Almost impatiently, I turn towards my wardrobe, only to spot a glint of white peeking from beneath my room door. For one moment, I think it’s the note from the lake that’s been tossed back at my feet. Curiosity has me crossing the distance andswiping it from the ground. There’s my name neatly at the front. I flip it open.
Chess, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other day. I know what that word means to you and yet I still used it. God, I’m so so bloody sorry. Please forgive me.I love you.
Guilty heat injects itself into my cheeks. Edmund never apologises. He’ll crack a joke here and there (as he’s done for the past two days), show up with some of my favourite Bakers Tennis biscuits or come and find me when I’ve spent too many hours alone in the cottage. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s put ‘sorry’ into words, and all were back when we were brattish little children.
I thumb the edge of the note where there’s an ink stain. I’m not surprised he’s chosen a note, one that stinks of shame, and that only exacerbates my guilt because I’m far from innocent in this. Caitlindoeshelp him, and I hate that I can’t argue against it. She’s answered every late-night call and blunts the insecurities Aunt Edith always seems to be sharpening.
And I’ve gone and attacked that support system.
Well done, Francesca.
Blindly, I reach for one of the pens in the holder on my desk. With the note pressed to the wood, I scribble down my own apology, though it’s less polished than his. My bare feet are silent as I slip into the corridor with the folded paper in hand. It’s silent beyond his door, which means he probably dropped this off before he left for the city. I crouch before it, shoving the note through the gap.
Back in my room, I shut the door gently and release a heavy sigh. The tension in my body eases by a fraction so small it may as well be nonexistent.
But 0.0000001 percent progress is still progress when measured in the units of my cursed existence.
Especially this morning.
With that in mind, I dig through the back of my wardrobe in search of something to wear. There’s barely a pair of jeans to be found, maybe two or three, but I’ve probably outgrown them already. It’s been years since they started to feel like clothing meant for somebody who moves freely through the world.
For somebody like Percy. She wears whatever she wants when she travels and posts just enough to get in trouble with Gran, but not enough to cause scandal. I, on the other hand, am always being dressed by someone, even if my hand is the one pulling the zipper. The jeans I find are hers, of course, found folded and forgotten at the back.
I have to hop a few times to get it up my hips, and I wrestle the button to just beneath my navel. The jumper I pull over my head is a plain burgundy one that was a gift from Gran at some point in my life.
Don’t have time to pack any vials or herbs, but Gran stitched every seam of this jumper with protective wards. If she was in a cruel mood, she could stitch a curse right into flesh—I’ve seen her do it once with a reporter that tried exhuming my father’s grave. Suppose this is her version of a hug. The hem lands just above my waistband, leaving a stubborn gap of skin. I tug at it a few times, then give up.
If I freeze, I freeze.
I force my sock-clad feet into a pair of boots still stiff from last week’s rain. They’re not dignified at all, but they’ll hold if I need to run. Nobody will see me, except maybe the ghosts, but I know they’ve seen far worse. I place Tommy’s doll into a drawerfor when she returns and slip the bracelet back where it belongs. Once my hands are snug in a pair of leather gloves, I slip out of the window, feeling the sill press against the back of my thighs.
The soles of my boots scuff against the damp stonework, and I dig my heels into the familiar footholds that await me. The second-floor ledge splits into two paths, and I drop my weight slightly towards the one leading to the staff entrance where Philip usually stands waiting. Some more shuffling later and I’m directly above it, white puffs of breath escaping my mouth.
I squint into the low light in search of my driver, expecting to see him with his usual air of indifference, a thick woollen scarf shielding his mouth from the cold. But there’s nobody. No Philip. And certainly no Plan B. I fight to recall whether I messaged him last night. I’m sure I did.
I brace myself and try to tug my jeans a little higher, but that only makes them catch lower when I nearly slip. The denim (worn from too many washes) moves traitorously until I’m certain the hot pink of my knickers peeks over the waistband.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Well done, Francesca! Gold stars for you and your impulsive stupidity!
The ledge gives slightly beneath my weight, reminding me that there’s no time for second-guessing. Philip’s absence leaves my chest tight, and I’m ready to call out for him when a throat clears. Directly below me.
It’s not Philip’s disapproving voice that reaches me, nor an apology for being late.
“You really should charge for this kind of view.”
It takes a heartbeat longer for my brain to catch up than it should; I’d recognise that smug tone anywhere.Eric. He shouldn’t be awake. Not yet. The shock hits me hard enough to contemplate scrambling back up the wall like a frightened spider, but mortification keeps me rooted to the spot. Cold airknifes across the bare strip of skin at my back. For a moment I consider dropping straight onto his arrogant head.
“What,” I hiss, heart hammering in my throat, “are you doing up?”
I still can’t see him, but I hear the wickedness of his laughter. My palms are aching, and the ghosts of this place have dark enough humour that I know onewillpotentially yank my pants down completely.
Stranger things have happened.
Not as humiliating, but still strange.
“Cousin Edmund,” he starts with a low chuckle, “told Kai that before the sun rises, the vines on this wall begin to come alive, like they’re remembering something. Apparently they tighten. Writhe like nerves.” There’s a lethal, lazy pause. “I detest unsourced stories.”
I wish they came alive.
