“Is lying in grave dirt a new tactic, or are you actually dead this time?” Half of the bottle is already gone, and I take my first sip. Still good. Offensively good. When she doesn’t speak, I nudge her foot with the toe of my boot, and she groans.
“You’re laughing at me,” she says without opening her eyes, still scratching at the filigree.
“I’m not.”
“Youare;I can hear it.”
I squint down at her. “That’s because you concussed yourself on ancestral remains.” Red-rimmed eyes choke the fuck out of my sense of self when I gulp down a loud swig. “You’re glaring at me like I pushed you.”
She sits up slightly, one leg bent awkwardly beneath her dress. I’ve never seen such exasperation on a face other than mymother’s. “It’s not like Iplannedthis. Percy wanted to be alone, so I figured I’d head back to the hall, but I tripped.”
I glance at the grass. “There’s fuckall to trip over.”
It costs her nothing, not even time or thought, to clap back. “I tripped over the gravitational pull of yourego, Eric. It showed up a minute before you did and caught me at the ankle.”
My grin comes involuntarily, hidden behind the bottle. I smile because I can hear her, read her subtitles.Presenttense, not past. Because she’s not gasping for air on a marble floor. Because she’s still here, grass in her hair and venom on her tongue. Still a bloody nightmare.
Thank fuck.
Bad news lingers at the back of my mind, pressing forward as a reminder. If I had my way, these words wouldn’t touch her. She’s had enough trauma for a fucking lifetime. I let her sit in the victory of her snarky remark for a moment before I reveal what happened.
“Thalia had an allergic reaction.” I grit my teeth at her lack of reaction, but I don’t know what I was expecting. Surely not this‘Ah, how unfortunate’thing she’s got going on. Last night’s panic still bubbles beneath the surface of her expression, yet it doesn’t seep through. Iwishit did. “To your cake.”
Her throat works as she asks, “Strawberry?” I nod. A palm lifts, and elegant fingers make a grabbing motion. I fixate on it like a fool. “Give me the rat juice, Atherbourne. Now.”
I feel my lips curl as I hand her the wine, letting our fingers brush before letting go. She scoots until she’s pressed against the thick trunk of the tree, and I drop down beside her without hesitation. The ground’s softer than it should be, and that’s my problem. It feels occupied.
I’m just perched here on corpses with a fourteen-thousand-pound bottle of wine and a woman who won’t stop testingmortality’s patience. She’s unmoved, obviously. This is probably her version of a chaise longue.
The wine lifts, and Francesca chugs as though it’s tap water. A single line of crimson trickles down her bottom lip, catching on her chin before she swipes the back of her hand across it. The bottle lingers between us as if she’s weighing whether to share or keep drinking. I make the decision for her and press my mouth to the same patch that her lipstick stains; the intimacy of it stings a little.
“Be honest. How bad would it have been?” I watch her pick at her locket again, trying to find ways to downplay her response.
“Not like Thalia, that’s for certain.” She snorts softly. “I’d have been a mess, with welts, hives and whining. Nothing fatal, though. Just ugly and miserable.”
A warning, then.
“Whoever did this knew it wouldn’t kill you,” I press. “They want you frightened, not dead.Everythinghas been warnings, reminders that you’re being watched even when you’re alone. It’s all meant to haunt you.”
I tilt the wine her way and she takes another long gulp. “You’re forgetting that you can’t haunt a ghost,” she voices, then tips the rim towards her mouth. The lamplight spills onto her, and her gaze becomes depthless lake water. Fucking hell, the slur to her vowels tells me it’s hitting her now.
Her shoulder bumps mine, and all the warmth zaps right out of it, courtesy of my personal ghost girl. Goosebumps rise under my shirt sleeves before my brain even registers it. “That may just be the most frightening thing you’ve ever said to me. And probably the most honest thing I’ve heard all night.”
There’s a lazy confidence to the way she stretches out her legs, exposing her throat to my stare as she leans back. A flush creeps onto her cheeks. “You should hear what Idon’tsay out loud.”
“You’re drunk,” I tease, a little amused and a little awed. She blinks at me, then shrugs. “Considering you went to bed after experiencing a death threat and nearly ate one for dessert, you’re being far too nonchalant.”
“What, d’you want me to sob into your jacket? It wouldn’t change anything.” Another long swallow. “I learnt at agesixthat we don’t get praised for visible misery, okay?” She grips my chin with her free hand, forcing me to nod. The pad of her index finger traces my smile. “Ishouldbe frightened, yes, but right now, all I feel is—” She’s cut off by a hiccup, followed by laughter. “Maybe just asmallbit drunk.”
“Fucking hell, Sheffolk,” I stare at the empty bottle in utter disbelief. She’s sagging sideways enough for my voice to hum against her ear. “Cheval ’47, and you drank it like it’s fucking lemonade. Either you’re an exquisite waste of vintage wine or the most expensive omen this world has ever seen.”
The scoff she makes is half-melted, turning into a sigh midway. A content kitten clutching a bottle older than us both combined. “There he is again, my favourite poet in exile.”
With the way it slurs, I think she’s mocking me. The punchline is never reached, and I’m left pleased with what seems like an alcohol-doused compliment. “Suppose that makes you my favourite dead and dangerously drunk duchess-in-waiting.”
Suddenly she’s upright, genuinely delighted. “Oh my god,alliteration. Be still my heart.” She beams and jabs a finger against my chest, humming her approval. “Alliterate at me again, please.”
Against my will, my expression softens. Compared to the pictures online, she’s so alive it almost hurts to witness. I oblige her request, lowering my voice. “Ferociously frustrating, fantastically foolish and fucking fascinating Francesca.”
