His smile is rotten. “I summoned thee to see it plain: the reckoning pit thy house has sired. Call it purgatory, aye, if thou requires a church word. No heavenly gate opens, and no hell receives; the curse has sealed them. Here I am ferryman, judge and—where Heaven forfeits—God. All who perish under Redfordia’s eye fall into my river.”
I look around at the cages, Godwyn’s voice ping-ponging around in my skull. The spirits watch; between them is someone’s mother, a maid, a cook. They stare in silence, in fear, cursed for no more than being loyal to the name Sheffolk. I think of Lydia’s soft hands, of Pascoe’s lips on my forehead and Philip’s massive shadow in doorways.
Does Gran know how deep this curse runs? I wonder if she’s even been summoned here, if she’s seen the shades of herparents, of those who loved her. For once, I find myself grateful for that boating incident. Can’t imagine Luciana burning here. Like Tommy. Fuck, he says she’ll come back, but she’ll burn again if she dares to help. And again. And again until there’s nothing left of her. Can’t let that happen. Won’t.
“Then I’ll choose one who doesn’t wear my house colours,” I say. “You say I can’t call my own, so I’ll call yours.” A tic in his jaw, or in what’s left of it. “Your heir sleeps in my home, and he’ll be there until my grandmother says otherwise. Eric Atherbourne owes me nothing, and he owes Sheffolk less. What say you if I used him as a shield?”
Because apparently fear makes me clever and cruel.
Godwyn’s mouth trembles.“Thy tongue is o’erbold, a twin to the wife I killed,”he says, almost fondly.
That very tongue runs away from me and spits the correction,“The wife you failed to kill. Even through whatever you and yourlittle brotherattempted to do.”
I flinch when he lifts the skin of his brow.“Failed? Beloved Francesca…”He chuckles in pity, barely reacting to the mention of Cillian, and the cages begin rattling.“Thou know’st the tale by halves, it seems.”
Where there was once ground beneath my beliefs, his words steal it from me. And he lets me keep falling, unwilling to provide an explanation. There’s that suspicion again, that he and Cillian did something that history never recorded. I see the chamber, Adelina’s blood on the floor, as he tells his brother to ready himself.
“Answer me. What say you?”
His lids lower, head tilting. “As for Lancaster’s get, I shall judge him as I judge all. A gold coin will always draw thieves, Francesca, even wealthy ones. Cast it into the furnace, and what once was coin shall gild my crown.”
A gold coin. So that’s what Eric is to him, a lure, something in my possession that he needs to snatch. But the riddle rings as hollow as his ribcage, stopping just shy of promising to pilfer it.
Why press the word ‘wealthy’ when it’s rarely them who steal?
“So I’m to believe you’ll strike at him?” I needle. “A rich man is too clumsy with his fat fingers. It’s the desperate who slip in best, the poor. And you’ve already told me what kind of thief you are. Ferryman. Judge.God. That makes you the richest thief of all. Melt that gold, melt your own sigil—and even gods know not to gut themselves.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t dare. My brief victory curdles into terror when he moves forward, and my back hits a wall of bone. He snatches my left arm; pain detonates, and I bite down on a scream. I can hear my flesh hissing beneath his touch. Fucking hell, why does it hurt? Why does a memory hurt? It feels like he’s pressed my arm onto a stove plate.
“Aye, play thy games, Duchess-heir,” he warns, breath stinking of carcass. “But thy dead and kin can still bleed for thee. Thou shall step amiss soon enough, and I shall grind them then. Keep thy coin; it will only blacken in thy hands, for though I touch him not, he shall hurt. Each act taken in thy name shall fill his lungs with guilt until he drowns.” His face presses closer. “My traitor comes for thee.”
Then he shoves me?—
—and I’m tumbling from the vanity chair, crashing into the floor of my room. I wheeze when my knees crack against the thick rug, pain bursting down my legs. I’m still clutching Tommy’s doll, and I toss it into a shadowy corner with a curse. It hits the wall limply, staring at nothing. Each wheeze is deafening as I string everything together.
So that’s why Tommy flickered out after mutilating my keyboard, why her scent wavered after she brought me Gabriel’scufflink. I’ve been foolishly and unconsciously trying to hold onto reason while she bargains scraps of her restless afterlife to warn me.
“Tommy,please,” I whisper into the stillness, slowly pushing to my feet. “Please, stop. I’m awake now, I promise. You don’t need to bleed yourself for me, darling girl.” My throat burns with my apology. “Oh, I never meant for you to play his game a second time. I won’t let you.”
She doesn’t respond. Her weak presence presses a blade against the wound of my guilt. Tommy’s restlessness should’ve been my biggest fucking clue. The ghosts of Redford never panic, not unless something dark is stalking the halls, something they have true reason to fear. And I, idiot heir, was too busy clinging to my sensible theories. Too eager to believe Gabriel was the one, that Charlie had somehow pulled off this whole thing with the locket even though it made fuckall sense.
All because I wanted the horror to have its final chapter.
“Rest, Thomasin. I’ll take his damned test and pass for the both of us. I promise.”
The room stays silent, save for the sound of my whimper as I right the chair, climbing once more to reach for the bracelet still dangling from the finial. My left arm screams at the first stretch, and when I glimpse down, I see the welt. A full handprint, burned deep into the skin as though through some freak accident with a hair straightener. It throbs for a moment or two before fading into nothing. Godwyn’s brand. Proof that it was real.
That he followed me back into the world of the living.
16
THE ART OF BEING CAUGHT
FRANCESCA
Idon’t bother waiting for the castle to wake. Redford tends to sleep late when the lady of the estate isn’t there to command it, and I take full advantage of that.As usual, I make sure to be up about three hours before Lydia usually strolls into my room. She’ll try to stop me, if given the chance, repeating her same soft words. But the lake is where every thread of my nightmare was first stitched together, and Uncle’s prank explanation floats upon the surface of it. I want it to hold some semblance of truth, just to keep the target from being painted on his back.
If the locket is not part of Godwyn’s test, the water should be calm, and the wind shouldn’t feel pressured or alive. The lake reeds shouldn’t be reaching for me, trying to grab hold and never let go. Anything would be better than putting my family in danger because I was too foolish to stop and think.
