Chapter Text
Hi, Lucy
I don’t really know how to write letters, but Uncle said you’ve already arrived at the new place. He didn’t say much, just that this Cecília will take care of you now. I wanted to ask a lot of questions, but he told me to stay quiet.
I don’t like him very much. He talks like you were a burden. But you’re not. You never were.
The house feels strange without you. It’s quiet even in the places that used to be noisy. I still look to the side expecting you to show up asking if you can sleep in my room.
I’m trying to be strong, but it’s hard without you here. I keep wondering if your room there is warm, if you have good blankets, if the other kids are nice. And if this Cecília is truly kind. I hope she is.
If one day you want to come back… I promise I’ll find a way. Even if I don’t know how yet.
Write to me if you can. Or draw something. Anything. Just so I know you’re okay.
Miss you,
Richard
P.S.: I kept your blue stone. The one you said was lucky.
(...)
Michael was... handsome, intelligent, funny, and now I discovered that he was hopelessly in love with me? With me? Compared to my sisters... I’m so plain, it was clearly a surprise... especially with how Eloise declared it.
— I’m disgusted by the way he’s in love with you — Eloise said, dramatically throwing herself into the armchair in front of her vanity.
We were in her room. After dinner, she dragged me by the arm before I could even say a proper goodbye to Philip or Michael. Now, sitting cross-legged like an indolent sphinx, she looked at me as though my mere existence both entertained and irritated her in equal measure.
— He’s not in love with me, Eloise — I retorted, trying to keep my composure, even though my cheeks were burning. — How could he be... he’s known me for two days.
Eloise let her hair down and flicked it around as if she were the star of a French drama.
— Two days... enough time for a man to lose his mind, his title, and half his inheritance for the wrong woman. — She pointed at me as if I were exactly that. — And in this case, the wrong woman is you.
— Thanks so much.
— Oh, Frani, you get it. It’s not an insult, it’s a diagnosis. Michael Stirling looks at you as if he just stumbled upon a pagan goddess.
— Eloise! — I exclaimed, trying not to laugh. She was impossible.
— What? It’s true. He spent the whole dinner staring at you as though he had a fever. And, to be fair, Philip did the same with me.
My eyes widened, surprised.
— You’re saying Mr. Philip Crane is in love with you?
— Of course not. — Eloise stood up, walked over to her bed, and sat next to me, propping her chin on her hand. — I’m saying he was acting weird. Watching too much. Thinking too much. Talking... little. As if he were evaluating everything and everyone.
I thought back to dinner. He had spoken very little. He seemed... restrained. Cautious. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He might just be reserved.
Or... he might be hiding something.
— Maybe he was just nervous. After all, you’re pretty intimidating — I commented, shrugging.
Eloise smiled, pleased.
— Thanks. I know. But he didn’t seem nervous. He seemed... calculating. And you know what’s worse?
— What?
— Philip and Michael. They exchanged a glance. Did you see it?
I tried to remember. The night passed in a blur, but now, with her provocation, a vague memory came to mind. A quick glance between them. Serious. As though they were saying something without words.
— It must just be a habit between brothers — I said, more to convince myself than her.
Eloise gave me a skeptical look.
— Brothers exchange glances like spies exchange secret messages?
— You’re exaggerating. — I stood up and started pacing around the room, restless. — You’re seeing things where there are none. Michael is kind. He was... he was sweet to me.
— Yes. And very handsome. That helps ease any suspicion, doesn’t it?
I turned to her, crossing my arms.
— And Philip? Is he already picking out the names for the children?
She gave me a dramatic look and flopped back onto the bed, arms wide as if dead.
— What do you think of “Storm Eloise Crane”? Too eccentric?
I laughed loudly, despite the strange knot in my stomach.
— It’s horrible.
— Exactly. That’s why it’s perfect.
We fell into silence for a while. The kind of silence only sisters who’ve known each other since birth can share.
— But seriously... — she began, her voice now lower. — Didn’t you find it strange?
— What?
— The way they acted. Like they were... watching more than participating. Like the dinner was a test. Or a trap.
That word sent a shiver down my spine. Trap. No. That was going too far.
— Are you reading about murders again?
— Maybe. — She smiled, but her eyes were still serious. — Maybe I just noticed something no one else did.
— What if they were just two well-mannered men trying to survive a dinner with the Bridgerton family?
— Could be. But, Frani... — She took my hand. — Don’t drop your guard so quickly, okay? Even if his eyes are green and his curls seem to have been sculpted by Venus herself.
I sighed.
— Alright. But you too. No falling for mysterious, smiling dancers, agreed?
— Agreed — she said, pulling the blanket over both of us. — But if he is really interested, he’ll have to deal with my sharp intellect. And your icy demeanor.
— I’m not cold.
— You’re pure ice. He probably loved that. Men love what they can’t understand.
We lay there in silence, side by side, just like when we were children and shared a bed during stormy nights. And maybe this was a different kind of storm. Invisible. Silent. But about to break.
(...)
A moment from the past
Francesca took a deep breath, her fingers still trembling on the doorknob. The laughter of the children outside surrounded her like an ancient veil, a memory now taking shape and sound. She knew she shouldn’t be there — not at that time, not in that grown woman’s body surrounded by children who didn’t yet know the weight of the future — but the desire to see, to feel, was stronger.
She descended the steps carefully, her feet sinking slightly into the damp grass of the morning. The smell of the field was fresh, clean, pure. And there they were. Four children whom time would erase in different ways. Four she only knew by names in portraits or by words from her mother, Violet.
Billie Bridgerton, the oldest, with her golden hair and clothes stained with dirt, wielded a wooden sword as though she were about to save the world from an enemy army.
— Surrender or perish! — she shouted, pointing at her brothers.
Edmund, smaller than her by a little, wore a determined expression. His dark eyes shone with excitement. He swung his tree branch as if it were a real weapon.
— Never! We will defend the castle, Hugo! — he yelled at the youngest, a laughing boy with chubby cheeks, who was already running in the opposite direction, laughing loudly.
And Georgina, still a baby, babbled unintelligible sounds in the arms of her nanny, who was unsuccessfully trying to stop her from kicking her legs.
Francesca stood there, hypnotized.
And then Billie saw her.
— Hey! — she shouted, raising her sword toward Francesca. — Who are you?
She froze. Took a deep breath. Her instinct screamed at her to run, to hide. But something stronger made her smile.
— I’m... I’m Frances. — She swallowed hard. — Cousin Frances. My mother... my mother was your mother’s cousin. I’m here visiting.
Billie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. But Edmund was already approaching, curious.
— Never heard of you — he said, his voice still childish but surprisingly polite.
— It’s because... I lived abroad. In Scotland. I came here to stay for a while, on the doctor’s recommendation. — A lie, lie, lie, but they were buying it.
Billie finally smiled.
— Scotland? How fancy. Do you have an accent? Say something strange!
— "It’s freezing, you could break the stones!" — she improvised, with the best fake accent she could manage. The children exploded in laughter.
— I like her! — declared Hugo, coming up from behind, sweaty with leaves in his hair. — Can you play with us?
Francesca felt something inside her break and rebuild itself at the same time.
— Of course I can — she replied, with a smile more genuine than she expected.
She spent the rest of the morning running with them, barefoot in the grass. Billie declared her the captain of the rebel side, and she led Hugo in a glorious ambush against Edmund, who threw himself to the ground pretending to be mortally wounded. Francesca dropped to her knees beside him, laughing.
— Captain Frances... save me! — Edmund groaned, one hand on his chest.
— You’re so dramatic — she said, but stroked his hair tenderly. How could that sweet boy turn into such a strong, kind man that you admire so much?
When the nanny called the children for lunch, they said goodbye to her as if she had always been part of the group. Hugo took her hand and refused to let go. Georgina, in her arms, stretched her little arms as if she recognized her.
And it was there, sitting on the swing of the old oak tree, with her dress stained and her heart racing, that Francesca felt his presence beside her — Edmund.
— You’re strange - he said, with no malice, just curiosity.
She turned her face toward him. The sunlight caught her dark hair in a way so similar to what she saw in the mirror...
— Is that a bad thing? - she asked.
— No. Just different. But... I like it.
And then, without warning, the sky spun.
The warmth of the field dissipated like mist, and the swing vanished beneath her.
Francesca jolted awake.
Eloise’s room.
The lavender quilt.
The distant sound of carts on the street.
She was back.
But the scent of the field still lingered on her. And the children's laughter still echoed in her ears.
Francesca placed her hands on her face.
Dream or reality, it didn’t matter.
She loved being with them like that.
(...)
The aroma of chamomile tea, freshly baked bread, and sweet jams filled the breakfast hall like an invitation to a routine that, for any other family, would be normal. For the Bridgertons, however, normality had a touch of chaos, loud laughter, sibling teasing... and, of course, powers that always seemed to slip out of control right at the first meal of the day.
Francesca entered silently, as she always did, her light footsteps almost imperceptible on the polished wooden floor. She wore a light blue dress with white lace details, her hair carefully tied with a satin ribbon. She paused for a moment in the doorway, before being noticed. And, as always, she wasn’t.
— Anthony! - Violet shouted, raising an eyebrow and holding the silver teapot firmly. — I’ve told you, you don’t need to squeeze the sugar bowl. It won’t defend itself from you.
— It’s Benedict’s fault! - Anthony retorted, trying to push the lid back in place. — He made the sugar bowl run away.
— I just gave the piece temporary life with a sketch I was working on - Benedict said, licking his paint-covered finger. — I didn’t think it would be so temperamental.
Colin appeared in the middle of a sudden gust of wind, a slight snap in the air betraying his teleportation.
— Did I miss something? I smelled pie.
— You always smell pie - Eloise remarked, not taking her eyes off a thick volume on brain anatomy. — One day I’ll study that. Maybe your nose is another type of mutation.
Gregory raced across the room like a lightning bolt, almost knocking over Violet’s tray, who gave a subtle but deadly leap with her eyes.
— Gregory! - she exclaimed. — How many times have I asked you not to run inside?
— I was trying to catch Hyacinth! She went invisible and stole my slice of cake!
— You’re exaggerating - Hyacinth’s voice came from nowhere. — It was only half the slice.
— This girl is going to drive us crazy - Edmund murmured, trying to hide his laughter.
Francesca stopped next to the chair, watching it all. Her plate was still empty. Her siblings were all talking at once, laughing, arguing, knocking things over. And there, in the middle of all that life... she felt like an out-of-tune piece. A subtle noise amidst the deafening symphony of the Bridgertons.
She pulled out a chair and sat quietly, pouring some tea with meticulous movements. Her eyes scanned the table, lingering on details the others didn’t even notice: the drop of paint on Benedict’s cuff, the unruly threads on Anthony’s collar, Colin’s slightly darkened eyes — who was pretending to be much better than he really was.
She also noticed her mother’s eyes, hiding her exhaustion with patient smiles, and Edmund’s bright gaze as he looked at the family gathered together. It was beautiful. It was noisy. It was confusing.
— Aren’t you going to eat, Fran? - Eloise asked, finally noticing her quieter sister.
— I’m observing - Francesca replied with a faint smile.
Eloise frowned. — Observing?
— Sometimes it’s more interesting to watch the pieces move than to be part of the board - she answered, before taking a sip of tea.
At that moment, Benedict dropped a toast painted with eyes and a mouth, which shouted "Save me!" before crumbling into crumbs on the floor.
— Ugh, I think I missed the lifespan timing - he commented, wiping his fingers.
Francesca looked at the scene. And for a brief second, she felt a strange pang in her chest. What she would give to have a piece of that chaos inside her. To not feel like she was... out of sync.
With almost imperceptible movement, she snapped her fingers.
And the world stopped.
Everything around her froze. The steam from Violet’s tea hung motionless in the air. Gregory was paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth. Hyacinth — or at least her empty chair — stayed still. Even the laughter in Edmund’s eyes was suspended in time.
Francesca stood up. She walked slowly around the room, circling her siblings. She ran her fingers through Eloise’s hair, fixing a rebellious strand. She caressed Colin’s shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. She stopped by her father’s side.
— You had no idea what was going to happen to us, did you? - she murmured, to him. — But you raised us so well anyway.
She smiled with sadness and returned to her chair. A soft snap, and time resumed.
— ...I served this jam to the Prince once - Violet was saying, completing the lost sentence. — He said he had never tasted anything like it.
— That’s because I made it - Edmund said, dipping his finger in the jam.
— Edmund! - Violet exclaimed, horrified.
Francesca gave a soft laugh. A real, small, sincere laugh.
She still felt out of place — a little — but in that moment, she remembered something essential: even though she was different, she was still a Bridgerton. And, somehow, that was enough.