My throat tightens around about a hundred different worries I could voice in this moment, but I end up petulantly mumbling, “He’s notmyprince.”
Percy gives a one-syllable laugh, and I can practically hear the question mark at the end of it. My breathing evens in that brief second of levity, but the fear doesn’t fully leave. Rather, it feeds my paranoia, and I know that I’m going to say what I ought to have said days ago. Percy can’t touch those journals anymore. I’m not taking chances.
Before she can comment on my muteness, I add, “What would calm me down even faster is if you promise to stay out of it. Stop directly interfering in my test; no more journals and notes from Bertie. I’ll go through them myself.”
“Girl, you’resofunny.”
“I’m serious. I asked for your help to break the curse, Percy, but that was before I knew the test wasn’t over. With the rules back in play, I can’t turn to my family. And I won’t make you a target.”
There’s a long pause, and I can almost picture her biting her tongue. After a few heavy (and dramatic) exhales, she speaks. “I’m not gonna lie, Chess, I’m willing to become a target for you. Gladly. Just so you wouldn’t be alone in this.” I try to interject but she tuts. “However, it seems like someone else is there to fill the slot, hm?”
“No need to sound so smug.”
She laughs again. “So, here’s my deal; I’ll back offif—and that’s a big fuckingif—you spend the goddamn coin that is Prince Eric Atherbourne. You say he makes G-spot antsy? Good. Use that. Fucking cling to him if you have to. And for once in your life, stop pretending you’re fine—tell that man everything.”
That simple command feels like standing on the docks again, watching Papa load the boat. I know the water is freezing and the lake frightens me, but I still contemplate climbing on. Taking that risk means there’s a chance we’ll drown, that I’ll lose everything. And just like that day, there’s a strange calm that settles over my shoulders.
With that, I step forward. “Alright,” I whisper.
“Okay, good,” she breathes out. “Now tonight, I’m begging you, unbury yourself. Letushere in thelivinghave you, even for a few hours. Take some shots, touch the prince, maybe both. Please, do both.”
Her voice fades upon receiving my reluctant agreement, but the echo lingers. Unbury myself. It’s an easy enough thing to grasp, a little more difficult when you’ve made a home of your coffin, though. Every time I try to climb out, something heavy is added to the lid, whether it’s survivor’s guilt, fear, or despair. Perhaps that’s how the curse keeps breathing through me, on my quiet surrender. I press my phone to my chest and straighten. Alright then. Let’s see what happens when I stop being quiet. The door to the study creaks open, like the castle knows I’ve made my decision.
Knows I’m leaving.
“Let’s go find him,” I murmur to Lucy’s picture.
26
DUCHESS-HEIR, UNSUPERVISED
FRANCESCA
Being in a car alone with Eric really does feel illegal.
Despite deciding to take a risk tonight, I chose the most cowardly version of it. I said Bertie needed to see me, and the moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to dig a hole, jump inside and choke on the fucking dirt. Can’t even remember the vague excuse I gave for why Philip couldn’t do it.
Still, Eric volunteered to drive me even though Iknowhe doesn’t believe me. No driver, no chaperone, all because Philip believes the gatepath will keep us contained. As soon as he left to change, I typed out a quick message to Bertie to pretend that he invited us for supper. Battenwen Manor remains a risk, albeit one with training wheels. It’s outside the estate’s controlled space—a lie I’m repeating to myself—which gives mesomebreathing room.
Should be enough for now.
We left Redford about twenty minutes ago; now I’m rummaging through the glove box for Philip’s stash of breath mints. My stomach is about to eat itself in desperation. Night air sluices through the opened window on the driver’s side, tangling through my hair and breezing its way down the back of my shirtas I lean forward. There’s nothing edible in the car, it seems, because I only end up finding folded maps, a half-dry pen that leaked onto an old notepad, and a slim silver carton of cigarettes.
Coming from the man who’s been trying to demolish the smoke shack behind the stables.
Oh, Philip, you hypocrite.
Eric peers over at my findings. “Hm, didn’t peg you for a Marlboro girl, duchess.”
“They obviously belong to the owner of this car.”
He gives me a slanted glance that warms my cheeks. “Ah, I see. So, what, the two of you sneak off for late-night smoke breaks? Highway makeout sessions?”
I death-glare at him, willing myself to not take the bait. Failure comes easily. “Firstly, I don’t smoke. Secondly, Philip is practically my uncle, you idiot.”
“So you’ve never tried one?” He sounds personally offended.
Wait until he discovers I’m not allowed to wear dresses without stockings at formal events, lest another incident involving Lord Harvardly and a stroke occur.
