Princess for brother

CHAPTER 3. THE DECOY (Ashley)

The bell cut through the air like a razor blade. In an instant, his lips might have been on mine. Next thing you know, we're at opposite ends of the room, separated by the wavering lamplight and that shrill, brazen peal.

I can see his face change. Just now, a storm had been raging inside him-anger, fear, that dark, unfamiliar thing that made my heart race. Now everything is erased. It is being smoothed out. The same marble mask that was at the funeral is put on. But there's a cold, focused rage in his eyes. He picks up the phone, looks at the screen. I can see his jaw tighten.

The voice on the phone is so loud that I can hear it even from a distance. Smooth as silk, with a slight, deliberate hoarseness. George. No one else says that.

Travis doesn't look at me. He turns his back to the window. Protecting? Or hiding your face from me?

"George," his voice is flat, neutral. Perfect.

I stand rooted to the spot, listening to the snatches of words, trying to decipher the meaning from the pauses, from the changes in Travis's tone.

"...I heard there were problems ..."comes from the phone."... you're exaggerating ... " Travis retorts. Too calm. Plays. " ... old friends... help... "" ... I don't think it's appropriate..." "...just talk... tomorrow? Coffee?"

Tomorrow. He's already here in the city. Or close. And he's in a hurry. Fear runs down my spine, cold and slippery. He's not just a vulture. He is a hunter who has already identified a victim and begins to approach.

Travis is silent for a few seconds. Too long. I see him clench his free hand into a fist behind his back. Then it relaxes you. Good. Tomorrow. Eleven. Brownieson the High Street." And, Travis... give Ashley my condolences. Sincere ones."

The mention of my name sounds like a gunshot in the quiet office. Travis doesn't answer. Just hangs up. He turns to me. His face is a mask, but his eyes betray everything. They're filled with the same rage I felt when I read his message.

"He's coming," Travis says, rattling out the words. "Tomorrow." My word falls between us, hard and heavy as a rock. "You said bait. The bait should be in plain sight. "" He just called you by your first name. He's playing with us, Ashley. Knowing I'll hear it. ""That's why I have to be there —" I take a step forward, my legs shaking. — If I hide, he'll know we're afraid." That his words had hit home. We have to show what we are... they are normal. That you are the grieving heir, and I am the grieving sister. Nothing more."

I say it, and my stomach clenches with bitter irony. Nothing more. Five minutes after we almost crossed the last border.

Travis looks at me, and I can see the struggle in his eyes. The strategist in him knows I'm right. Brother... my brother wants to lock me up in the farthest tower of this damned castle. "He will try to talk to you. Flirt. Provoke. "" Let him try. I'll be cold. Like ice. "You're not ice, Ashley," he blurts out, the weariness in his voice breaking through. "You're gunpowder. And he knows where to look for the spark. " His words burn because they are true. I'm all taut nerve endings. But I have to hide it. That's my job now.

"I can handle it," I say, sounding more confident than I feel. "In the meantime... I need to answer his message."

He's worried. “what? Why? "" To support the legend. He expressed his condolences. I have to thank you. Polite, reserved. So that he won't have any questions about why I don't say anything." " What are you going to write?" I shrug, already pulling out my phone. "Thank you for your words. Ashley. " Briefly. I type a message, show him the screen. Does he look, nod, approve? No. Reluctantly.

"Send it," he says through gritted teeth. "And block the number. "" If I do, he'll know I'm afraid. Let him think that his words have reached the goal, but I'm too wrapped up in grief to actively communicate." The message flies off into the night. It feels like I threw a piece of meat into the wolf's mouth to distract it.

Travis runs a hand over his face. He looks dead tired. "Go to bed, Ashley. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.".. all this is organized, " he waves his hand at the papers. "And think through tomorrow's conversation." He shuts off his work again. This is his hideout. My refuge is darkness and loneliness.

I nod and leave the office. The door closes behind me, leaving him alone in the circle of light. I stay in the dark, echoing hallway. My footsteps are too loud. They seem to echo through the house, shouting my weakness to all the ghosts.

I don't go to the bedroom. I'm drawn to one place. The only place where I can be myself, or rather, who I am becoming. To the studio.

The old outhouse is cold and unheated. I turn on the light — the hard, white glow of the fluorescent lights. He picks out the canvases against the wall, the cans of paintbrushes, the smudges of paint on the floor. It smells of turpentine, oil, and freedom. Or her illusion.

I walk over to the easel. On it is an unfinished portrait. Not my mother. Not my father. Travis. I started it yesterday, after the funeral, in a fit of strange, painful nostalgia. But now I look at it with different eyes.

I don't see my brother. I see a man. The one who stood over me now, whose breath mingled with mine, whose eyes were filled not with hatred, but with something far more dangerous. I'll take the coal. Coming up. And I start drawing. Not from memory. By feeling.

I draw his cheekbone — hard, angular. Her lips were thin and set in that icy line. But I add a shadow at the corners of my mouth, a hint of something unspoken. And the eyes... I leave my eyes blank. While. Because I do not know what is in them. Rage? Thirsty? Pain? All at once?

My hand moves quickly, almost aggressively. The charcoal crumbles and falls on the canvas in thick, velvety black strokes. It's not a portrait. This is a showdown. Trying to understand this stranger to whom I am bound by blood and now by a common secret, a common war.

The phone on the desk vibrates softly. One short notification. Message.

My heart stops beating. I slowly put down the charcoal and walk over. This is it. George.

"Thank you for your reply, Princess. So you're still alive in there. The ice is cracking. It's beautiful. See you tomorrow. I hope you'll be wearing black. Mourning suits you."

I freeze as I read these lines over and over again. "The ice is cracking." Hell, he can see through walls, through distances. He sensed my weakness, my confusion. And he calls it beautiful. It makes me sick.

And the last sentence. "I'll see you tomorrow." He's sure I'll be there. He planned everything.

I don't answer. I just stand there and stare at the screen until the letters start to blur. The fear is coming back, but now something new is added to it. Not cold, but hot. Anger. Does he think he can play with me? Does he think that I will break down and come like an obedient doll in a black dress to decorate his game?

I look up at Travis's portrait. At those empty, waiting eyes. And the decision comes by itself, clear and firm.

I'm not wearing black. I'll wear something else entirely. Not mourning. Not innocent. Something to make him think. Which will make Travis... which will make Travis look at me the way he did today. Not like my sister. As an ally. As a woman who knows the rules of his game and is willing to play better.

I go back to my easel. I take a thin brush, a jar of paint the color of dried blood-red cadmium. And I draw a single line. From the outer corner of the blank eye in the portrait, down the cheek. Like a tear. Or like a scar.

Then I go back and look. There's pain in that face now. My pain. Our pain. And it's not hidden. It's on display. Turned into a weapon.

Let George think the ice is cracking. He doesn't understand that there isn't water under the ice. It's lava. And it's ready to erupt.

I turn off the studio lights and step out into the night. The palace is asleep. Or faking it. I walk through the corridors, and this time my steps are steady. I'm not afraid of shadows. I became a shadow myself. Quiet, dangerous, moving toward her goal.

When I get to my bedroom, I see a small, neat bundle by the door. Without a card. Just a dark blue silk ribbon. I reach down and take it. Light and flat.

Inside, on black velvet, lies an ivory fan. Artful, old-fashioned work. Each segment is engraved with a tiny, elegant scene. I'm taking a closer look. This is Delacroix's The Death of Sardanapalus. A king watching his wealth being destroyed and his concubines being killed. An extreme form of giving up everything. The last, theatrical gesture before the end.

A card is attached. Just two words, written in the same elegant, sharp handwriting as in the messages:

"For the upcoming performance by J. R. R. Tolkien"

He doesn't just anticipate tomorrow's meeting. He's directing it. He already sees us all — himself, Travis, me-as characters in his play about the breakup.

I grip the fan in my hand. The bone is cold and smooth. Almost like the hilt of a dagger.

All right, Mr. Smith. Do you want a performance? You'll get it. But I've already decided what role I'm going to play. Not a concubine. And not a spectator.

I will be the one who brings the fire to the curtain at the right moment.

Tomorrow.Brownies.Eleven o'clock in the morning.

I go into the bedroom and put my fan on the dressing table. It lies there, shimmering in the darkness like a skull. Reminder. And a promise.

I'll lie down. But I won't sleep. I'll be practicing. Every word. Every look. Every move.

The toy is going to fight back.