But then she trips into the corner of a table, and the spell breaks.
“Oi,” I call out before I can think better of it. She spins around so fast that her hood slips from her head. “Lose your wolf, or what?”
Her brows scrunch, and she looks towards my left hand. With the way it’s tilted, she spots the little sword tattooed on my middle finger. “What?”
“Red Riding Hood. Basket of secrets and a wolf that stalks her…” She continues to stare as though I’ve grown a second head, and frankly, I’m a little offended at what her perplexion says. “You do realise I was five once, right? Did you think I was born twenty-four?”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Yes, well, contrary to popular belief, I was raised on fairytales too, not just tax forms. I also wore onesies and ate porridge, if you can believe it.” She bites the inside of her cheek to avoid smiling but ultimately fails and raises her hand, pretending to scratch the side of her nose. That’s when I notice the blood staining the tips of her fingers. “What happened?”
Startled by my observation, she chooses to busy herself by shutting the door she just stepped through. “Um, nothing. I was just practising something.”
I clock the stray pieces of thread she’s yet to realise cling to her skirt. “Stitching?”
“Of a kind. Now, what are you doing here? This area is off limits.” She gives a resigned little huff and hangs her cloak alongside six others. When she spots the book I’m holding, I presume she figures I’ve been snooping for some time. “Did youfollowme?”
“I followed the mildew, actually.”
‘The’ instead of ‘my’, because I’m not claiming the smell just yet.
As soon as I say it, however, the air resets. The fungal bouquet I’ve been carrying like a blushing bride withers away into nothing, and I smell like Amouage’sReflection Managain. Its scent is almost overpowering now that the mildew has taken its haunting elsewhere. Francesca pauses too, or rather sheglitches, eyes shooting towards me.
A heartbeat too long passes.
Oh, fuck me.
So shehasbeen smelling the dead linen. Anxiety fires a rebuttal to my thoughts:‘Francesca knows you noticed the smell, which means she knows that you knew you stank, you fucking social disaster.’
But then—no.
There’s no fucking way.
If the smell just vanished, empirically, it couldn’t have been clinging to me. Unless I’ve been exorcised mid-conversation. She continues to stare, less judgemental and more… surprised, as if she didn’t expect me to register the change.
Before she can question me, I take one step forward and change the subject. “Seeing as I have you here, my lady, would it be possible for you to explain something to me? What exactly is this?” I turn the book towards her and notice the colour fading from her cheeks.
“Where did you get that?” She grabs it from my grasp in three steps and places it on a shelf without even looking.
“It fell from a shelf. Or maybe it jumped; you never really know with this place,” I deadpan.
But she isn’t amused in the slightest bit. In fact, she’s fidgeting with her hands, unaware that she’s tugging at loose skin, causing her index finger to bleed slightly more.
“The books here are private.”
“Is it because they’re filled with lies?” I retort. “Because he’s written as being a ‘loyal steward’, title trimmed to fit your family’s narrative. Unfortunately for you, I recognise him.”
Her posture perks up at that, and she asks in a strained voice, “What do you mean you recognise him?”
It seems Lady Homicide can’t hide her interest in my answer. “He’s the youngest brother of the first king of Marzod.”
“That… no. We have no record of that here, only Lancaster and—” she falters for a moment, stumbling over the pronunciation of “Godwyn”.
Convenient amnesia, how quaint. So much conviction in that irritated, prim voice, and yet so little truth. It’s almost offensive that the man who’s caused me such grief has been written off as a footnote here at Redford, as if the castle itself mocks me.
Which is why I take petty satisfaction in informing Francesca, “That’s because Cillian was disowned. Lancaster sent him here to Godwyn to keep the Crown’s shame neat and tidy. You know, for people who claim to hate the royal family so much, you’re astonishingly uninformed about us.”
“If I’m uninformed, then it’s only becauseyourfamily never told the truth regarding anything that could potentially make you look small,” she snaps back, quick as a whip. “I mean, how could we possibly have known that Cillian was royalty? Let’s not forget it was, again,yourancestor who came here, married Adelina and nearly rewrote our history in the process. So if there’s confusion about who Cillian was, maybe direct your complaints to G—” she cuts herself off at the last second, halting her fiery rebuttal.
