Rain drowns out the deafening pulse in my throat, yet he glimpses me from the corner of his eye anyway. Like he can hear it. Like he can see the handprint his words have left there. Since the lake spat me out, the tabloids have referred to me as my family’s ghost more times than they’ve called me by my name. He says it differently from the way they say it on the SRS podcast, though. Or the way the Assembly does when they discuss my future. There’s no derision or pity, but rather mourning.
As though he grieves the girl pretending to be dead.
This is worse than him knocking on my glass coffin because now he’s calling my name, and that girl is breathing for the first time in years, pushing that lid aside without any argument. I want to ask him whether he knows he’s performing necromancywithout even realising, but I lose confidence halfway through the thought.
“As far as I can tell, ghosts don’t come to life. They haunt.”
And with his next words, that confidence comes running back, and my plans for the evening are sealed.
“Haunt me, then.”
“Okay, so Bertie’s willing to cover for us. If Philip comes calling, we’re currently having supper at Battenwen Manor,” I inform Eric, peeling the flimsy lid from my cheese sauce container so I can begin dipping my chicken strips.
If I wasn’t starving, I’d be pissed about my drenched coat and the way my hair drips down the back of my neck. Alas, sacrifices had to be made, and I remind my companion of exactly what we’re supposed to say when Philip inevitably interrogates us.
But Eric isn’t listening.
He’s too busy unpacking his order, setting aside the brown paper bag. Once his crap is stashed on the dashboard, he turns to his meal. What’s left is a foiled shape that looks suspiciously avian, and when he unwraps it, a glistening rotisserie chicken sits steaming in his lap. Rich, buttery herbs dance on the breeze coming through the aircon. The rain continues to drum on the roof, and the cafe’s glowing sign reflects neon green onto his flabbergasted expression.
I blink at him as he just…stares. Like it offended him. “Did you—” I choke on a chip. “—did you order a whole bird on purpose?”
He frowns at it, an adorable crease appearing between his brows. “I thought it was like a leg or something. And that it came with sides. Chips, salad, anything.” Oh, he’s genuinely aggrieved by the sight of the bird. “There was a picture of it; naturally, I assumed it was all part of the meal.”
“That was a picture of the combo, which you clearly didn’t pick.” He turns his glare to me. “You have tosay‘combo’.”
“I don’t speak drive-through. Why didn’t you tell me before I ordered?”
I jab my thumb towards the outdoor seating area, which has a sorry excuse for a roof with more holes than the SRS thesis on my supposedly demonic family. “Because I was out there being waterboarded by God, trying to make sure we don’t get in trouble. Allyouhad to do was read the menu. How are you this removed from reality?”
“Says the duchess-heir?—”
“—who at least knows the difference between a meal and livestock acquisition.”
Marzod’s exiled prince just sits there, coming to terms with the chaos in a world he’s evidently unfamiliar with. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him alone with the intercom. “Why is lone chicken even an option?”
“So princes can learn humility. Now,please, put your poultry away. We’ll share my strips.”
He swallows a no-doubt acidic retort and gives in with a reluctant sigh. The bird slides back into the bag but unfortunately doesn’t take its scent with it. We eat the equivalent of a kiddies’ meal whilst the car breathes Sunday roast. There’s something weirdly intimate about watching him reach into my lap for another serving of chips, long fingers tearing into his crumbed chicken. I hand him a packet of chilli sauce, and he tears it open with his teeth.
“Right,” I say, pointing a chip at him. “Fun fact about you that not even your Wikipedia page knows.Go.”
Without even a moment of hesitation, he swallows and then says, “I know Morse.”
I squint at him. “No, you don’t.”
“I do,” he murmurs with a smirk before biting into another strip. “Kairos and I got bored one summer, found an old handbook on Morse code and just went ballistic, I suppose.” His smirk turns into a fond smile with the next bit. “We used to send the rudest messages during supper, tapping on the underside of the table. Henrik complained about being left out so we taught him too.”
It’s… stupidly, unhealthily sweet. I imagine three little boys in ironed suits at the dinner table, tapping to communicate while the conversation floats over everyone else’s heads. My smile mirrors his when I ask, “You still remember it?”
“All of it,” he admits. “My brain has trouble forgetting even the smallest thing connected to my brothers.”Oh. A piece of wiring gets exposed for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of something sentimental.
Little relics of his brothers, filed safely away.
“Is that what you’re doing when you do the—ah, the, um, the tapping thing?” By God, if that’s not the most awkward sentence to ever leave my mouth. He goes still, and a small wave of tension seemingly radiates from him, or maybe it’s just too hot in the car. “Sorry,” I add more softly. “I just couldn’t help but notice.”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in with a chuckle, but I notice his fingers are oddly positioned around his drink, muscles in his arms bunched as though he’s holding himself still by force. I tell myself to let it go. We eat until his lazy slouch creeps back in and easy conversation picks up.
I’m about to apologise again when he ruins the moment by saying, “They overdid it with the salt.”
