We reach the little bend that curves towards the garden and I follow beyond it, hoping to shake her off before I reach the castle. “Francesca, I’m just trying to help. Please, the last thing I need is you misinterpreting my intentions. Come on, we’ve always had a good relationship.”
“What we had was a billing arrangement.” I pull a face.
Her heels are still clicking after me, up each step leading into the castle. I stop just before the doors and turn to look at her. Her long lashes are heavy with mascara, and there’s a dollop of concealer beneath her eyes that she didn’t blend properly. God, she’s been crying. I stay my pity, lest it invite trouble I’ve long since gotten rid of.
“Caitlin…” It’s my turn to take on that gentle shrinky tone. “By all means, invite yourself to breakfast; you’re a family friend, after all.” She perks up at that. “But do us both a favour and try not to dissect the princes over the croissants; don’t dangle their names as proof for re-admittance into whatever societies you’ve been kicked from.” A brief scowl appears on her mouth. “Because the eldest one? He doesn’t like strangers who linger in the hopes of getting information.”
With that, I turn on my heel, but Caitlin quickly pockets her phone and then reaches for my hand. My verynot-glovedhand. The world lurches as I get dragged back into memory, choking as the scenery repaints itself before my eyes. The steps vanish, and so do the castle walls and the ornate knocker I was about to push. I’m gone from Redford, trapped behind Caitlin Henderson’s eyes.
The air stinks of cologne and sweat. My jumper’s woollen material has been replaced with red silk, and my knees dig into a soft mattress. There’s something firm and muscular wrapped around my waist. The vision’s too blurry to make out the details but it’s a tattooed arm, holding me close. The bed thumps in a brutal rhythm, and there’s hot breath at my neck. Her voice falls from my mouth in a high-pitched moan.
Oh.
Oh.
For fuck’s sake.
Is she mid-fuck?
I ram my mind into the connection, smashing through it. When the memory clears and I’m back on the steps, I yank my hand back, clutching it as though she’s burned me. The horror must show on my face.
“What?” she lifts her hand to her cheek. “Is my lipstain smudged?”
I just stare because, out of everything else going on in her head, my curse decided to swallow an orgasm. There’s nothing smudged; she doesn’t even have a hair out of place but something about her has changed because that memory wasn’t filed under ‘a good time’—it stank of regret, or else I wouldn’t have been granted access to it. The unease grows when I remind myself that Chief Inspector Henderson doesn’t have a single tattoo on either arm.
Instead of answering, I just walk away, praying that God will take pity and scrub the memory from my brain. Seconds later, I’ve shoved through the doors of the dining hall and findmy uncle, Edmund, and Eric taking breakfast. The latter has seated himself at the furthest chair away from them, and I’m too irritated to even laugh.
“Who thehell, in this mostly functional family, invited Caitlin Henderson?”
All three heads turn. Uncle Hamish nearly chokes on his scrambled egg, leaving Edmund to pat his back. Eric, on the other hand, lowers his coffee, and his gaze is a microscope shifting into focus. Instead of caffeine, he drinks in my flushed cheeks and the way my fingers are trembling. New notes are being taken in that internal dossier of his.
Extremely sheepishly, Hamish lifts a hand. “I…” He clears his throat. “I may have told her you’d be open to speaking. You know, what with…everythinggoing on.” He casts Eric a quick glance, but the prince pays him no mind. “Thought you might appreciate a familiar face.”
“The last familiar face I’d want to see is Caitlin Henderson, Uncle. The woman’s a pest!”
Edmund scoffs into his cup. “That’s not really fair now, is it? She’s done wonders for many people—so you shitting on her is really offensive, y’know.”
“Oh look, Edmund coming to the defence of his mother-in-law-in-spirit,” I bite. Hamish opens his mouth to break it off but wisely decides against it. “Just because you had a positive experience with her doesn’t magically erase the fact that I had a horrid one. Two things can exist at once,y’know.Ugh, I hate her.”
“Duly noted,” says Hamish as I moodily plop into the seat closest to Eric. He watches with a flicker of amusement when I ask him to pass the milktarts. “I’ll make sure everyone on Redford knows to never put you two in the same room again,” Uncle adds laughingly.
“You’re making her sound like a villain,” mumbles Edmund.
“To many, sheis,” I emphasise, watching Eric mix two spoons of sugar into my rooibos tea. “But obviously you’d defend her; you turn into a Yorkie anytime somebody tries to criticise the Hendersons. Caitlin literallysellssome of her patients’ information for social capital—do you not watch the news?”
“Yes, because they’re always truthful.”
“The public deemed me odd for years because as a child, I said that the lake sometimes speaks to me,” I argue, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “I spoke those words only twice, and it couldn’t have been the goddamn lake that gossiped, now could it? I hate arguing with you, Ed, you know I do, but I won’t sit with my mouth stitched while you defend the woman who handed my childhood tragedy to the tabloids.”
He falls silent, and I see the war in his eyes. He detests arguing with me just as much as I do, so there’s a temptation to give up, but the side that is devoted to Charlie’s family always prevails. “So I guess you’ll just continue bottling everything up, huh? Maybe you should just talk to her instead of talking to people who aren’t there. You act like you’re cursed, like the whole world is against you, when the reality is that you’re just plain fuckinginsane?—”
“Oh, go fuck your therapist, Edmund,” I speak over him, rolling my eyes to hide the hurt. That’s when Eric reaches across the small distance to place his hand over mine. I barely noticed that I’ve been gripping my fork until my knuckles have whitened. Slowly, I release, but Eric doesn’t remove his hand.
Edmund clocks the contact, and his chair scrapes as he stands. “Excuse me, I’ve lost my appetite.”
He says nothing to his pink-faced father and just stalks off, boots heavy against the stone. I flinch when the doors slam behind him. Seeing Caitlin Henderson getting railed is no longer the worst part of my morning but rather another argument thatpushes Edmund further from this family. As if his mother wasn’t already worsening the situation.
Kairos walks in a moment later and says with a huge, effortless grin, “Good morning!”
