My response is quick as a whip. I’ve been waiting for him to say something, just so I can see that startled look in his eyes when I clap back. It’s some sort of guilty pleasure, payback for all the times he cried louder when Mum entered the room, just so I’d get in trouble.
Henrik has made himself comfortable in an armchair and sips at his coffee like a frightened pigeon, whilst Kai shakes his head and claps slowly.
The poster boy for Middle Child Syndrome clicks his tongue and then says, “Youhaveto be pre-planning these. Do you, like, sit and make a list of witty comebacks?”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” Henrik adds, lips twitching into a smile. Kai lifts a brow as though asking which part he’s referring to. His response makes me pause. “The idea that Eric’s wit requires pre-planning.”
Mentally, I remove the strike from beneath his name and decide he can stay as long as he likes. The other one needs to fuck off, though. “Thank you, Henrik.”
Kai crosses his ankles and folds his hands behind his head. My eye twitches when I realise he still has his shoes on. “I object. How much do you want to bet that if I were to open his laptop, I’d find a Google Doc full of insults? Inalphabetical order.”
“They’re categorised by severity, actually, now, can you fuck off?”
“Can somebody please tell me the official, philosophical term for ‘pretentious bastard’?” Kai ripostes with an affronted scoff. “For research purposes, because I think I may have discovered it.”
“Save your brain the effort,” I say flatly. “The answer is ‘Eric’.”
Henrik slips in a quiet and amused, “At least you’re self-aware.”
Instead of being offended at my subtle insult, Kai laughs. I’m beginning to think it’s a coping mechanism born from being related to me. His laughter bounces smugly from wall to wall because the fucker knows just how sharply he’s dug the thorn. He may mock it as some sort of fetishisation, but we all know it’s my need for structure, and calling it out only serves to remindme of the enigma that remains paused on Henrik’s laptop screen. Merely glancing at it sends my mind into chaos.
Absolute fucking chaos.
Francesca Sheffolk refuses to climb into the box of any typeface I assign to her. On paper, it sounds odd, probably even absurd, but I need this, especially considering I’ll be living with her for fuck knows how long. Fonts are safe. Fonts are rules, and they make sense at times when people don’t. Words can twist, and people can lie, but fonts I can trust.
And here is Francesca, leaving me staring at empty spaces.
In keeping with what I just said, Kai’s gnat-like attention span makes an appearance as he cuts through the tension with, “You know what nobody ever fucking talks about?”
“I’m scared to ask, but go on,” Henrik speaks slowly, eyes narrowing in apprehension. Because you never really know what’s going to come out of Kai’s mouth.
Seeing as Henrik didn’t immediately object, I lean back onto my desk, folding my arms and saying, “Please say something useful. Just this once. I’ll even fucking pay you.”
He snaps his fingers, like he’s just uncovered the world’s greatest mystery and is now determined to solve it. “Why Sheffolk hates us so damn much. Has nobody ever wondered?”
Peoplehavewondered; it’s just that they don’t speak of it. His question wasted the air in the room, and I give him a withering look. But he’s unfazed, of course.
The ass was born unfazed.
Henrik is less bothered by the volume at which Kai speaks and looks semi-intrigued. “Some ancient feud, I suppose. A broken treaty, perhaps, or somebody’s pride was insulted. That’s how most dynasties fall.”
But Kai is already shaking his head and sitting up straighter. Long strands of blonde have escaped from his elastic, what with how he’s been rolling around and ruining my bed.
“What if it’s something juicy? What if it was a love affair?” He groans, delighted. “What if one of our forefathers shagged a Sheffolk and then ghosted her? Feels on-brand for our lot; argue with a fucking wall.”
“God forbid politics are merely political,” I mutter dryly, managing to pull quiet laughter from Henrik.
Kai shuts his eyes, taps a lid with each index finger and then points at me. “Eric, look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“Let’s say you shagged a duchess back in 1470, right? Just hit it raw, then blocked her on medieval WhatsApp, which then leads to a feud. Wouldyouadmit to your descendants that you fucked up?” He doesn’t even let me answer. “Exactly, so there’s a very good chance that actually happened. All because of gorilla grip, Victorian-grade cooch.”
Henrik’s voice cracks when he says, “Kairos, you fucking sewer rat.”
“One more sentence,” I warn, “and I turn myself in for fratricide.”
“You’re heading there anyway,” Kai emphasises, pushing to his knees and dragging my blanket with him. I’m so close to kicking him in the fucking head. “Go poke around the Sheffolk archives; find out whether their ancestors cursed our bloodline or something. It would explain you.”
