He chews ever so slow and I’m ever so close to decking him in the fucking face. “Philip brought my wallet; I left it in the car. Jolly man that one is,” Kai snorts, “I asked whether the missing guards were buried behind all the ivy against the walls at the entrance. He didn’t find it funny.”
“Well, that’s a shit joke, now isn’t it?”
“Ah, but it got me intel.” Another grape jumps into his mouth. “Seemed a little offended, so when a young footman later arrived with my crisps, he told me the ivy on the southern walls hasn’t been trimmed in about two seasons. They like to keep it wild; Lord Jonathan preferred it that way. Seems the gardeners still honour a dead man’s wishes.”
I nearly scoff. For all my conversations with Francesca, Kai appears to have drawn a clearer map based on sentiment alone. Of course Francesca wouldn’t be moved by probing; she’d be moved by loyalty. By a maid who always sweetens her tea, without fail. By men who keep the ivy wild in tribute to a dead father. I’ve no choice but to admit my brother is right. Preference is a pathway to trust, and that is my only way out of Sheffolk.
Kai reaches for an apple next and tosses it in the air once. “Well, impressed, brother? I’ve charmed the staff and gathered intel… all while horizontal.”
I don’t look at him right away, only because I’m so close to sayingyes. So close to admitting he’s useful.And fuck me, effective.I drink in the sight of his sprawled limbs, the carelessness he wears like armour, crafted to defend himself from the king. It’s been a while since I’ve chosen to do so, but I break through it.
“Why did you come with me, Kai?” I ask flatly, noting how his jaw clenches. “A few days, you said. Why? Don’t insult my intelligence with that ass excuse again. You’re not here for the pomegranates.”
He hesitates, which is telling enough. His lips don’t fully lift into a smile, but he drops the lazy posture. “Because I know Father sent you to Sheffolk to obediently vanish. He won’t care if you drown alongside this family’s ghosts. And the only way you’ll avoid drowning is by understanding exactly who surrounds Lady Francesca. I came to gauge the people around her.”
“You know I could’ve easily done that myself.”
“Yeah, by dissecting. Cataloguing. But loyalty is a living, breathing thing.”
I almost tell him that I know that. I’ve known since we were eight years old, and he bit a tutor for mocking my colour-coded notebooks. The words refuse to move higher than my throat, but I taste them. Of course I know that loyalty is a living thing. My brain tells me I can hear it, a heartbeat twelve minutes younger than my own. I close my lips around the confession and let him continue speaking. He nods as though he heard, regardless.
“I thought if I could find the people who shield Lady Francesca, then I could see who might shield you. You see patterns; I see pulse. Stay near that pulse, and you might just keep yours.Feelingwill get you closer to her than logic ever will.”
I focus on the smear of grease on his T-shirt where he wiped what looks like popcorn butter, and there’s a brief, disorienting click in my skull. New information is shifting into place.Win her people, win her.It fits a little too well. I look at him (this idiot, this empath, this twin) and realise he’s crossed the usual ocean of indifference between us to keep me from drowning.
I tell myself I would’ve made the discovery myself eventually, but I know that’s a lie.
Kai trusts heartbeats and warmth, and I trust structure. My gratitude comes messy, and I try to file it down into smaller syllables. Something easier.
So I settle on a nod that makes my brother laugh. “Thank you. I’ve misjudged your intentions entirely.”
His grin blooms. “Look at that, full syllables of appreciation.Translation: brilliant job, brother. You’re not entirely ornamental.I’m tattooing that on my ass. So, are you going to tell me whatyouhave discovered? Or should I ring up Mother and inform her that I’ve finally bested you at something?”
“She’d die of shock.”
“And the news that you forced the Sheffolk heiress and her dead aunt to sit through softcore nobility porn will have her clawing her way back like it’s judgement day.” He hasn’t even finished his bland joke by the time I’m already glowering at him. “Sorry, sorry, it was just getting a little too mushy. Had to diffuse it somehow.”
There’s an opening there for normality, and it’s like watching him try to throw a tarp over a corpse. I tilt my head as he makes another flat joke, anything to get out of emotional territory, yet he’ll find it useless because I’m about to resurrect that corpse anyway. He thinks the worst is over, but I haven’t even brought up the statue that I’m fairly certain stared back at me.
It didn’t look like it wanted to be there, and I know it sounds absurd, considering the thing is inanimate. But everything here in Redford is placed to belong, to never buckle under the weight of history, but that woman was withdrawn, recoiling into her base.
Things that don’t want to be seen draw more attention than any light show ever could. Patterns don’t lie; that was enough to have turned my steps towards it.
“Here in the garden, there’s a statue of a woman and a key. It’s not from here; the style is wrong for Sheffolk, doesn’t matchthe rest of the garden drivel.” He blinks slowly at me. “That stone only comes from Herradam’s border quarries; you can tell by the veining, tighter patterning and the fact that it barely takes on moss. The Crown used to commission that exact cut for war dead and coded deliveries. You could tuck a directive into the hem of a sculpture and wait for the right hands to find it.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You absolute lunatic. Who raised you, a war general?”
I chuckle. “Bold question coming from the man who once spent a summer learning Morse with me, just so we could insult palace officials without saying a word.” He gives a deep bark of laughter at that. “But to answer that, I read some old journals, and those notes tell me that thisKeybearerisn’t a statue; it’s a delivery system. Or at least the ghost of one. Sheffolk evidently isn’t in short supply of those.”
“How are you saying all of this with a straight face?” He certainly doesn’t expect a response, and gratitude surges through me once more. His voice pierces my brain and takes on the form of a zebra crossing, reminding me to slow down a little.
I run a hand over my jaw as I reprocess the notes I’ve mentally made. The bristly stubble is rough against my palm, and I’ve half a mind to let it grow out. There’s no king here to comment on less than civil appearance.
“From what I could see, there’s a curve beneath the key’s bow that shouldn’t be there, a cavity seam, most likely,” I throw the suggestion out there, ears attuned to the sound my socks make against the rug.
I watch as Kai processes that, and his eyes narrow in delighted amusement. “You’re telling me there’s a centuries-old war message hidden in that stone key?”
“Possibly. Or somebody could’ve already taken it.”
