“Take you where?”
My fingers are trembling again, and I want nothing more than to lock myself in the cottage, but Philip is in my way, and I’m struggling to breathe. “The lake,” I choke out. “To the lake.”
Philip’s brows meet in the middle. “We had no plans to go to the lake this morning. Why would I collect you?”
“Because I messaged?” It leaves me as a question. Philip blinks slowly, noting my red-rimmed eyes before he casts the prince an accusatory look. “Last night. Before I went tosleep, Philip.”
He lets go of me to pull his phone from his pocket. I watch his thumbs fly across the screen. A second later he’s in our chat, and I’m staring at the absence of the very message I’m talking about. “Nothing.”
Something ice-cold slithers down my spine. I deaden a whimper with my hand. I sent the message; I’m certain I did. My words were wiped, swallowed by digital silence.A ghost in my phone, a ghost in my bloodline, a ghost hunting me.Philip cups the back of my neck as I tremble. His sigh hits my forehead when he pulls me close.
“Protocol exists for a reason, my lady. Next time, wait inside. I’ll come find you, no matter what.” I’m nodding without being fully aware of the action. His gentle reprimand feels like mercy in comparison to whatever swallowed the message I know I sent—or whatever played that song.
As duty requires, Philip lets go of me and checks in on Eric, asking if everything is alright. The prince lies through his teeth, and Philip believes the story that today was simply one of those days when the lake was more of an enemy than a friend. All he has to do is whisper my sister’s name, point to my locket, and Philip understands. I hate that he does, that everybody now knows of the boys I let send me into a spiral.
I don’t stay long enough to hear the rest of their conversation, my legs moving before I even give them the command. The estate is up and running, the sun starts to rise, and something is aching inside me. Servants greet as I pass, and their giddy expressions remind me that soon Gran will be home, and I’ll be forced into new skin, to wear diplomacy over what currently tears, pulled apart by dead hands.
The locket bounces against my sternum when I pick up into a jog, taking the freshly revived garden route towards the northern woods. The song shoved boulders into my pockets, making it difficult to walk. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to physically feel history weighing me down.What used to feel like an everyday walk has now become a runway. There are no seats, no audience watching me move, but I feel a sense of awareness.
Though I don’t see anyone hiding among the shrubbery, I can’t help but feel myself being examined.
The Keybeareris too far back in the gardens for me to see her. She’s watching. I know she is. Every nerve inside me says so. The ghosts say so. I don’t bother with going to check and quiet them; it’ll bring me no good. Not right now.
Upon reaching my cottage, I’m fumbling through the motions of finding the spare key tucked into one of the planters. My main keys are still on my dresser inside the castle, yet the thought of going there alone has me choking on heavy inhales. Dirt slides beneath my fingernails as I grab the silver metal and push it into the door. It swings open with all my weight as I stumble over the threshold.
The first cry since the woods leaves me, and I heave like a baby whilst blindly slamming my hands against the wall in search of the switch. Artificial light floods my living room, and my eyes take in the familiar shapes of the couches. My laptop is still on the coffee table, pinging with emails. An empty mug stands beside it, and I hear my mother’s reprimanding voiceabout that bad habit.I drop the key onto the end table and move towards the kitchen. The force with which I use to yank open the blinds nearly has them ripping. Everything still looks the same. I struggle to move around the island and barstools, just to make sure nothing is out of place. Cupboard doors click beneath my palms.
One, two, three, checking they’re empty of ghosts. Fingertips graze every ledge and countertop, muttering checks under my breath. The stove is still cold, and nothing has been tampered with.It’s when I step back, however, caught at the archway, when the music begins from somewhere inside my head. A needle drops onto an invisible vinyl. Connie Francis croons, and with every note, the years peel away. I notice the wallpaper brightening, trinkets appearing in every corner, and this place starting to feel lived in again.
Mum sings along with a wooden spoon microphone, occasionally checking the pot on the stove where I can smell koesisters wafting through the air. There’s flour smudged on her cheeks, and she dips over, stirring the thick syrup in greedy little spirals. Papa enters with the Sunday papers but quickly abandons them upon seeing his wife. He scoops her up and wraps his arms around her waist before stepping into the rhythm.
Lucy lines two trays with wax paper, pressing my tiny thumbs into the dough as we whisper wishes into the koesisters. There are fingerprints of flour all over the counter that I know Mum will later smile at. The air swirls with cardamom and coconut, and little-me is riveted by the brightness pooling between my parents. The way his grin makes her laughter spill free, how a singular touch makes her dimples break like the dawn.
Present-me weeps before I know it because everyone inside this kitchen is dead or changed beyond recall. I want to step intothe memory and warn them, beg them not to board the boat next summer. But I open my mouth too late. The colours drain, my parents dissolve mid-spin, and I call out Lucy’s name as she looks up with a giggle, but she’s gone too. The place empties so quickly I choke.
The memory-light hasn’t fully faded from the kitchen tiles when there’s a knock on the front door. Three firm strikes, perfectly spaced. I wipe my hands on denim, then square my shoulders before approaching the door. The latch clicks, and cold air creeps in.
Eric fills the frame, blonde hair plastered by mist, and his eyes flicker—quick and worried—to the tear tracks I haven’t fully erased. “May I come in?” he asks, and something in his tone makes my spine hum.
I try to sound flippant, but I don’t think it’s a success. “Shouldn’t you be helping your brother pack?”
“He’s incapable of folding anything. My presence won’t change that.” One brow lifts. “He’ll survive, but I wasn’t certain you would.”
A breathless, dry laugh leaves me, and tears prick my eyes again. Mercifully, they don’t fall. “I’m surviving. Mostly.” I step aside anyway, and he crosses into my safe haven.
The door shuts with the finality of a tomb, and Eric feels too tall beneath the low cottage beams. He circles slowly as he removes his coat, taking in the crochet blankets, the stack of Percy’s romance novels close to the fireplace, and with each observation my lungs cinch tighter. Everything his gaze falls on feels like a confession. He’s pried open the grave of the girl I try to hide.
Ghosts press closer, Eric inhales, and for a beat I’m sure he can taste their presence.
But all he does is look over at me and say, “It’s warm in here.” Pleasantly surprised. As if he didn’t believe warmth could exist after our trek in the woods. “Your parents’ place?”
I nod mindlessly and reach for his coat. He doesn’t fight me, understanding that I need to do something with my hands. As a result, I take longer than necessary to hang it on the coat rack, tugging at the fabric and brushing away non-existent dirt.
Eric moves only enough to roll his shirt sleeves. He’s unbuttoning the cuffs, folding the cotton and revealing lean and pale forearms. On the left one unfurls a tattoo of a dagger that begins at the crook of his elbow and runs the full span to the heel of his palm. The opposite arm commands a viper, starting with a tail just beneath the rolled cuff and spiralling downward in tight loops. Mid-forearm, it broadens, and the head stops at the base of his wrist, as if the creature drinks from his pulse. When his arm flexes, the whole serpent seems to breathe, scales of fine dotwork shifting and rising from the skin.
He notices me stare—of course he does; he notices everything.My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth: I can’t rebuild the marble debutante of myself when he’s already seen the clay bleed through.
Between the two of us, he speaks first, voice low and oddly gentle. “When we first met, you were frazzled. Your clothes wrinkled, hair still damp from a quick shower.” He steps closer. “I thought perhaps you overslept, but no. You were at the lake. You found that locket, and you’ve been spiralling since.”
