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The troubling remnants of some monstrous dream—which I could not for the life of me recall—had dragged me to the surface, and I awoke.
It seemed to me I’d heard a dull, muffled thud, though how long ago, I couldn’t begin to say. As though branches, gnarled like skeletal fingers, were tapping at the window—or something else entirely, something stranger, like the feet of the sofa scraping softly across the floor, and on the sofa, someone exhaling in a slow, steady rhythm.
Why that image occurred to me, I’ve no idea.
I tossed and turned for a while, but sleep, once banished, would not return. The sky beyond the window remained dark, but I was certain Henry would already be awake. I thought I might go and see.
To my surprise, it was scarcely morning—which meant I’d had no more than three hours of sleep, if that.
I had been among the first to leave the gathering that night; Francis, Charles and Camilla had lingered in the drawing room, playing cards. Bunny and Henry had long since retired to their rooms.
And now, peering in, I found the drawing room deserted. I took the opportunity—rare and delicious—to wander the house freely, inspecting its grandeur without inhibition.
I froze on the threshold of the library. Somewhere inside, a light snore was rising and falling in the gloom.
Francis was sprawled on a cushioned bench before the grand piano, arms flung wide, palms turned upward, his head dangling over the edge so that the ends of his short red hair brushed the floor. One leg was bent at the knee, and—with a flash of shame and a strange, feverish curiosity—I found myself thinking he was naked beneath his dressing gown.
The scene before me was lit only by the flickering remnants of candlelight—a strange and motionless tableau, dreamlike in its stillness. Francis looked like a corpse: an aristocrat who had taken poison; Alfred Douglas in mourning, undone by grief for the imprisoned lover he could no longer bear to live without.
In the depths of the room loomed a colossal marble fireplace, tomb-like in its proportions, completing the illusion.
I stepped forward and crushed something underfoot. A soft crackle—leftover snacks, I assumed, from the evening’s little gathering.
I bit my lip. Francis stirred, blinked awake. He nearly slipped from the bench but managed to right himself. When he saw me, he gave a start and tugged his robe hastily down.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, with an effort to sound offhand, and I silently thanked him for trying to smooth over the awkwardness.
“Apparently not,” I said, deciding against mentioning the strange noises I thought—or perhaps imagined—I’d heard in the night. “How was the evening without me?”
“Camilla beat us at cards. Five times,” Francis said with theatrical exasperation. He sat up straighter and patted his pockets. “And where did I put… ah, there.”
He spotted his cigarettes and lighter on the floor, reached down for them while keeping his robe securely in place.
“Do you want it?” he asked, his tone light and childlike.
I didn’t immediately register what he meant, but then nodded and folded myself onto the floor at his feet, tucking my knees under.
We smoked in silence for a moment. Then Francis laughed softly.
“You look like Hamlet at Ophelia’s feet.”
I had no time to answer—he slid down beside me, sending the ashtray clinking across the floor towards us.
As he reached to flick ash, I noticed faint red marks across his wrists. I looked away quickly.
The whole thing felt faintly unreal. Since arriving in Vermont, I’d only once slept with someone—a fragile, red-haired girl I’d met at a party that very first weekend. I couldn't remember clearly whether I’d met Francis before or after that night, but their resemblance had haunted me for a while, just as Charles and Camilla’s did—that eerie symmetry that made you feel you’d walked into a myth.
Outside, bare branches tapped gently at the windows. I asked, “You must be here alone a lot. Does it ever frighten you?”
Francis took a drag, shrugged.
“Sometimes. I like to imagine I’m in a Hitchcock film. Only I’m not the lead—I’m the ghost.”
I understood. Curled up like that on the piano bench, he really did resemble a ghost of the house: a rich young count who’d died a century ago and never quite left.
“You’re a good cook,” I said—incongruously, and shifted slightly, pretending to brush ash from my lap.
“Oh?” Francis brightened. “Thank you. I think so too. Though Charles loves to give advice. ‘Salt this, don’t salt that.’ Camilla helps, too, but the difference is her advice actually works.”
We laughed—low and quietly, like children hiding from someone.
It was lovely, and I didn’t realise, not immediately, how romantic it all was: the candles, the smoke, the tall glass cabinets of books watching over us.
“Well then,” Francis stubbed out his cigarette. “Since neither of us is sleeping—”
“I woke you,” I cut in quickly, suddenly uneasy.
“—We could go back to my room. Play cards, or…”
“Francis, I…”
There was a ringing in my ears, rising and high-pitched. While I tried to steady myself, Francis leaned in. His short, tight curls brushed my cheek; I felt the warm tickle of his breath at my neck. There was the scent of alcohol and tobacco — and something in me refused to move. I didn’t reach out. Didn’t push him away.
“Well, well.”
The voice was unmistakable—brash, nasal, and thoroughly unwanted.
We both flinched.
Bunny stood barefoot in the doorway, scratching one leg with the other, his pyjamas crumpled and misbuttoned.
“How very wonderful,” he muttered. I wanted desperately to see his expression, but the lenses of his glasses were yellowed by the candlelight and unreadable.
Francis made a swift motion—as if reaching for the ashtray rather than for me. I think it worked; Bunny’s tone shifted at once.
“So what are you two doing up?”
“I was asking Francis how he learned to cook,” I said quickly, not quite thinking it through.
“Ah,” Bunny shuffled closer, stepping right onto the same scattered snacks I’d crushed earlier. Francis winced, almost imperceptibly. “Maybe he’ll tell me, too?”
“I’m off,” Francis stood up. I deliberately looked away. “Dead tired.”
He threw me a glance before leaving—brief, half-lidded, but electric. It landed like a shock across my skin. I remembered his delicate skin, the bones at his wrist, the pale blue veins, and a thousand freckles...
“Right, right,” Bunny had found a bag of crisps from somewhere and was now chewing with exaggerated volume. “Like I always say—fags and cooking, it’s a package deal.”
I wanted to protest—Bunny had told me himself Francis wasn’t “one of them.”
“You eat what he makes,” I muttered.
Bunny grinned. “Yeah, what else is there?”
Suddenly, my head throbbed with pain. I used it as an excuse to leave.
That night, I dreamt I returned to the library—only this time, I walked straight to the cushioned bench. I leaned over him, placed a hand against the soft skin of his cheek. In sleep, Francis stirred, his mouth parting slightly.
Eyes closed, I leaned closer.