would be almost flawless if not for the slight crookedness in the ‘D’ and how the ‘N’ tilts sideways the slightest bit. Just enough to fall short of perfection. Just enough to prove that he did this.Himself. I can’t tell if my eyes burn because I’m delighted at discovering another flaw in him or so utterly demolished by the fact that he had to have sat hunched oversomewhere, meticulously working on something he couldn’t guarantee would yield perfect results.
The spine creaks slightly and opens to his handwriting. Black ink stains the heavy paper, the kind of script you’d see on royal wedding invitations. Actual bloody calligraphy; he’s written the poem out in full. There’s an almost imperceptible tremor to the words ‘delight’, ‘woman’, and ‘angelic’ that further distances this journal from the illusion of perfection.
More proof that he’s mortal.
I stop myself from dissecting why he struggled with those particular words when his penmanship is so elegant everywhere else. The thought makes me feel like a deer petrified beneath a huntsman’s blade. To find the answer would mean to skin me until I’m left raw, so I shove it aside in favour of the letter written on the pastedown page.
Francesca,
Consider this a repository for your thoughts, in case you ever go full ‘Cathy’ on me and misplace your mind. I’ve got to admit, the first page was almost mine. I debated starting the repository with a thought about you. One page out of three hundred and fifty: mine. Not much of a claim, yet it would’ve been enough.
But then I realised how disingenuous that would be against everything I’m yet to discover.
The first page should belong to you, the girl whose mind will live within this journal. So I claimed the front endpaper instead, the page that exists before the story begins and still falls part of it. You’ll see it every time you open the cover: my place is there. Part of your story without laying claim to it.
You’re probably wondering—why Wordsworth? Now, I’m not prone to jealousy, but for him I’ll make an exception.Short answer is: he got to meet you first. He put you in ink two centuries before I would even be born.
It’s wholly absurd, and still, I resent him for it, because reading this poem only reminds me that you’ve been this haunting thing far longer than I thought possible. The dead man, however, can keep his poem.
Unlike him, I know the name of the phantom.
Though it’s your birthday, please indulge me in my request. Stay visible today. Please. I find the girl infinitely more enthralling than the ghost she pretends to be.
Happy Birthday, Baskerville,
Eric
I finish reading, a lump in my throat, and set the journal down on my lap before immediately picking it back up. For a long while, I just sit there feeling—no, I don’t evenknowwhat I feel. ‘Grateful’ seems too insubstantial for whatever it is my lungs are doing right now. It’s unfair. He can’t… He can’t justwritethings like this. Things that crawl through me long after the page has fallen from view.
Absolutely bloody ridiculous to even suggest that Wordsworth (of all poets!) could ever have written about me. As though the man encountered some psychic experience, had a vision of a girl in a nightdress with a bruised neck and thought, ‘Ah, yes, let’s immortalise her!’. I should laugh at the arrogance of even entertaining the idea, but instead I’m trying not to combust because Eric delivers a report where others give compliments. Anyone else, and I’d think he’s just trying to flatter me, but I can’t breathe because he’s only stating facts, which means this is how he sees me.
I’m going to fucking cry.
Oh no, it’s coming, the hot sting in my eyes, and obviously I make the mistake of glancing back at the letter as though it will steady me. What pushes me over the edge isn’t even the reread but the fact that his name is smudged, and in managing to do so, he’s left behind his fingerprint.
That’s him. Eric Atherbourne is here, pressed into the paper of my journal.
If he still believes himself to be the unreliable narrator in my story, well then, my thumb currently hovers over proof that he’s failed.
Beautifully so.
For all my effort to stitch my composure back together, Lydia manages to undo it the minute I step into the kitchens. Lunch prep for the guests is in full swing, pots and pans clanging, knives drilling against chopping boards and the occasional yell to watch the stove. A full culinary siege has taken over because there are already those stressing about starters for the ball tonight.
There’s a chorus of a semi-distracted“Happy birthday, my lady”whenever they spot me between juggling trays and fighting with the biryani pots, and I give an exaggerated curtsy that only widens their grins. Lydia stands at the far corner of the massive space, commandeering a squad on the thickness of the dough when it comes to koesisters. She doesn’t finish her sentence, gaze finding mine through all the noise and steam.
There’s this flash in her eyes, like she’s holding out her hands and weighing all the birthdays we’ve shared withouther.Without Beatrice Lanorythe. I don’t know what to call that. Pride. Grief? I’m glad she’s already walking towards me because I don’t think I can name the emotion without choking on it.
