I thumb my way into Kai’s chat, clicking into the selfie he sent me not even fifteen minutes ago. He’s in the foreground, obviously, beaming as though he’s just discovered the key to world peace. Hamish is behind him on a log, holding up a tiny trout that definitely doesn’t justify my brother’s pride. The Lord of Marathid is sunburnt as fuck too, but he’s smiling through the pain. I tilt the screen towards Francesca.
Kai
look at our son
we named him troutyxon de flatface
after you btw
love you bro
She breathes a delicate laugh, and her eyes go so soft that I’ve no choice but to look away. In order to prolong the view of the picture, her hand briefly raises and frames mine. Beneath my shirt, the hair on my arms rises to attention. The contact is nothing. It’s also summoning heat up my neck. She quietly thanks me, letting go with one last touch to my knuckles.
The rest of the drive unfolds in a quiet stretch. Battenwen Manor, unlike Redford, doesn’t greet us. She just sits thereidly, allowing everyone passage. There are no guards, no waiting attendants, just Francesca leading me through winding corridors and up two separate sets of grand stairs.
She leaves me in the third-floor drawing room and says—half to me and half to herself, “Stay here; I’ll be just a moment. I’ll see if my aunt’s well enough for visitors.”
Once she’s gone, I step onto the balcony and absentmindedly begin repeatedly tapping ‘STAY’ into the stone, if only to soothe my mind.
Below, the gardens are heavy from the recent rain, some trees bent as though still carrying the weight of it. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the laughter of the gardeners, and every few seconds, a head pops up before disappearing into the greenery again. The smell of wet soil permeates the air, so strong that I can instantly detect the nicotine creeping in.
It’s pathetic how easily my body responds, hooked to a scent I’ve tried to avoid. I turn before I intend to, and there’s a man standing at the entrance, leaning against the window. Mid-thirties, perhaps, and a ginger. Heavily tattooed, at least from what I can tell. Most are hidden by the navy scrubs he dons, and he watches me with a curiosity that tiptoes into amusement.
“So,you’rethe prince.”
Now there’s the heaviest non-Marzodian accent I’ve encountered since my university days. Scottish, by the sound of it, yet severely tempered by life in Sheffolk. He takes another slow drag.
My fingers twitch, teenage reflexes coming to life as my mouth prepares for the inhale. I deaden it. “You’re Lady Delphine’s nurse.”
That gets a laugh, loud and honest, as he steps closer to the balcony and flicks ash over it. “Wow, is that what Chess told you? Cheeky bugger.” He wipes his hand on his nurse-pants andoffers it to me. “Albert Pryce. Though the adoption papers saySheffolk.”
I stare at his hand. “Adoption papers.”
“Aye, I think Mammy got bored of cats once she hit a certain age. She used to tell people she picked me up on the side of a highway, but really it was the church she volunteered at.” The smile on his face is bright through the smoke. “Are you gonna shake my hand or…”
I take the offered greeting, noting his rough palms and strong grip. As our hands part, I file the new information away.Adopted by Delphine Sheffolk.Which, what, makes him a cousin to Hamish and Francesca’s late father?
Foundling turned kin.
“The nurse outfit is for fun, then?”
“Nah,” he snickers, glancing down at his pants and patting away ash. “She has her days, you see. Doesn’t like the nurses, and some days she does, so I dress like one dependin’ on how lucid she is. If she’s askin’ for a nurse that isn’t here and sees me in jeans—oof, we’re havin’ a fight. But in blue? I’m Florence fuckin’ Nightingale.”
I’m intrigued against my will and accepting his offer to return to the couches. He says he thought there was supposed to be two of me, and I tell him about Kai’s spontaneous fishing trip. In return, I get the same reaction Francesca and Philip gave me.
We’re halfway through a story about how Delphine once chased a priest from the manor—retelling dripping with affection even as he dips into his fear in that moment—when the air changes.
There’s no better way of describing it than that the very room whispersshe’s back. The door swings open, and in saunters Francesca, colour drained from her face.
Albert swallows his tongue mid-sentence, buffers for a second, then tosses his third cigarette into the ashtray and stands. “Ach, Chess. She’s not doin’ well, then?”
“She’s with Sonya right now, but I couldn’t really get a word in,” she says, voice small. “As soon as she saw me, she…”
“Christ, thought you were your mum. I’m sorry, lass.” Francesca only nods once. “Was it somethin’ proper important you were after?”
She looks at me for the first time since entering. It’s brief but enough for my attention to perk up. “I just wanted to know if she remembered something… from her old journals. But it’s alright, we can come back on another day.”
We.
