“Typefaces,” I find myself correcting, shoving my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Style. Structure. How people carry themselves, how they speak. Makes things neat. Easier, if you will.” Lamely, I add, “Fonts.”
My breath stutters when she gives me a once-over, like she can sense how unnerved I am by the anomaly she presents. The corner of her mouth lifts the slightest bit, and I hate that I notice it.
“And you’ve been trying to figure me out this whole time?”
“It’s nothing personal,” I lie.
She smiles at me. Small, almost hesitant. It creeps onto her face without permission, in the same way mine does when Kai says something stupid and I forget to be annoyed for a minute. It’s a little shy; she’s unsure what to do with the fact that I just blurted the inner workings of my mind. The wind outside howls as she steps closer, just slightly, and the corridor suddenly feels about as wide as a paper straw and just as frustrating.
“Any hypotheses, Your Highness?” she asks softly.
Like it fucking matters.
And bloody hell, do I answer.
“I don’t know, really. One moment you’re speaking like Palatino: clear, crisp and a little bit mischievous—especially with your vague threats of death and rot. I thought I had it pegged; it made sense, but then you go silent. You sit there with that thoughtful look in your eyes, and then suddenly you’re Baskerville. I keep trying to pin you down…” I sigh. “You’re a typeset fucking nightmare, and it’s pissing me off.”
The walls continue to close in, and Francesca’s still bloody smiling. She nods once, briefly dropping her gaze to her feet as she lets out a small laugh.
“So what I’m hearing is that I speak like… Palatino, was it? And my silences feel like Baskerville?” Another stiff nod from me. “That’s, um, oddly lovely.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, but one rebellious strand refuses to be tamed.
I watch it like an idiot.
“You’re very composed for someone who just listened to a grown man explain his personality classification system using typefaces.” She laughs again; I die a little inside. “I’m deeply suspicious.”
“And I’m intrigued. You called me a typeset nightmare, and I’m unsure whether to be offended or not. That’s a remarkably creative way to insult somebody.”
“It’s not always an insult.” She cocks her hip to the side, expecting clarification. Ah, fuck it. The hole’s already dug. “It’s mere observation. An attempt to make sense of something asirritatingas emotions. Personalities.”
“That sounds like an insult as well.” Her grin widens, and her eyes meet mine. Green, bright, and exceedingly cautious. “Though, I must say, the suspicion is unneeded. You just… Well, nobody’s ever really tried to make sense of me that way before. Not in letters. Not even in full lines.”
“You’re not exactly clean lines, duchess.” That makes her cheeks flush, and she shifts on her feet. “Who dares go beyond the surface when it looks so perfect? The duchess-to-be in mourning, raised from tragedy. It’s easier to just see the title. To admire it.”
Her hand drifts to the locket around her neck, freed from the weight of her woollen scarf. Just for a second. I can see she’s biting the inside of her cheek. Not too hard, just enough to stop herself from smiling too wide.
“And you think you’ll be the one to figure me out?”
“I’m arrogant enough to try.”
She looks to the side and then back at me, still biting her cheek. “And what font are you?”
“Dangerous question.”
Her smile slips free. “I can handle it.”
“That I don’t doubt. But I’d rather know what fontyou’dassign to me.” She pauses for a moment, thinking hard. Her nose does a little scrunch, and I force myself to look away. “Go ahead, duchess. Impress me.”
Once more, I see her hand lift to her locket. “Um, I don’t really know fonts as well as you do.” I doubt anybody with hobbies does, either. “But if I had to choose, I’d say Arial?”
I actually fucking flinch, and the move makes a surprised snort leave her. She covers her mouth with two fingers, apologising softly, but I couldn’t care less about propriety or whatever the fuck.
I care about the fact that she just told me I’mArial.
Swallowing down my complaints, I turn on my heel. She lets out another laugh, and I savour the sound of her shoes doing that clacking thing as she scurries after me. “Where are you going?”
“To consider religion,” I throw behind me, picking up my pace. “You just called me the typographic equivalent of a tax form. I might need God’s intervention for this type of insult.”
The click-clacking grows louder as she, honest-to-fuck, rushes to catch up. A second later she’s before me, forcing me to halt. “What’s wrong with Arial? It’s timeless. Classic.”
