Something creaks above us, a low, grating noise, like the castle itself is exhaling. Kai flinches. “Foundation settling,” Philip mutters at seeing his reaction. “The stone reacts to the cold.”
Maybe. But that didn’t sound like weatherly discomfort. That sounded like recognition, and Kai knows it too. Nothing about that was age.
It was a deep, ancient voice without a breath saying,‘We know what you are, Atherbourne. And we haven’t forgotten.’
We were told someone would be with us in ten minutes.
It’s been twenty. I know because I counted every tick of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner.
“So this is the famous Sheffolk hospitality,” I mutter grimly, taking stock of the prison cell they shoved us into. Don’t get me wrong, the place is pretty, but I’m not going to pretend it’s something that it’s not.
Kai’s positioned himself on the arm of a chair, sitting with the concentration of a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. He hasn’t spoken yet, but I can feel his anxiousness like a hum at the back of my head. I make a little bet with myself, certain that he’ll say something in the next thirty seconds, judging by the way his foot taps against the carpet.
He proves me right. “This is weird.”
“Weird. That’s one way to put it.”
Another would be disrespectful. An action reeking of pride. If I wasn’t so fucking irritated, I’d be impressed.
“Did they forget about us or something?” he asks me, beginning to drum his fingers against his knee. I can almost see those little anxious bugs crawling all over him, making him uneasy.
“They know we’re here. It’s purposeful, to make us feel small. Old families tend to do this sort of thing.” Kai shifts again. “It’s clearly working on you.”
He stands up, moving to the stained glass window. His fingers nervously tap against it for two beats before he pockets his hands. “And what, it’s not working on you?”
I assess the room one more time. “Depends on what you mean by working. There’s no fire going. No staff. No tea. Yes, I’ve noticed. Am I unnerved? No. I’m paying attention.”
For a moment, Kai makes me feel almost nostalgic, what with the way he looks at me after I finish speaking. Always were we referred to as the odd one and the loud one. The prince and his shadow, except I was the latter. Kai never really studied. He didn’t need to, not when I sat four desks to the right with folders colour-coded and my notes outlined by week.
For the first twelve years, I pretended that I belonged at his side. I gave the wrong answers on purpose sometimes, biting my tongue as though waiting for the other children to catch up didn’t make my teeth ache. Eventually, I let go of the pretence, and they had me skip three grades by the week’s end. Kai stayed behind, thrown off balance in a classroom where I no longer was.
But my brother is nothing if not clingy, and I say that with love. Before every exam, without fail, and even after I jumped another grade, he would begin his ritual. Loitering around me. Circling like a hound with a scent. Then he’d start asking questions he already knew the answers to, but he asked because he needed confirmation.
He’s looking at me like that now. Same tilt to his head, same false calm draped like a blanket over his anxiety. Like he wants to crack open my skull and understand all the information I’ve collected. Only this time, the question isn’t about a syllabus. There’s no bell to mark the hour, no teacher to collect scripts.
It’s Redford and rot pressing against the edges of our minds.
Whatever answer he’s expecting from me, neatly wrapped as always, it won’t help him. It won’t help either of us. Because I can barely understand this place myself.
I draw breath, about to attempt comfort in that stilted way Henrik would laugh at me for, but then the door creaks open. The sound is stretched, loud and has a distinct similarity to the screeching of an upset infant. It echoes in my ears, and Kai flinches. A man steps through, his name already taking shape in my mind, thanks to the thoroughstalkingmy brothers assisted with.
Hamish Marathid.
He looks like his dead brother…
That must haunt him.
There’s a ring with the Sheffolk seal on his left middle finger, right next to his golden wedding band. It catches my attention ashe folds his hands before him and clears his throat. Something about him reminds me of Henrik; perhaps it’s the way he squares his shoulders, his eyes passing over me and heavy with old suspicion.
I notice it immediately, a certain softness around his stare. It’s not kind or frightened but bruised. His cheeks are a little too flushed, the skin around his nose is raw, and there’s a faint glisten to his eyes that evokes memories of Kai during allergy season.
Either that, or he’s been crying.
“Your Highnesses,” he bows his head before meeting my stare, his expression taking on that particularly pinched one I see whenever people realise they don’t have a fucking clue which prince they’re talking to.
“I’m Lord Hamish Marathid. I serve on the Duchess’s Assembly. My mother is, well, away, just at the moment. As is His Lordship. They weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
His voice is Georgia Bold—tradition wrapped in a wrinkled suit, the embodiment of functionality. Kai peers sideways for a moment, and I give a subtle nod. This man isn’t dangerous. This is a fragile being, with no real voice save for the performance he’s giving.
