Across the room in the purple hemisphere, which I’ve named for Percy’s cake, Edith sits with a painted smile that tightens when her daughter grins too wide at her grandmother. I see her hand land gently on Percy’s arm, giving a tight little squeeze, tugging on her leash. That movement gets filed away for me to revisit later. She’s wearing sapphires. Big ones. Reminding everyone she belongs here. Hamish sits next to his almost-ex-wife, completely ornamental.
Sylvaine’s speech continues, referencing fond memories from their childhood that makes Francesca dab at her eyes with a napkin. Percy’s laughter is fond but restrained, her mother’s touch a shackle. Through it all, Hamish doesn’t look at his wife, but every time his mother mentions loyalty and love, they both tense.
“You draggedcolourback into these dreary walls, and that’s saying a lot, because the House of Sheffolk isn’t a gentle one. I hope you can forgive me for this rough love of mine, for expecting you to be strong before you were grown.” Sylvaine continues. “I’ve raised many toasts, but none so gladly as this one. You’re the reason this castle still breathes, why the name Sheffolk still means something.”
That last line has my attention narrowing onto Winifred. At the duchess’s words, her nostrils flare, two dark commas against the pale shape of her regal nose. She aims that look at Francesca whilst everyone is preoccupied with Sylvaine, but Francesca is unmoved, studying her grandmother with glossy eyes. When Winifred’s gaze flicks to the left and catches me staring, her chin jerks in surprise, realising I’ve captured her hatred like aphotograph. She goes motionless, anger replaced by a nervous uncertainty.
The last bit of Sylvaine’s toast is delivered with trembling fondness. “I don’t know who you’ll become, but I know you’llalwaysbe mine. To Chess and Percy, my granddaughters. My storm and sun. Happy birthday, darling girls.”
But even as everybody toasts to them, I can’t let myself drown in it. This room is too full of sugary secrets. One of these people tried to harm Francesca, and two, three, or maybe even more know exactly why. Cutlery clinks as the cake is served, and a wave of oxidised red rolls in with each footman that passes. Through it, I see Edmund, glass poised and gaze fixed on Francesca. He lifts his glass after everyone else already has, making the moment more intimate than it needs to be.
Just the two of them.
Francesca smiles but only holds his stare for a moment before lowering hers to her still empty plate. I catch it. Edmund catches me catching it. His view gets blocked by Pascoe’s back when the steward personally delivers a slice to Francesca. I pretend not to notice her relief.
She picks up the cake fork and scoops up a small mountain of sugar. I mirror her actions for cover. Only once Pascoe leaves do I pose my question. “Are you alright?”
“I’m about to eat overpriced cake; obviously I’m fine.” As expected, her answer is well-prepared, as is her smile. Pretty and practised. “If you’re worried about my death, the murder weapon is right here. This slice is dense enough to kill on impact.”
“You’re not allowed to joke about dying,” I say low enough that the rest of the table’s laughter doesn’t grasp it. Her fork pauses just beyond the reach of her mouth. “And I’m not making small talk—I’masking.”
There’s fight in her eyes: eat and ignore me, or put it down and let me have her, just this moment. The fork wavers, and I offer a smirk.
The tension tips, and my smirk is replaced with a wolfish grin when she drops the fork and gives in. Whatever victory I feel, however, disintegrates in my mouth when she folds her hands in her lap and says, “They’re all smiling at me, Eric. So warm and polite, wishing me many more healthy years, and beneath it all I can smell the candle. It’s in my nose, in my hair and skin, and I’m drowning in my room with nobody to hear me.”
A pressure valve inside me cracks open, and what slips out is, “I hear you.” I let her blink, let her do that confused frown of hers before adding, “You don’t need to speak for me to hear you, darling. You’ve got subtitles, remember?” The laugh that slips from her mouth is pure sunlight.
But the moment freezes, snapped in half by the screeching of a chair against marble. We both look up, as does every other person in the hall. Percy’s on her feet, face shining with the threat of tears, and Francesca goes taut. She watches her cousin with bated breath, her hands shooting to the edge of the table and gripping the cloth so hard that she pulls her cake closer.
Edith’s lips are thinned to nothing, and the rageful flush to her cheeks is vibrant, nearly matching the shade of Percy’s hair. She doesn’t even move when Percy stalks out and disappears. Edmund couldn’t be more bored with what’s happening even if he tried; he’s too busy talking to Charlie.
Sylvaine’s glare is a knife at Edith’s neck, and then she finds Francesca. No words pass, just one look. Francesca’s eyes close for a beat. Goosebumps ignite across my arms when I feel the sudden brush of her fingers against my wrist. Regret burns in her eyes once they’re on me again.
“I’m sorry.” It’s barely loud enough to claim space in the abrupt burst of whispers around us.
I give her a nod, and she’s off, mere steps from the threshold when Winifred’s voice pierces the hush. “Should a future duchess really be abandoning her own event? I’d have thought duty came before dramatics.”
Thalia—her poor granddaughter, honestly—loses all colour in her face and sinks lower, trying to hide behind the woman serving her cake.
Francesca stops. Turns. Nobody breathes until she speaks. “You’d know all about dramatics, now wouldn’t you, Aunt Winifred? You’ve spent your entire life pretending to be relevant.”
A dozen or so guests suddenly remember their postures, and about twenty more decide that the world revolves around their slices of cake. Nobility, for all their threats and wealth, have never quite known what to do when elegance wields a blade. Nobody volunteers an opinion. Nobody defends Winifred.
A mutinous curve takes shape on Francesca’s mouth, aimed at me, as though to say, ‘See, not scared of her at all.’
And when she leaves, everyone recalibrates, with a hundred different people reevaluating her character in real time. Not a single person speaks above a whisper for the next five minutes.
I pretend not to watch them all whilst I fork some dessert into my mouth. Hamish pulls a silver flask from his pocket like a man unsheathing a weapon, throat working in a long swallow. Not his first for the evening, then. Maybe it took some liquid courage for him to attend at all. Edith mutters beside him, and though I can’t make out the words, I know they’re venomous. Funnily enough, Edmund didn’t flinch for his crying sister, but the duchess-in-waiting? Suddenly his spine works.
Noted.
I chew slowly, savouring the moist sponge. Excellent cake; shame about the company. Pascoe’s watching the door again. And Frank? That man’s mask cracked two minutes ago; nowhe looks old-man furious, calculating how many more insults his girls will have to endure tonight before he starts burying offenders.
Winifred eats her cake quietly, promptly ignoring Thalia, who leans in patiently, trying to speak to her again. And again. And again, to no avail. She may as well be speaking to the tablecloth. Poor thing hasn’t even touched her plate, because it’s her grandmother’s turn to indulge. Unfortunately, she never runs out of turns.
I feel it before I see it. Attention wrapping around my neck like a noose, tightening with each passing second. Tempting figurative death, I choose to finish my cake with the slow ease of a man without any worries.
The sugary monstrosity seems a fitting metaphor for the evening: heavy and delicious, but hiding something rotting beneath the buttercream. As soon as I set my fork down, I find Sylvaine watching me with an eyebrow lifted. She raises two fingers, crooks them in my direction and beckons, expecting me to obey.
