The last thing Francesca needs is another man weaponising his worry.
I pivot slightly, my feet subconsciously pointing down the path to the gardens. Down the path to theKeybearer. As my stride eats away the distance, I tell myself another lie, that I only plan on admiring the stone whilst Francesca finishes getting ready. The lie tastes like a craven’s saving grace, a useless one because that rope is already fraying: the statue will have it out with me, sooner or later.
She greets me with the sharp-edged calm of an executioner’s axe. To call avoiding this faceless womanpatiencesounds noble, but that would imply control. I stand there, gazing at the gap in the veil, and finally pin the true word to myself.Cowardice. Since when have I taken the easy way out? Waiting, out of supposed respect, for Francesca to yield her stories at her own pace, when in reality, I’ve just been too frightened of what I’d uncover were I to actually tug at one of these numerous threads wrapped around me.
Ridiculous.
Especially when something is happening right now. Right under my nose. And cowardice with a high IQ is still cowardice, unfortunately for my pride. No more waiting for curated answers. Nietzsche would say I’ve already unmasked theillusions, just by standing here, unwilling to wait for a curated truth.
Just cut it from the source, Eric.
I reach forward, and it takes me a second to register the acidity in the air. My ears burn against nothing as the background noise swallows itself whole. No gardeners, no rustling of leaves and no distant chatter. Even the wind holds its breath. And then I see it: a lone crow perched on a low-hanging branch, staring. I stare back, obviously. Long enough to wonder if it’s real. The quick blink snaps me out of my thoughts. Laughing might make it go away, but coming from me at this moment, it would sound like hysteria.
Omen? Possibly. Not an omen? Also possible.
Ah, fuck it.
My fingers trace the bow of the massive stone key, seeking out the cavity seam that I told Kai about. The woman waits, and a shyclickshatters the spell when I brush over a metal bump. A needle-thin compartment sighs out of the key’s throat, barely wide enough to hide a secret. And yet it stinks of one, all while being empty.
I shake my head; this panel couldn’t have held anything other than a folded note. If theKeybeareronce held a message, it’s already been received. It’s been received, read (and possibly obeyed), and I’m left with the certainty that this statue has spoken to somebody before me.
Solve forx, butxhas fucked off before I could figure it out.
I slide the panel back into place, and it latches seamlessly with a polite littleclick, followed by the impossible sound of a throat clearing. Impossible, because it’s silent enough for me to have heard somebody enter my space. I turn too fast, and Redford spits my false assertion back at me because there stands Pascoe. Very old, very immaculately dressed and very much possible. His polished Oxfords are ink stains against the whitelandscaping gravel framing the walkway—an area he shouldn’t have been able to occupy, not without the gravel ratting him out.
The small pair of pruning shears in his wrinkled hands looks stupid. If he’s out here to prune roses, then I’m the Muffin Man. Very fucking subtle. Who in fuck’s name are we trying to fool here? He looks at me for a good few seconds. Then the statue. When he doesn’t look at the crow, it cocks its head inquisitively.
A thick grey brow lifts, but I beat him to the conversation. “I admire your dedication, Pascoe. Surveilling me while pretending to landscape.” I gesture towards his shoes. “Word of advice, though, gardeners usually have dirty shoes.”
He gives the ghost of a smile. Nothing fond or amused about it, more like some aged facial muscles have spasmed. “Strange thing, how crows never forget a face, especially once they’ve marked you. Years could pass, and they’ll still come back to the same branch.”
Ignoring the way the star of the show caws, I fold my arms across my chest and say flatly, “I’ve had interactions with crows before. Never heard of the Royal Bird Show? 2016. One tried to mate with my mother’s hat. Highlight of my year.”
The shears give a miserablesnip, and a few petals flutter to the ground. “Bird shows would be too much of a spectacle for me, unfortunately, Your Highness. At Redford, I concern myself with only one crow, and I’m afraid you’ll find his actions far less entertaining.”
“Well?” I say to the bird. In my head, I hear my mother’s voice chastising me for mocking the elderly. But he mocked me first with his bum attempt at camouflage. “What did you do to piss off dear Pascoe?”
He murders a perfectly healthy rose. “Mock him at your own peril, sir. You’ll find that this crow’s immensely loyal to his first fascination. He doesn’t range far, rotting on the same branchand waiting for it to feed him, even when it bears nothing of sustenance.”
Crow lore. Good.Great, even.
The thing is, mockery only works when the other person is playing along. But we’re not talking about birds anymore. At least, Ithinkwe aren’t. I swallow his words for what they are. A warning. And I’m not dumb enough to ignore warnings on this property.
He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, merely slips his shears into his pocket and recedes as though he’s the personification of Hamish’s hairline. Gravel crunches this time. I’d call it dismissal if the entire thing didn’t read like a high-budget play. With his lines delivered, there’s no reason to linger, is there? I look back at the tree because at leastsomeform of life should witness my retort.
But there’s no crow. No feathers. Branches bare.
I didn’t even hear its wings lift. Either it switched to silent mode, or I’m actually trapped in psychosis. My brain doesn’t really like the gap presented here. I rewind the performance: the way I mockingly spoke to the bird, then again, Pascoe never looked up at it… He looked at me the way one stares at a reflection, and not once did that gaze lift high enough to catch the bird. His grammar delivers a solid punch to my sternum:He. The man gendered the bird but never looked at it. I press my thumb against my pulse as the taste of old coins fills my mouth.
Fuck this place, honestly.
The grass licks my shoes on my way back to the cottage. I count each breath until I’m close to the door. Hopefully, Francesca won’t see the math happening behind my eyes. It takes her another three minutes to get dressed before I hear the door open and shut. The keys jingle in the background, the planter slides into place, and then her hand is in the crook of my elbow.We don’t say anything as we walk. The scent of lavenderassaults my senses when a particularly rough gust of wind frees her hair from the scarf around her neck. It blows high enough to hit the corner of my lip. She breathes out a ‘sorry’, barely audible above the wind.
Her hands fight to tame the hair as she tugs at the fabric, and I want to tell her it’s fine, but I can’t open my mouth. If I do, I’ll bring him up. I’ll ask why she let him so close, and I already know I won’t like the answer. Better to note that she looks like herself again. Or at least close enough. I, meanwhile, have had a conversation with a bird that may or may not exist and a glorified butler who also may not have been there.
I don’t say any of this, just hold her arm a little closer.
At the car, I pull the back door open, drawing an eyebrow twitch from Philip. He shuts the door for me after helping Francesca with the end of her dress, actively trying to draw my gaze. He doesn’t get it. My feet lead me back to the castle, to my brother.
