Oh God.I was so sure earlier, but this man looks exactly like the photo of Eric I screenshotted yesterday.
‘Identical’, they said: I knew that and have seen the pictures. Thought I understood it, even. But that was before‘identical’became 6’4” ofholy shit, there’s actually two of them. There’s a 3% chance this isn’t Kairos I’m staring at. Looks like him. Feels like the vibe he gives off on socials. Inconvenient if it turns out I’m wrong.
Maybe I should wait until he punches someone, then I’ll know for sure.
Stormy eyes sweep over me, and there’s a smile on his lips as if he said something inappropriate and wasn’t given enough time to savour it. He ruffles his blonde hair but doesn’t speak. He blinks at me like he’s expecting something to jump out of my skin. Predictably, his gaze drops to the hem of my dress before his brows lift in surprise. That stare drags up my legs, soachingly slowly, like he’s testing to see how long I’ll be able to withstand his attention.
I choose to look away, and my gaze then lands on the other one. Andoh. Oh wow. There he is. No mistaking it. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the wall, just lifts his eyes and strikes me with a tempestuous gaze I’m not at all prepared to meet. The distance earlier swallowed that shade, but now it’s a few feet away and devastatingly chilling. He’s staring, not rudely.
Not even curiously—thatI could’ve dealt with.
But like he’s cataloguing.
Something within me recognises the echo that has haunted Redford all these years. Godwyn survived in fragments, in whispers and half-erased sins, and faded portraits. Only those fragments now piece themselves together until it’s tall, breathing and impossibly whole before my eyes. How cruelly fitting that the bloodline that nearly devoured ours would stride unknowingly through Redford’s doors, carrying the name of the original betrayer.
Here stands the answer to the riddle I’ve been dreading. Two of them, in broad daylight, no less, making no effort to wait until darkness has crept in. Until I’ve fooled myself into believing those silly affirmations.
“Your Royal Highnesses, welcome to Redford,” I greet, letting the title purr. “Francesca Sheffolk. Duchess-heir.” The hemline brushes against my thigh when I offer a delicate curtsy, keeping my eyes on Eric. “My grandmother sends her apologies; she’s currently detained at the Rosenthal orchard. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“The early arrival was unavoidable. My father arranged an earlier schedule. Apologies for the inconvenience,” Eric declares, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like it’s strangling him. Then, he begins tapping the side of his leg.
Said so plainly, like he hasn’t felt the ghost of Adelina shoving him back, felt the stares of the windows and the corridors that breathed. Spoken like a man who believes the world carved a path for him and he has no choice but to walk it. As though that excuses everything.
“How odd,” I murmur, irritated at his nonchalance. “Suppose royals never really change, do they? Still take first and explain later.”
Redford, in all her petty glory, agrees with me by letting the empty hearth cough.
From the corner of my vision, I see Kairos flinch.
That earns me the eldest’s eyes.Properly, this time. They flick down to the scratch on my cheek. The majority of the swelling was reduced by the cold compress I applied to it before coming downstairs, but his focus is still immediately drawn to it. He notes it before moving on.
And then he commits to the full observation he previously denied himself. Lecherous, I can handle; it’s easy enough to swat away. Whateverheis doing, that unapologetic assessment, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. His mouth twitches when he spots the lace at the hemline, like he knows it was worn on purpose. I’m almost embarrassed for it. I want to roll my eyes, tell him to take a picture and be done with it, but my tongue is dead.
His brother breaks the moment and steps closer to extend a hand. “Prince Kairos Atherbourne. Second son. Professional buffer between Eric and the rest of the world.”
I shake his hand, proud of my correct assumption, then glance at Eric. He looks at me for a breath too long, waiting for Kairos to step back like the stage is being cleared for him.
For the main event.
Which, I suppose, he is, in a way. The room feels smaller when he steps forward and unfolds himself. He’s stupidly tall,like a Sim who had the height slider maxed out for no reason other than to be intimidating.
The movement is sluggish, his body still deciding whether I’m worth the effort or not. He extends a hand, the cuff of his shirt shifting just enough to reveal a wristwatch and ink. There’s a tattoo hidden somewhere there.Bullseye.
“Eric.”
Just that. No title. No flourish. But there’s something in his voice that makes me feel I should curtsy anyway. My hand slips into his, and a slight shock of heat travels from his fingers to mine. I wonder if he feels the recognition neither of us holds claim over, how history awakens and ghosts flinch away from the contact. I left my gloves behind for this reason, aching for the gentle brutality of memories filling my lungs like water.
But my hunger meets iron, nothing but a pulse as steady as Redford’s foundations. The sick taste of failure floods my mouth as a private recognition flashes across his face.Like he felt me knock.He doesn’t shake, just lingers, thumb briefly brushing across my knuckles before he lets go.
Hm, I’ll find another way to pry him open.
Kairos, I’m starting to learn, opens his mouth even when there’s no need. “Don’t let his demeanour fool you. Eric’s excited to be amongst Sheffolk’s finest.”
The corner of Eric’s mouth twitches, a half smile I barely notice. “Thrilled,” he echoes his twin’s statement, voice drier than any sarcasm even Percy can summon. “We appreciate your hospitality, Lady Francesca.”
As I finally take note of the room, a wave of mortification washes over me. “I hope you’ll forgive the lack of a formal welcoming committee,” I tell Eric. “Shall I escort you to your rooms? Pascoe should arrive with your luggage soon enough.” It’s the most natural sentence, yet the words still get caught inmy throat. I feel the weight of two gazes: one amused and the other dissecting. “This way, please.”
Their shoes scuff against the stone as they follow me out into the corridor. I’ve hosted foreign diplomats, but this feels different. This feels likeschool. Or what I imagine school would feel like if Gran had let me attend. I’m not talking about the cute uniforms or the strict schedules, either, but the corridors, where people walk behind you and whisper, waiting for you to trip. Percy thrived in that kind of chaos, and Edmund did too.
