Princess for brother

CHAPTER 1. THE PRINCESS IN ICE

The pearl necklace digs into my throat. Each bead is an ice ball that counts down the seconds until you can breathe again. This moment will not come.

I stand between two black holes in the floor of the Cambell family tomb. Coffins. They are said to be made of solid Carrara marble. I think it's made of polished ice. They're about to melt away, leaving only wet spots on the old seventeenth-century tile.

"Princess, it's time. They're waiting."

The voice of Margaret, our housekeeper, sounds like the creak of unlubricated hinges behind me. She doesn't call me "Miss Ashley." Only "princess". A title turned into a curse. I am the last princess of a dynasty that is no longer here. Doll for the exhibition.

I take a step forward. The heavy silk of her mourning dress rustles on the stone like the hiss of a snake. In the doorway, bathed in the gray, hopeless light of an English day, his figure paused.

Travis.

My brother. Heir. The last man in the family.

He's wearing a black suit that fits him perfectly, like a second layer of leather. The face is a mask made of the same marble as the coffins. Perfect, smooth, without a single crack. Only there were two thin, icy creases at the corners of her lips. An imprint of the rage that seethes inside him. I know. Because the same rage is boiling inside me.

He waits for me to catch up with him. He doesn't turn his head. He doesn't look at me. Just through clenched, too-pale lips, he says in a flat, low voice that only I can hear:

"Go ahead. Don't stumble. Look them in the eye. Smile with your lips. Keep quiet. And for God's sake, don't cry."

Instruction manual. Clear as a military order. I nod, almost unconsciously. The cold from my chest slowly spreads through my veins, filling my limbs. Good. It doesn't feel like ice. Ice doesn't cry.

I walk out of the tomb, and the gray light hits my eyes. On the lawn in front of the family chapel of St. Alban, a black crowd froze. Relatives I've met once in my life. Father's partners, whose faces merge into one greedy, curious blur. The press is fenced off by a barrier, but their lenses are like muzzles aimed at us.

Hundreds of eyes. Eyes are sophocles, eyes are critics, eyes are vultures.

I lift my chin. I breathe in the very cold that now lives in me. It fills my lungs, my chest, and all the way to my fingertips. Step. Another. The heels dig into the soft ground, leaving neat footprints. His footsteps are close by. Heavier. Harder. A rhythm I've known since I was a kid.

The ceremony flashes by like a bad dream shot through thick, murky glass.

Handshakes. The palms are sometimes wet, sometimes bony and dry. Each one lasts forever. "What a tragedy, my dear. "" Hold on. "" So young... " The voices are muffled, as if from under water.

I'm holding on. I nod. I say "thank you" with a silent movement of my lips. I'm smiling. Just with his lips, as Travis had instructed. The corners of her lips are turned up just enough to pass for a decent mournful expression. Inside-silence. Deep, absolute, echoing. The kind that makes your ears ring.

Travis is my shadow, my shield, my overseer. He steps in when questions become too personal, too acute. His voice doesn't change tone. It's smooth, calm, dead. The perfect answer to any phrase. I look at his hand, which is clenched into a fist behind his back. My knuckles are white, and my skin is so tight I think it's going to burst. I feel a wild, irrational urge to unclench those fingers, to see if the nails are digging into my palm. But I don't move. Ice.

The last of the guests — a second cousin from Scotland who smells of whiskey and cheap perfume — puts her arms around me, hugging me to her bony chest. "Poor girl, all alone now." Her gaze slides past me to Travis, and there's something... disgusting in it. A mixture of pity and vulgar curiosity. Alone, all alone in this huge house. Young people. Beautiful.

I pull away, my smile unwavering. "Thank you for coming."

Her limo is the last to leave. When the red taillights disappear around a bend in the alley, the air is compressed and then turned inside out. The silence hits us harder than all the looks and all the words combined. It puts physical pressure on my temples, on my shoulders.

Travis turns on his heel. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look at me. He just walks toward the house, which is huge and gray and looks like a sleeping stone beast. His back is a straight, hard, unassailable line. Wall.

I'm not going after him.

My feet carry me on their own — away from him, away from the people, away from this spectacle. Deeper into the house. Into his oldest, forgotten heart — the Long Gallery.

It doesn't smell like money or grief. It smells like time here. The dust of centuries, the varnish on cracked canvases, the sweet smell of rotting wood and fabric. The gallery stretches for a hundred feet, flanked by rows of gilt-framed ancestors. Gentlemen in powdered wigs, ladies in crinolines, children with lifeless, doll-like faces. All Kembellas. Everyone who lived, loved, suffered and died within these walls. Their eyes follow me. A conviction? Sympathy? Indifference? I can't make it out.

I stop in front of one portrait. Mother. She can't be more than twenty-five years old. She is sitting by a tall window, bathed in soft light, in a dress the color of the morning sky. But the light doesn't touch her face. She looks somewhere past the artist, into some distance of her own. In his eyes — the same longing that I remembered from childhood. Longing for something that wasn't there. Something that called out to her from behind the heavy oak doors, from under the shadow of the family titles.

Now she's escaped. Forever.

"Cold, selfish b***h," I whisper. I repeat the words I heard when I was sixteen, listening at their bedroom door. My father's voice was hoarse with rage and what I thought was pain. Her response is quiet, broken, and filled with the same rage, but turned inward. "You think I don't know about your 'business trips' to Paris? Do you think I'll let you embarrass us?"

Then the sound of a slap. Deaf, wet. And her strangled cry.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the image. But it hit like a shard of glass. It was from that day that everything went downhill. She went to the same apartment in Paris. He remained, absorbed in his work and silent rage. And Travisand I ... we became invisible residents of this palace, having forgotten how to talk to each other.

My phone burns in my dress pocket. One new message. Not from Travis. From an unknown number.

"I'm so sorry, Princess. Pain is a gift. Don't let it go to waste."

My heart skips a beat, then starts pounding wildly. J. George Smith. Travis's "best friend". A man whose name is spoken at our house dinners with a breathy mixture of admiration and disgust. The son of an alcoholic from the slums, pulled out on a scholarship to Eton and then Oxford. Charismatic, dangerous, and a magnet for trouble. And for girls. Especially for those who consider themselves inaccessible.

Why is he texting me? Now?

I erase the message, my fingers shaking. But the words are already etched into my brain.

From far away, through the thickness of the walls, comes a sound-a crash. Something heavy falls and breaks. Then a muffled, furious scream. Travis.

My instinct is to follow the sound. I fly through the halls, my heart pounding in my throat. I go to his office. The door is wide open.

Inside-chaos. My father's crystal ashtray is shattered, shards of glass glistening like tears on the Persian carpet. A stack of papers is swept off the table. And he's standing in the middle of the mess, his back to me, his hands on the heavy oak table. His shoulders are heaving with heavy, ragged breathing.

"Travis..."

He turns around. And for the first time today, there is no mask. His face is distorted by something primal, animal. The pain that finally broke the dam. His eyes are so full of despair and rage that I recoil.

"Get out," he croaks. My voice breaks. "Just... get out of here, Ashley."

Normally, I would have left. She would have obeyed his tone, his command. But now, looking at this broken, wild beast that I once called my brother, something clicks in me. The ice is cracking. Something sharp and alive breaks through it.

"No," I say softly, but clearly. I stand in the doorway, not moving. "I'm not leaving."

He looks at me, and there's something new in his eyes. Not hate. Not anger. An unfamiliar, frightening understanding. That we're in the same trap. That we've always been in it. And that now that the people who built this trap are dead, it's just us. And walls that are tighter than ever.

He slowly straightens up. He runs his hand over his face, brushing away nonexistent dust. The mask is returned, but it is damaged. In the cracks.

"Whatever you want," he says, and his voice is flat again, but there's enough tiredness in it to last ten people. He turns to the window, looking out at the park as it sinks into the evening twilight. "But remember. You're not a princess here, outside these walls. You're a pawn. Just like me. And the game is just beginning."

Behind me, at the end of the darkened corridor, a floorboard creaked. As if someone was listening. And now he hastily retreated.

I turn around, but there's no one there. Just a long line of shadows cast by the candlesticks on the wall. And a feeling as sharp as a blade: we're not alone. We were never alone in this house.

And in the pocket where the phone is lying, it seems to burn from the erased message.

Pain is a gift.

Travis's words hang in the air, heavy and poisonous as quicksilver. A pawn. Game. He always saw the world through the lens of strategies and threats. But now, in this chaos of broken crystal and scattered papers, his words don't sound like the usual bravado, but like a confession. Recognition of your own helplessness.

I don't move from the threshold. I look at his back, at the taut muscles of his shoulders under the thin fabric of his shirt. He shut himself off again. From the world. From me. But the crack that flashed in his eyes a second ago is already haunting. It burns like a burn.

"What's the game, Travis?" my voice is quieter than I intended. Almost a whisper. "Who is against us?"

He doesn't answer. He just clenches his fists on the polished tabletop so that the wood looks like it's going to crack.

"Telegram from a lawyer," he says at last, without turning around. "My father. A month before his death, he had withdrawn two million dollars from the accounts. To an offshore company. Without explanation."

The ice inside me is starting to crack again. This time it was with a painful ringing sound. Two million. Missing persons. Stolen items? Disappeared with them?

"Maybe an investment...?", I start a meaningless suggestion.

"They don't hide investments, Ashley!" he whirls around, his eyes blazing with rage again. "They are being declared! They are discussed with the board of directors! They are not erased to zero, as if they never existed!"

He takes a step toward me. He smells of expensive whiskey, stress, and cold rage.

"He was hiding something. Something big. And that 'something '"— he points to the pile of papers on the floor — " may have killed them. Not an accident. Not bad luck. Someone really wanted this money, and at the same time they, to disappear."

The world narrows down to the size of this office, to his words, to the number with six zeros that hangs like a ghost between us. Suddenly it's hard to breathe. The air is thick as syrup. Automatically, I touch my throat, where the pearl necklace still presses.

"And George?" comes out of my mouth before I can think. Travis freezes. His gaze becomes sharp, focused. "What about George? "" He... sent me a message. A message of condolence. Strange. "" Show me."

Order. Reluctantly, I pull out my phone, find the erased message in my memory, and show him the screen. He reads. His face is set in stone, but something is stirring in the depths of his eyes — not rage, but something colder, more calculating. Fear.

"Pain is a gift," he repeats someone else's words, and they sound like a death sentence. "Nice." He always liked pretty phrases. A dog that caresses itself before being bitten. "" Do you think he's... involved in something? "" I don't think George Smith shows up anywhere for nothing. Especially where it smells like pain and money. Especially now."

He turns away, back to the window. Twilight finally swallowed up the park. The lights in the stable windows seem so far away, so alien.

"Go to your room, Ashley," he says wearily. "Lock yourself in." And ... don't answer him." There's no order in his tone this time. There is a request. Almost a plea. And that's what scares me the most.

I'm not arguing. I turn and walk out, leaving him alone in the wreckage of his-our-world.

The corridors of the palace seem endless and hostile. Every portrait, every statue in the niche looks at me not as a hostess, but as an uninvited guest. Ghosts. Travis is right. There are a legion of them here.

I don't go to my room. My feet carry me again, automatically, along the proven route of desperation-back to the Long Gallery. Maybe there, among the faces of those who have gone through all this before me, I will find the answer. Or I can just catch my breath.

The gallery is in semi-darkness. The long curtains are not drawn, and the last glimmer of sunset faintly illuminates the parquet floor, creating swirling bands of gray and blue. I walk slowly, listening to the old floorboards creak under my feet. The sound I heard outside the office… Was I imagining it? No. Too obvious, too timely.

I stop again in front of my mother's portrait. In the semi-darkness, her face looks even sadder, even more distant. What did you know?" What were you trying to take with you to the grave?

And then I feel it. First — a slight dizziness. Then it was like a steel band being squeezed around his chest. The air stops coming in. I open my mouth to inhale, but I can't. An invisible hand clutches at my throat. No. Not right now. Not here.

A panic attack. My old, loyal companion. She used to come as a child, after her parents ' quarrels. Then-less often. And now, when the world has finally collapsed, it has returned with triple strength.

I grab the edge of a heavy gilded chair to steady myself. My fingers slide across the smooth wood. In the ears — increasing ringing, drowning out all other sounds. His pupils dilate, revealing meaningless details: a crack in the portrait frame, a speck of dust dancing in the fading light, his own reflection in the dark window, pale and distorted by a mask of horror.

I try to remember the breathing exercises that my dear, useless therapist taught me. Inhale for four, hold, exhale for six. Uselessly. The lungs refuse to work. My heart is pounding, frantically, violently, tearing out of my chest. The world is floating, the colors are spreading.

I slide down to the cold parquet floor and lean my back against a chair leg. My knees are drawn up to my chest, and my dress forms a helpless black halo around me. I am small, insignificant, crushed by the weight of this day, this house, this mystery.

Princess in ice. The irony of the situation is almost physically painful. I wanted to be ice so I wouldn't feel it. Instead, the ice inside has cracked and is cutting me from the inside out with sharp edges.

From afar, as if through water, comes the sound of footsteps. Heavy, fast, and masculine. Not his. Travis's footsteps would have been quieter, more controlled. These are confident, almost insolent. They walk down the corridor to the gallery.

George? No, it can't be. Who!

Horror, cold and sticky, holds me in place. I can't move, I can't shout. All I can do is sit back in my chair and listen to the footsteps die down right outside the gallery entrance. Then silence. It's long and stressful. Someone is standing there in the darkness of the archway, watching. I feel that gaze on my back like a touch.

And then the steps are deleted. Just as fast and confident as they came.

The silence returns, but it's different now. A rich atmosphere. Lively.

The pressure in my chest is slowly easing. Air enters the lungs in a thin, burning trickle. Then another. I'm breathing. Jerky, convulsive, but I breathe.

The ringing in my ears recedes, replaced by the deafening silence of the empty palace.

Slowly, painfully, I unclench my stiff fingers and push myself away from the chair. I'm getting up. My legs are wobbly and weak. I stare at the dark doorway where the uninvited witness to my disgrace has just stood. No one.

But on the floor, on the dark parquet floor just inside the door, lies a single, crumpled cigarette butt. Cheap cigarettes. Not ours. Not Travis, not the servants. Alien.

I don't pick it up. Just looking. And I know Travis was right about everything.

The game has begun. And the first move wasn't the death of my parents. Not the missing millions. Not a strange message.

The first move was this. My fall is here, on the cold floor, alone. And someone else's footsteps in the dark, coming over to make sure their plan was working. That the princess is broken.

I straighten my back. I wipe my face with the palm of my hand, wet with tears (when did I have time to cry?) face. Black mascara smears on the skin. Let. The mask cracked. Disappeared.

I'm not a princess anymore. I'm Ashley Campbell. And I've just been robbed of my last illusions.

I turn and walk out of the gallery. Past her mother's portrait. Her sad eyes seem to follow me. I'm sorry I didn't protect you from — " A fragment of my father's letter pops into my mind. What had he failed to protect her from? From yourself? From the truth? Or what was going to happen to me?

My footsteps on the floor now sound clear. Firmly. Not as an escape. As a challenge.

A shadow, long and distorted, follows me along the wall, blending with the shadows of my ancestors. She seems bigger than me. Stronger.

I step out into the hallway and head for the wrong room to lock myself in.

I go to my brother's office. To let him know I'd heard everything. And that I'm in the game.