Even sweet Gabriel loved his time at Valridge.
But I didn’t have that. I had tutors, and grief, and a castle full of ghosts. How did that help me? It didn’t. Because walking with two princes behind me makes me feel sixteen and transparent.
Lovely.
“We really are sorry about the inconvenience,” Kairos offers from behind me, and I briefly wonder whether the tension in my posture is obvious.
“Please, it’s alright, really,” I respond evenly, rounding the corner towards the stairs that lead to the upper west wing. “Although, if you plan to punch any of our staff, do give me advance notice.”
Too bold. Too bloody bold, Francesca.
I’m thankful they can’t see my face because I’m certain it’s contorted into the expression of one eating a lemon. But Kairos (bless his soul) laughs, and I glimpse back to see Eric watching me with startled amusement.
He dips his head and rubs his jaw. “Duly noted, my lady. I’ll be sure to submit a formal request before breaking any noses.”
I hide my smile under the pretence of pursing my lips and clearing my throat. The rest of the walk is mercifully less awkward. I speak clearly, with my hands folded behind my back, just like Gran taught me. Oil paintings hang high above us; generations of Sheffolk women watching as we pass.
My footsteps become a little quieter, like my mind is already telling my body to hide. Just in case either prince is comparing. Just in case the portraits tell them what I’m not. Just in case they’re wondering which ancestor I favour. Just in case they’ve already formed an opinion.
Just in case.
Kairos fills the quiet by asking questions about anything and everything. He doesn’t force it either; that’s what strikes something soft within me, something that reminds me of kindness without the weight of transaction. They’re soft questions, the ones I don’t have to think too hard on to answer.
With each one, I find something solid building beneath my feet; a foundation I can stand on, regardless of how desperately I wish to seal myself away in the cottage. Kairos is always checking on me when he makes his next inquiry, not in a suspicious way, but rather attuned. As though he knows I need something to hold onto. It takes me about three minutes to realise he’s helping me build that foundation.
He points to the statue of a lion at the alcove, and I tell him the story of one of my great uncles known as the Lion of Lanorythe, who died whilst defending the south wall during an invasion back in 1504. They found him soaked through with blood, with about 67 bodies at his feet and dead on his knees. His sword was still tightly gripped in his hand; most would say it was rigour mortis, but those who knew him said it was out of sheer spite that he died armed.
I offer to show them the southern battlements, where you can still find his blood on the stone walls if you know where to look. The rain never washes it out, and I tell them what Gran always told me. The castle remembers its defenders. Kairos does a double-take at the statue as we pass it.
But Eric doesn’t. Though the latter tries to hide it, I can tell they’re a little unsettled, and I don’t blame them. The truth is,I’ve spent too long in this castle to be frightened of any of the stories.
We’re upstairs now, and I’m about to lead them towards the doors at the end when a clatter resounds from somewhere close by. Sharp metal and stone—it screeches through my ears and has my bones trembling.
A thousand images link together to form my own personal horror film. I see it vividly, the moment before the boat tipped and all of the silverware on the dining table slid off. I hear the slam of the storage hatch, things slipping into places where they don’t belong.
Teeth are clamping on something precious, the memories slowly returning. Luciana is biting down on her locket as we float. Her lips are blue, her eyes blurred. She’s holding the locket with her mouth because her one arm is around me, and the other is gone. That necklace is calling me, and I can taste the metal in my mouth; feel the reeds reaching for me.
My spine goes straight, and I turn, only to see a maid apologising profusely as she picks up the silver tray. She tripped overnothing, and I watch as she searches for a bump in the rug, anything that could help soothe her embarrassment. But I know she won’t find any because the corridor smells like mildew.
Tommy’s trying to tell me something again, but I look away. If I don’t see it or hear it, I can pretend a little longer. Because Sheffolk doesn’t just hand things back; it returns them dirty. Stained. Marked with teeth and warmed with blood. The locket feels like grief made metal. The note feels like something smuggled in with the corpse.
Eric sees me stiffen and takes one step closer. He looks straight ahead when he poses the question, “Alright?”
I’m not.I feel haunted, I want to admit. Retribution is watching me. Somebody knows what happened, and they’re tormenting me with that knowledge. They’ve dug up the bonesof my past I sought to bury and tossed them at my feet. And suddenly I know.I know.This hyper-attunement was my tutor once, and it tells me that I’m still trapped, that I never satisfied tradition.
“Yes, I’m—um, sorry about that.” I nod too quickly. Forced. He knows I’m lying but doesn’t call me out on it. That somehow feels more embarrassing. “Um, your rooms are right down here…”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because I realise Kairos never witnessed my brief existential crisis. He’s too busy analysing a massive oil painting just a few feet away from the door that opens into his new room. I’ve seen this portrait my entire life, and I’ve walked past it so many times that it stopped existing.
Before us, in all her perfection, sits Duchess Priscilla Sheffolk. On her lap is a three-year-old Gran and Nanna. The twins sit stiffly in lace dresses with toothy smiles, probably aimed at their father, somewhere behind the artist. And there it is. Around Gran’s neck. The locket. For too long, I’ve thought about it as Luciana’s. But it’s here. Untarnished and perfectly preserved.
I feel sick.
Luciana bled for it, and still it’s not hers. Even great-grandmother Priscilla wore it, but it never meant anything personal. It’s a weight passed from throat to throat. It’s not theirs. Not mine. It belongs to Sheffolk and Sheffolk alone. The castle took it back. The bloodline keeps moving, and the name endures.
“Et iterum floret lilium,”Kairos reads the plaque aloud, butchering the pronunciation so badly that Eric lets out an affronted huff. “What does it mean?”
I don’t answer immediately; I just stare at the words that sit there as scripture. I’ve said it aloud before and referenced it inletters. It’s on the gateposts, on my family’s seal. But I’ve never felt it in my teeth before. Not like this.
