Chapter Text
The afternoon sun was a stark, glorious contrast to the grey gloom of the castle. The air in the private gardens smelled of freshly cut grass and freedom, a scent Sophie inhaled greedily, trying to ignore the throb in her shoulder.
"You're cheating, Gregory! That was definitely a push, not a hit!" Hyacinth shrieked, her skirts flying as she chased her brother across the lawn.
"It was a strategic maneuver!" Gregory yelled back, brandishing a bright green mallet like a sword.
Sophie stood by the starting peg, watching them with a softness in her eyes that she usually reserved for her charcoal sketches. They had actually done it. They had escaped the heavy silence of the dining room.
"I can't believe we found the set," Francesca said, tapping a blue ball gently with her mallet. "It must have been years since anyone took it out of the shed. The wood is warping."
"If I had a garden like this," Sophie said, leaning on the handle of her mallet, "I would play every day. Rain or shine. I'd probably play until the moon came out."
Eloise, who was adjusting the wicket, looked up and laughed—a dry, sharp sound, but a laugh nonetheless.
"Careful what you wish for, Sophie. In this family, Pall Mall is less a game and more a bloodsport. We used to have... assigned mallets."
Sophie looked down at the one she had grabbed from the pile without thinking. It was beautiful, heavy, and painted a shimmering silver with the number I etched into the handle.
"Oh," Sophie said, realizing she was the only one holding a metallic color. "Is this... does this belong to someone? I can change."
She moved to put it back, but Eloise shook her head quickly.
"No. Keep it. It was... it was Mother's."
The air stilled for a second. Even Gregory, who was miles away, seemed to pause.
"She won't be using it," Francesca added softly, staring at the grass. "And it's better than letting it rot in the shed."
"Right," Sophie said, gripping the silver handle tighter, feeling a strange reverence. "Then I shall try to play with the dignity it deserves. Which means I definitely won't aim for Gregory's ankles."
"Oh, please do," Eloise smirked. "It's tradition."
Just then, a loud THWACK echoed across the garden. Gregory had wound up and smashed Hyacinth's pink ball with all his might. The ball soared through the air, clearing the lawn and disappearing deep into the dense rhododendron bushes at the edge of the woods.
"Gregory!" Hyacinth screamed. "You monster! Go get it!"
"Go get it yourself!"
"I am a princess! You go!"
"I'll go with you both," Sophie called out, but her shoulder gave a warning twinge.
"No, stay," Eloise said, waving a hand. "Let them run. They need to burn off the energy of being locked inside. Gregory! Go help your sister or I'll tell Benedict you ate his last biscuit!"
Grumbling, Gregory ran after Hyacinth toward the bushes, their voices fading into the distance.
Sophie, Francesca, and Eloise were left in the sudden quiet of the center lawn. The wind rustled the leaves, a peaceful sound that felt at odds with the conversation hovering over them.
"It's strange," Francesca murmured, looking at the empty space where her siblings had been. "We haven't played since... well. Since before."
"Since the Queen died?" Sophie asked gently.
Eloise let out a long breath and sat down on the grass, disregarding the grass stains on her dress. Francesca followed suit, and after a moment, Sophie sat too, arranging her skirts to cushion her injured arm.
"Before that," Eloise corrected, plucking a blade of grass. "Mama didn't die years ago, Sophie. Her body died five years ago, yes. But... she stopped living long before that."
Sophie looked at them, sensing a deep, old wound opening up.
"I heard she was... very sick."
"It was a sickness of the heart," Francesca whispered, her fingers tracing the pattern on her blue mallet. "You know about Papa and Anthony, don't you? That they died the same day."
"Yes," Sophie nodded. "The accident."
"It wasn't just the same day," Eloise said, her voice hard, staring at the horizon. "It was the same day Hyacinth was born. Within hours. One moment, Mama was welcoming a new life... and by sunset, she had lost the love of her life and her eldest son."
Sophie's breath hitched. She hadn't known the timing. The cruelty of it was staggering.
"She tried," Francesca said, her voice trembling. "For a few years, she tried. But the grief... it was like a fire that ate her from the inside out. She just faded. She became a ghost in her own halls. And the worst part..." Francesca looked toward the bushes where Hyacinth's laughter could be heard faintly. "The worst part is that she couldn't look at Hyacinth without crying."
"Because she reminded her of the day she lost them," Sophie finished, understanding the terrible logic of grief.
"Hyacinth thinks Mama didn't like her," Eloise admitted, her voice thick with unshed tears. "We don't talk about her much. We don't bring up the memories, or the games, or the mallets... because we don't want Hyacinth to know that her birth was the beginning of the end for our mother."
Sophie looked at the silver mallet lying in the grass. She thought of her own life—the bastard daughter, the unwanted secret. She knew what it was to be a reminder of something someone else wanted to forget. But she also knew the pain of the sisters sitting next to her, who had lost their mother twice: once to grief, and once to death.
"That is a very heavy silence to carry," Sophie said softly. She reached out, covering Francesca's cold hand with her own, and bumped her shoulder gently against Eloise's. "You are protecting her. That is love. But... perhaps the Queen would have liked to see this. Her mallet back on the grass. Her daughters laughing."
"Do you think so?" Francesca asked, looking up with wet eyes.
"I think," Sophie said, looking at the silver mallet, "that anyone who owned a mallet this shiny clearly liked to win. And she wouldn't want the game to end just because she had to leave the field."
Eloise let out a watery chuckle, wiping her eyes fiercely.
"She was ruthless. She once knocked the Archbishop's ball into the lake."
"See?" Sophie smiled, a genuine, warm expression that reached her eyes. "Then we have a legacy to uphold."
From the bushes, a triumphant shout erupted. Gregory and Hyacinth emerged, leaves stuck in their hair, arguing about who found the ball first.
"They're coming back," Sophie whispered, squeezing the sisters' hands one last time before pulling away. "Fix your faces, ladies. We can't let them know we've been sentimental. It ruins the competitive edge."
Eloise sniffed and straightened up, composing her features into a mask of competitive scorn. Francesca took a deep breath and picked up her mallet.
"Found it!" Hyacinth yelled, running back to them. "And I found a frog, but Gregory wouldn't let me keep it!"
"It was slimy!" Gregory defended himself.
"Everything is slimy to you, Gregory," Sophie teased, standing up and grabbing the silver mallet with a flourish. She spun it in her hand, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, determined to keep the shadows at bay for just a little longer. "Alright, enough foraging," pointing the mallet at the next wicket. "I believe it is the Silver Mallet's turn. And I am warning you all... I may not know the rules perfectly, but I have excellent aim when it comes to hitting moving targets."
"Is that a threat?" Gregory laughed.
"It's a promise," Sophie grinned, winking at Eloise and Francesca. "Now, who's ready to lose to the governess?"
As the laughter resumed, ringing clearer and louder than before, Sophie swung the mallet. For a moment, in the golden afternoon light, they weren't broken royalty or a cursed beast; they were just a family playing a game, and the ghosts, for once, were kept at the edge of the woods.
On the other side of the castle, the study was in twilight, its heavy curtains drawn tight against the insult of the afternoon sun. The air smelled of melted wax, old ink, and the bitterness of the whiskey filling Benedict’s glass.
Damn them all, he thought, violently crossing out a line on the map of the forest spread across his desk.
Damn Aramito and his delays. Damn the forest. Damn my own uselessness.
He brought the glass to his lips, seeking the familiar burn that numbed the noise in his head—that constant hum of guilt and responsibility. But before the crystal could touch his mouth, another sound filtered through the windowpane.
It wasn’t the howl of the wind or the creaking of old wood.
It was laughter.
Benedict frowned. It sounded strange, foreign, like a musical note played in a house that had forgotten how to sing. He set the glass down on the map, indifferent to the wet ring it left, and approached the window like a man entranced. He parted the curtain just a few inches, fearing the light might burn him.
Below, in the back garden that had been neglected for years, the world had changed color.
His siblings were running. Gregory was chasing Hyacinth with a green mallet held high, shouting threats of war. Eloise was sitting in the grass, laughing with her head thrown back—an image Benedict hadn't seen since before the funeral. Francesca, the silent one, stood by an arch, smiling as she clapped.
And at the center of all that luminous chaos was her. Sophie.
She wore the gray governess dress, severe and dull, but she moved with an energy that defied the fabric. Benedict watched her prepare her shot. He saw her bite her lower lip in concentration, raise the silver mallet, and strike the ball with enthusiasm.
But enthusiasm won over grace.
Sophie took a step back to admire her shot, tangled herself in the hem of her own skirt, and tripped awkwardly. She didn’t fall completely—she did a comical pinwheel with her arms to regain her balance—but it was a movement so clumsy, so human, and so unrefined that Benedict felt something break in his chest.
From his watchtower, he saw her straighten up quickly and look left and right with wide eyes, frantically checking if anyone had seen her make a fool of herself. Noticing that Gregory and Hyacinth were too busy arguing and that Eloise was wiping away tears of laughter, Sophie let out a visible sigh of relief, smoothed her skirt with feigned dignity, and adopted a pose of perfect composure as if nothing had happened.
An involuntary laugh, short and rusty, escaped Benedict’s throat.
He brought a hand to his mouth, surprised by the sound of his own amusement. He looked down once more. They looked so... alive. So painfully normal. While he rotted in this study planning deaths and vengeance, life was happening right beneath his window, orchestrated by a girl who tripped over her own feet.
Benedict looked at his whiskey glass. Then he looked at the garden.
To hell with the map, he thought.
He left the study, taking the stairs two at a time and crossing the foyer, ignoring the stunned looks of the footmen. When he threw open the amethyst-encrusted doors leading to the garden, the sound of laughter cut off abruptly.
It was as if winter had walked in.
Gregory froze with his mallet raised. Hyacinth hid behind him. Eloise stopped laughing and went rigid. They all looked at him with fear, expecting a reprimand, expecting the bitter King who hated noise.
Sophie was the only one who turned slowly, holding the silver mallet against her chest like a shield.
Benedict strode across the grass. The sun bothered his eyes, but he didn't stop until he reached the playing circle. A heavy silence fell.
His eyes locked onto Sophie’s hands. There it was. Mallet number one. The silver mallet. Mama’s mallet.
The glint of the silver brought back a sudden memory of summer afternoons, of his mother’s laughter, of his father blatantly cheating. He felt a lump in his throat so strong he thought he wouldn't be able to speak.
"That is..." Benedict began, his voice raspy.
Sophie looked at the mallet and turned pale, realizing her mistake.
"Oh. I am sorry, Your Majesty," she said quickly, holding the mallet out to him with trembling hands. "I didn't know... Eloise said that... I will return it right now. I shouldn't have taken it."
Benedict looked at the mallet, then at Sophie’s frightened face, and finally at his siblings, who were watching him while holding their breath.
He could tell them that Daphne would scold them all and end this. He could go back to his study and drink until he forgot.
But then he remembered Sophie tripping. He remembered that she had achieved what he hadn't been able to in a long time: making them laugh.
Benedict reached out, but he didn't take the silver mallet. Instead, he gently pushed Sophie’s hands back toward her, returning it.
"No," he said, and the softness of his tone surprised everyone, including himself. "That mallet requires a steady wrist and a total lack of mercy. I believe it is in the right hands."
Sophie blinked, confused.
"Your Majesty?"
Benedict turned toward the equipment cart and rummaged through it until he pulled out a black mallet, heavy and worn. The Mallet of Death. The one Anthony used to use.
"Besides," Benedict said, turning back with a crooked smile and brushing imaginary dust off his shirt, "someone has to teach Gregory that you can't win simply by shouting."
Gregory let out his breath all at once. Hyacinth smiled timidly.
"Are you going to play?" the little girl asked.
"I am going to win," Benedict corrected, stepping up to the starting line. "Whose turn is it?"
"Mine," Sophie said, the color returning to her cheeks and a spark of defiance lighting up her gaze. "And I warn you, Your Majesty, the silver mallet has a reputation for being treacherous."
"I’ll take my chances," he replied.
And when Sophie struck the ball and it zipped past, grazing Benedict's boot, he didn't pull away. He laughed. It was a real laugh, deep and resonant, one that ached in his chest from lack of use, but it felt better than any whiskey. For the first time in a long while, the King wasn't on his throne of pain; he was in the garden, and he was losing at Pall Mall to his governess.