Page 68 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
That night in Oxford—me and Phoebs—I didn’t think much of it but now I am because she clearly is. For her, it was probably like a smack in the face, a reminder of all the shit we’ve been through. I had started to think her forgiving me so quickly was a bit too good to be true. I braced myself for the worst—rehearsed every possible scenario of her ignoring me or shutting me down. But the second I showed up? That all went out of the window because just like old times, she opened her arms and let me fall straight into them even though I’m double her weight and height.
It’s my turn to hold her now but someone's already doing that.
I sit on the edge of my bed, tug on my tie.
I think I’m just a bit lost without her. What else if not her, you know? What am I without her? All those days I was isolated and I still didn’t find out. My brain was surprisingly empty without all the drugs—clear like the drugs clogged it up. Had a lot of space to fill it with shit. And a lot of the time, it was her. I found myself thinking about her literally every single day and every single night.
I wanted her more than any drug.
I spewed out all the poison in my body but she was still there, swimming around in my blood, infiltrating my head, being the only thing that kept my heart beating.
Sounds romantic, all poetic like those fucking Greek gods but it’s not, really. I didn’t—still don’t—know how to function without her, how to think or act and speak without her. She embedded herself into me like the carvings on a headstone. No amount of ruining will rid it, moss will only cover it until it’s no longer visible. She weaved herself into my brain like needlework. A rent free resident in my own body.
“Going to see a man about a dog!” Connie shouts out before the sound of the front door opens and closes.
And by that he just means going to the tenth floor to buy weed off the young boy who lives there—proper prick, should be living in somewhere like Soho or Camden. Got one of those piercings that cows have, you know, right through the nose. But apparently he’s really chill (I’ll be taking his word for it).
I change into something more comfortable, get my parcel from the table and slice it open with a knife.
It is a book but also not?
A white cloth bound with no title, no author, no ISBN, no barcode. I frown. I definitely didn’t order this. I check the small box it came in. No note, nothing.
My heart beats in the way it does when you’re so confused all you can think is ‘what the fuck?’.
I sit down on the sofa, flick through it. It’s typeset like a book, feels like a book…but isn’t…one?
A few familiar names stick out.
Theseus.
Althaemenes.
Peleus.
Odysseus.
Heracles.
I drop the book.
I think it hits my foot.
Have you not realised?
They’re all Greeks that accidentally killed someone.
This isn’t a threat or a hit—it’s a bright red flare, reaching me at the shore, screaming, ‘I know’.
Chapter Seventeen
Lady Phoebe
“That can’t be true,” I tell Zara.
“No,” she nods, eyes darting between Athena and I. “I swear to god, it is!”
“But—and no offence,” Athena whispers. “We all thought you were a…whore.”
