At first, there’s nothing, just the faint sound of the pipes still burping the last of the water. Then, a heavywhooshcuts through the air as a weight drops down from the ceiling. Something scratches across my face and my head whips to the side, eyes watering against the burning in my cheek. Only a heartbeat later,the room’s breathing again and the oppressive presence is gone. When I blink through the tears, the prints on the floor, wall and ceiling are gone, as though I hallucinated the whole thing.
But my cheek still throbs.
I stumble back towards the mirror and stare at the single thin scratch slicing across my left cheek. Just shallow enough not to scar, but still angry enough to inflame the skin. And I’m supposed to meet the princes like this?
“Shit,” I breathe, hissing as I dab around it. Perhaps I can blame it on the cat I don’t own, maybe spin a story of the stray animal that crept in through an open window and lobbed itself at the duchess-heir’s face. The humour tastes sour beneath the fact that whatever peace I had with Redford is now over.
A knock on the door startles me back into the present, and Hamish steps in for a moment. I track the lines of fatigue on his face, subconsciously searching for injury. If Godwyn’s game is still rolling, then I’ve painted a target on Uncle by confiding in him. I’ve made him more vulnerable than he already is.
“You’re aware that they’ve arrived?”
“I saw,” I respond, turning away and sliding some rings onto my fingers, just in case I need to fidget during any awkward silences.
“They’re waiting in the drawing room.” His gaze lingers on how the bathroom door is thrown wide and the splashes of water from where I practically scrambled out of the shower. He finally takes a good look at my face. “Good lord, Chess, what happened to your cheek? Are you alright?”
“Just a terrible altercation with the door,” I lie, and he only tilts his head. The fidgeting begins. “I’m fine, Uncle. Why wouldn’t I be?”
That’s a stupid question to ask, like the man wasn’t consoling me only an hour ago after I found the locket of mydeadsister.I barely hold back a wince, but Hamish just gives a gentle smile. “You look a little pale too, love. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s the lighting in here.” I aimlessly wave a hand, praying he doesn’t bring up the locket. Hopefully, he doesn’t see the panic in my gaze I’ve yet to douse. “Makes me look like I’ve seen a ghost.”
Judging by his tiny wince, we both know that was the wrong choice of words. Goodness, if I can barely handle talking to him, I’m sure the meeting with the royal heirs will go splendidly. Maybe I’ll just combust now and save everyone the effort.
Mercifully, he lets my lie slide. “If you say so. I should probably go check on Percy. Is she still in your cottage?”
A genuine smile pulls at my lips. “Curled up in my bed like it’s hers.”
His eyes go dark at the mention of her comfort, and he looks tired in that way that adults get when they feel like they haven’t done enough. Edmund. The divorce. Percy. Edith. It all lives behind his eyes. He wants to say something. Maybe it’s athank youfor always making space for Percy, but if he tries, I’ll have to stop him.
There isn’t a world where I won’t make space for her.
He clears his throat like he’s about to speak again, but he doesn’t. Nor does he meet my eyes, at least, not fully. It seems he’s embarrassed to have let the grief show. I don’t blame him. That’s the thing about men like Hamish: they’re taught how to bear all these emotions but not how to name them. He gives me one last encouraging smile before excusing himself.
I stay where I am for a moment longer, then turn to the mirror. What I told Uncle wasn’t entirely wrong; Idolook like I’ve seen a ghost. Edmund once said I remind him of a tragic painting, the kind that gets locked away because it unsettles the guests. Said that my eyes are lake water in summer.
That pale, glassy green that pretends it can’t hurt you.
The same green I saw as my world caved in. The same green that my family saw when they stopped breathing. I hated that I didn’t have Lucy’s ocean-blue eyes. Hers was summer and freedom, the kind of blue that made people smile. It was loud. When I cried about it,which was frequent, Dad told me my eyes were quiet, the kind of water that keeps secrets, which was way more interesting than stupid summer (Mum’s words!).
And they were right.
It kept secrets.
It kept them.
“Pft,lighting,” I scoff to myself, slapping my right cheek lightly to bring some colour to make it more like its twin. Both Hamish and I know that’s not the answer. But lighting is easier to laugh about as opposed to saying that my body’s been a graveyard since I was six. That I’ve been living with ghosts for most of my life, and they’ve made a home beneath my skin.
The ghosts don’t leave, even as I spare another few minutes to apply some mascara. I smooth my dress one last time, then attempt a little grin. If Gran were here, she would say I look perfect. With her praise in my head, I turn towards the door and step out into the corridor.
Time to greet the living.
9
BLOOM AGAIN
FRANCESCA
There are voices when I approach the drawing room, but they fall silent as I slip inside. They’re standing near the stained glass windows, and the one in the grey coat—Kairos, I hope—is the first to turn.
