She freezes; I can almost picture the little buffering symbol on her forehead. Once it clocks to her, the apples of her cheeks heat, and she reflexively shoots out a, “You’remorsig.”
I’m already thumbing to the tab I’ve left open. “Oh, look at me, already utilising Google Translate, and it’s not even 9am yet. And what’s today’s word, you may be asking.Filthy, wow. If I’m filthy, it’s only because you’ve literally got ‘America’s Ass’ stitched into your waistband right now.”
I witness the smoortjie spoon become a weapon as she waves it around offensively. “For the record, they didn’t initially say that. Percy embroidered them; she had a phase.”
“At what age? Ten? Because those shorts have the surface area of my handkerchief.”
“No, they don’t—stop.” But she’s one more lip quiver away from bursting into laughter. “They’re adult-sized shorts,finish andklaar.”
I’ve spent enough time here to know that means she’s done with this topic: too bad I’m not. “And you never questioned the phrase she chose? Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” She scoffs so brattily and rinses that damn spoon just so she has something to do with her hands.
She flicks off the stove plate, moving the pot aside, then grabs some eggs from the carton and lays them along the dishtowel. “Since when are you this…” One egg cracks against the rim of the bowl. “...this flirty? And friendly. It’s alarming.”
I slouch on my barstool, elbows on the counter and phone discarded. “Might have something to do with all theCheval BlancI downed last night. Money might not be able to buy me happiness, but at least now I know it can rent me some personality.”
Her laugh finally bursts out as she mixes the eggs, and the sound may as well be a dagger, what with the way it strikes me. Something odd blooms in my chest, like heartburn, or perhaps it’sonit like a heat rash—I don’t fucking know—but what Idoknow is that it’s something I’ve spent the last twenty-four years pretending nobody could pull from me. Degrees pinnedlike medals across my ego, and this is what feels like an accomplishment.
I’m smiling like someone who enjoyed high school; what the fuck?
I grab my unopened bottle of water, unscrew it, and I’m halfway through the first sip when I remember last night’s bottle. And unless my father had been sold counterfeit products, I don’t believe the bottles are supposed to come with Latin inscriptions on the base.
My gaze steady on Francesca as she moves around the stove, I say, “The bottle we drank from last night; somebody had it modified.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was an embossing on the base,” I explain. “‘Gula III’,to be specific.”
She goes very, very still. Without turning around, she asks, “Gula as in gluttony?”
“Yes, as in gluttony.”
A few seconds of deliberation pass, and I wonder whether she’s going to laugh it off, maybe even make a comment about how I’m too overeducated for my own good. She turns slightly, gnawing at the corner of her lip.
Something in her relents when she meets my gaze, and she continues to explain how four months after she killed Gabriel, his lost cufflink returned to her home. The same one she tossed into the river upon his death. Unrusted and unscratched. When she turned it over, she saw ‘Luxuria II’ engraved on the toggle but assumed it was just some designer label wanting to sound hedonistic. She tells me she believed it was an ugly irony—that word—nothing more, but it’s just another confirmation that her traitor knows what she did that night.
My voice is flat when I finally say something. “Lust on the night Gabriel tried to take, and gluttony at last night’s ball.Those are vices, darling. And if it’s being listed, where’s number one?”
“I dunno, maybe I missed‘Superbia I’on my teabag earlier, because God forbid I even think that I make the best rooibos in this family.” I try not to snort at the scathing sarcasm. Self-defence soon follows as she insists, “And you know what, the lust wasn’t even mine and I didn’taskfor last night’s ball. It’s tradition; all I had to do was show up and play duchess-heir.”
I take another sip, more so to have something to do with my hands. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s the truth or not—not to your traitor. Whoever it is, I don’t think they care about what actually happened, just the story they need to tellaboutyou. They’re taunting you with vices, perhaps because it makes it easier to justify punishing you.”
Her face tightens. “Justify punishing me?What is my traitor—God now?”
I can feel the panic constricting around her, feel how it fills the kitchen. In retaliation, I push back. “If they are, they’ve chosen the wrong atheist to tangle with.” The tension cracks a fragment, and her mouth twitches. Then once more, and she’s suppressing a smile. “There she is; that’s enough drab talk for this morning. After breakfast”, I nod towards the window, “we’ll be visiting our relative. There’s something we need to examine.”
The pan sizzles as she turns to pour the eggs into it. “Urgh, can you stop reminding me we’re one dead child away from being cousins?”
I allow myself another smile, capping my bottle and moving it aside. “What, don’t like when I cosplay Edmund?”
Instantly, she whirls around, grabs the closest thing to her and hurls it at me. I catch the plastic pink egg timer without looking. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable.” The nose scrunch is back, and she’s half-smiling despite the attempt at a glare. “Iswear, you’ve exhausted all angles of this like two nights ago. I understand, okay? Fully updated on your theories.”
I roll the timer in my palm once and place it down, suppressing a yawn against my wrist as I stand. “Good. Just making sure you don’t forget, baby.” Her mouth opens to retort, but I’m not finished. “And while you’re this updated, please consider changing before Edmund inevitably comes crawling with an apology. I don’t trust whatever shame he possesses to last.”
She holds my stare long enough that I contemplate telling her the eggs will burn. A dimple faintly blinks into existence as she chews on her lower lip. One hand smoothes the hem of those shorts, and the smile she lets slip is a balm to earlier’s heartburn/heat rash.
All she says is, “Go wake Percy, please.”
My future duchess giving orders like she isn’t standing there with still-healing bruises on her throat. I close the distance between us, catch her mouth with mine, and kiss her deep enough that her knees buckle. She’s so fucking pliant when I slide my hand low, squeezing a fistful of her ass, and she gasps against my lips.
