A faint hum. “I did. And when we met, through all of your brooding and general royal trauma, you conveniently failed to mention you’re practically an academic wet dream.”
Despite the need to laugh at her phrasing, I find myself weirdly validated. It’s been years since somebody sounded this impressed by me; I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be anything other than a disappointment. There’s an irritating moment where I almost offer to show her everything I’ve ever worked on, and for a heartbeat, I miss that boy.
Then for another, I wonder if I could ever be him again.
“Didn’t think it was important.”
The answer doesn’t impress her because she huffs out my name and then says, “You’ve got degrees in mathematics, classics and philosophy, and youdidn’tthink that was worth mentioning?” I keep my eyes on the road and bite down on my smile. “Jesus, I’m practicallyVictorianin comparison. Don’t ever ask me to do sums; you’d vomit.”
I can’t help it; that makes me laugh. “And what exactly did my ghostly Victorian companion study, you know, other than my fucking Wikipedia page?” The question sounds more curious than I would’ve liked her to know. “Or should I go ahead and look up local cults and see if your name pops up?”
She shrugs, a pink tinge to her cheeks. “Don’t bother; I was homeschooled.”
“Of course you were.”
Lady Homicide shoots me a glare. “Oh God, was that an insult, Atherbourne?”
I keep the Bentley at an even forty, fast enough that time won’t catch up to us, yet still slow enough that nothing feels rushed. “Francesca, the day we met, you took me to see the noose your ancestor used to hang herself and then showed me the plot where you bury your dead. I didn’t exactly walk awayfrom that encounter thinking you screamed student council or Head Girl.”
“You say that like you weren’t the weirdo standing beneath my window at, like, three in the morning, coming to watch plants dance. A little hypocritical to suddenly be playing the sceptic.”
My eyes flicker from the road for a second, drinking in her amusement. Fuck, she’s relentless. “Don’t make me bring up the mildew, duchess. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the portraits that blink or the fact that the walls whisper when I sleep or the statue in the garden. Foolishly, I’m still driving you to fuck knows where.” Laughter spills from her lips as she tips her head back. “I’m going to need answers soon because this is starting to feel like psychosis.”
A glance to the left shows me that she’s still wearing a little smile. I’m convinced it’s not real until an overhead street lamp illuminates her face and I see it. She’s still got that look of incredulity stitched into her expression, as though she’s stuck on the fact that a crown prince is chauffeuring her probably someplace haunted at four in the morning.
“Fair enough,” she hums. “But I decide when you’re ready for them.”
A look of appraisal passes over me, akin to the way I once stared at my initial acceptance letter, wondering if this will be worth it. It strikes me that the castle probably reports to her, and until she’s certain of my hunger for knowledge, my access to Redford’s documents remains strictly read-only.
My knuckles are white on the wheel. “I never know when you’re joking. Do you grasp, coming from someone with a masters in philosophy, how categorically insane it is that I’m even entertaining… whatever this is?”
Her grin is wicked. “Doesn’t philosophy teach you to doubt everything? Congratulations, Professor, you’re top of your class.”
Something in me twitches at that low, teasing ‘Professor’. I exhale heavily, almost missing the next turn.New form of academic masochism unlocked.My brain latches onto the fact that she sometimes rolls her Rs, and I have to coax it like a wayward animal towards a new subject.
“So, what does a future duchess do around here for fun?” I cringe as soon as I say it.
She wrinkles her nose. “Really, small talk?”
“My father said I’m excruciatingly awful at it and should practise more. Consider yourself my first victim.”
“The ‘excruciatingly awful’ bit tracks, not gonna lie, considering how you literallyfledinstead of keeping conversation with both Bertie and Edmund.”
She says Ifled. As if I’m afraid of conversation.
If only she knew I’d essentially had a fat discussion with Albert just before she entered. Granted, he was doing most of the talking, and my contributions were more… minimalist. Albert spokeatme whilst I blinked in the right places and gave the occasional smile. But then Edmund appeared, and my nervous system rejected his presence.
So no, I didn’t flee the conversation.
I fled the contagion.
“But, since you’re asking…” she continues and shifts further so she’s facing me somewhat, head tipped back against the window and smiling like she’s about to weaponise her answer. “Let’s just say I don’t have too many formal duties. Not yet, at least. So if I have more free time than I know what to do with, I usually just amuse myself by playing games.”
“Ouija?”
A startled, bright laugh rips right out of her. “Oh,fuck you. I meant the Sims.”
Of all possible answers.
