That protective urge stirs again, utterly ridiculous. “If the king meant to seduce the duchy back into his fold, I doubt he’d send someone who wants nothing more than to vanish. Eric isn’t a fool, Gran, please believe me. If he thinks he’s being used?—”
“So you think he’s here by accident, then?”
I’ve no strong enough response to that, because I myself haven’t figured out the meaning behind Eric’s presence. God, I wish I could borrow Gran’s certainty, even if only for a day, to see what she sees. But when I look at Eric, I don’t exactly see the king’s hidden dagger. Maybe I’m the naive one. Maybe Gran’s right, and everything truly is a trap. Yet the thought of using him churns my stomach.
There must be a hundred better ways to get what she wants: the lords on the Assembly, old debts called in, and even her circle of trusted allies. Surely her only option can’t be this? For now, I hold my tongue on that front, too frightened to disappoint her and even more terrified of admitting that I don’t know how to be both her heir and my own person.
Instead, I say something else before I can think better of it. “Gabe wasn’t my traitor. The test isn’t finished.”
The room does something mean by squeezing all air out of it. Gran’s shoulders lock, but there’s less surprise in her expression than I expected. “That explains it, then. Your sudden defence of the prince—you think his arrival is tied to Hildebrand.”
“No,” I admit, prompting her to lift a brow. “Not in the way you fear. Hildebrand has spoken to me through Tommy’s memory, and he’s rattled. Frightened of Eric’s presence, I think. He doesn’t like him here, and maybe that’s why his presence is important. There are layers to our history with the Atherbournes that we’re unaware of… and I think Eric might have or evenbethe key to that.”
Her mouth softens. “You’re certain?” When I nod, she gives a tremulous sigh, hand moving to fidget with her dress. “I loathe that I have nothing to arm you with. That I cannot be more than a watcher; I hope you understand that. Be careful, Francesca. With the Red Reaping approaching, huskins have become hungrier. Three bodies have already been found in Westcott and Lanorythe: a girl missing from school as well as one of the menfrom the station. Locals are still naming this the work of a serial killer—despite what Victoria and her cult have to say. The people want a human monster, something they understand.”
“Human monster,” I scoff, letting myself smile without mirth. “Thereisone; he just happens to have died a long time ago and refuses to stay down. This is his tantrum, isn’t it?”
In any other circumstance, I would’ve laughed at her long-suffering sigh. Now it just feels like the same old shit we’re always dealing with. History’s tired joke.
“Did you know I never passed it? Is that why you stopped letting Percy and me attend Circle meetings?” I ask, masochist at heart, because anything, even failure, is preferable to her believing I’m unfit to take her place one day.
“Hm, I suspected. When I first passed mine, I felt nothing but relief. All I wanted was to forget, to put the trauma from my mind—but you never let it go. You kept digging, and I knew Hildebrand wasn’t finished. I didn’t want you buried under SRS nonsense lest you still needed to watch forhim.”
I feel myself wilt at the confirmation. “I really thought I was free of it. Thought I could move on and properly step into the role of heir—maybe even try my hand at stitching names.”
She smiles faintly. “Don’t bury me yet, darling. I’m still kicking.” Then, more gently, she adds, “I built the Circle to protect the duchy from Hildebrand’s poison. They patch cracks before anybody can step on them and invite malice. Pascoe and the others wouldn’t survive knowing what breathes beneath the floorboards they mind. Huskins they can handle. But only a Sheffolk daughter survives Hildebrand. Redford’s curse… that’s the true duty. That one belongs to us. To you.”
I’m tempted to ask if she does returns because I still have the receipt from that night—fear, all crumpled up and shoved into my back pocket.
Gran must take pity on me and decides to change the subject, but I realise that mercy is a double-edged sword as soon as I hear the name. “Lady Winifred is attending the birthday ball; I’m sure you’re aware by now. Pascoe told me you’ve been eyeing the invite list.”
Oh, Pascoe, thatblabbermouth. For all he calls me ‘Wren’ and Percy ‘Magpie’, that man may just be the most talkative bird of all. He doesn’t look it, yet he’s a parrot hidden beneath layers of solemnity and the occasional dry comment.
“Since there’s no hiding it, yes, Iwaslooking at the invite list,” I admit. “And I specifically recall not seeing Lady Winifred’s name present.”
That fact alone gave my heart’s beat an extra kick.
“Yes, that’s because your grandfather thought it funny to delete her name from the document before it could be printed.” My laugh barely has a chance to be born before she snatches it from me. “I’ve since corrected his error?—”
“Gran?”
“Francesca,” she mocks my tone of frustration. “She’s your aunt, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how important her presence is. Winifred Fortescue has a voice on the Assembly, whether we like it or not. Scorn her at such a momentous occasion, and there’ll be talk—talk we might not be able to sway in our favour once she starts playing the victim. And you know how well she does that.”
I turn away, as though giving her my back would mean her comments won’t touch me. And yet they do. They touch, they pierce, and they make something ugly coil in my chest, easily replacing the last few days’ horrors with far worse. Trying to ignore it, I shove my feet into a pair of heeled Mary Janes, the leather dyed a shade of blue dark enough to pass for black beneath certain light. The lace stockings make my feet sliparound before I bend over and fasten the single straps running across the shoe.
“Darling…” Gran tries again, still waiting. There’s tension in her brow that she smoothes away with a shaky hand. My only comfort is she hates this topic as much as I do. Other than that, I’d rather throw myself from the window than give Winifred further thought.
“She’s missed almost every birthday Percy and I have ever had.”
Given that we are, as they say in court, ‘stepping into womanhood’, she’ll undoubtedly attend this one. We’ll be paraded, and now that I’m to be weighed and scrutinised for the entirety of Sheffolk to see, Winifred will be present. Her gaze will rake over us both, and I’ll be reminded that my skin isn’t pale enough for her liking. Forget that I’m the one Godwyn hunts for; apparently I’m too brown for a seat at the ancestral table but worthy enough to be the ritual offering. I wonder what she’ll say if I miss the Red Reaping and the huskins start eating her neighbours.
Will my skin matter then?
Gran shakes her head. “Winifred is an old hag; don’t let her frighten you. She wants nothing more than to sniff out weakness in this family, in each of us?—”
“And with me she doesn’t have to look too far, now does she?” An apology is quick to follow. The words were too harsh, and my grandmother isn’t to blame for that woman’s behaviour. Her reflection stiffens behind me. “I know what you’ll ask of me: no mistakes, no slip-ups orcolouredslang, is it? Nothing that makes me look too different.”
Her mouth tightens at the corners in sadness. “Please, don’t make this into something ugly?—”
