He would make the best of a bad situation. As it turned out, solitary work suited him. The sudden end of invitations, both personal and professional, had troubled him originally. But now he found isolation no more painful than a fading bruise, an affliction that only hurt when he pressed on it.
In the six months since the scandal broke, Clark had grown a tolerance for loneliness—had learned to fill the silence with classical music, concertos so frenetic, so transportive, he lost himself in the notes. Accompanied by Johann Sebastian Bach, he could fix this mess of an assignment. And himself. Soon—any minute now—he’d stop feeling like the only person who had ever really liked him must have lied about that too.
At first, when the second Brandenburg Concerto cut out, he assumed the batteries on his speaker had died. The castle had given him a hard time since he got here. Nothing at the caliber of a “curse,” mind you—all sites had their challenges and quirks. This one was simply more . . . tenacious. But then . . . a new song began, a sort of vaguely familiar drumbeat.
Had his phone somehow shuffled to another random playlist? Clark’s face folded in confusion. Then the lyrics started—
I’ve known a few guys who thought they were pretty smart
But you’ve got being right down to an art
What in the name of . . .
You think you’re a genius, you drive me up the wall
Marching over, Clark picked up the speaker and, sure enough, it read, Connected device: Riley’s iPhone.
He made a noise alarmingly reminiscent of a chicken. This kind of tomfoolery—this lack of respect for a professional working environment—was exactly why he hadn’t wanted that woman on his site. Hijacking his speaker was so completely juvenile. And her song choice. Some people had no taste at all.
Oh-oh, you think you’re special
Hold on . . . Surely, the lyrics weren’t specifically directed at him?
No. She wouldn’t. Would she?
Clearly Riley had chosen a song to annoy him—a cheerful girl-power ballad—but it wasn’t like she thought he was—
The song switched abruptly, the next opening with a set of unmistakable strings.
Clark stared down at the speaker with mounting dread, waiting for the singing to start.
You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht
Oh, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t even vain!
Growing up he’d been nothing special. Overlarge ears, puppy fat. He’d thinned out when his delayed growth spurt finally deigned to arrive—two years too late. Around the same time he’d finally grown into his teeth.
Clark knew what he looked like now, knew some people liked it, but he didn’t take any particular pleasure in his appearance. In fact, he often found his face an obstacle to connection—people were quick to project fantasies onto him that left little room for reality.
As Carly Simon continued to mock him, Clark seethed. He couldn’t let this indignity stand. He had no choice but to avenge himself. If her phone was in range to connect—two could play this game.
But what song to choose? He needed artillery against her invasion. Something that showed he wasn’t the pompous elitist she presumed. As he scrolled through his playlists, nothing was quite right. Thumbing to the search bar he typed in vengeful woman, but all he got were playlists full of Fiona Apple and Taylor Swift. What the fuck? A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Until, finally, he found the perfect choice. He even head bobbed a little to the intro.
American woman
Stay away from me
Clark turned up the volume.
American woman
Mama, let me be
He smirked. Let her come back from that one.
It barely took her until the third chorus, the music once again switching with an abrupt click.
Payback is a bad bitch
And baby, I’m the baddest
He rolled his eyes. Who even sang this? Some teenager?
Now you’re out here looking like regret
Ain’t too proud to beg, second chance, you’ll never get
Jesus. Clark barely stopped himself from laughing, muffling the impulse with his fist. He was almost having fun—he had to put a stop to this at once.
Urgently, he hit the off button on the speaker, plunging the room back into silence. He simply couldn’t tolerate these types of time-wasting pranks. Setting down the device, he went to find her. They were about to have a very strongly worded conversation.
“Riley,” he called, heading through the granary toward the servant’s hall. She couldn’t have gone that far and still been in range.
A few steps farther and an acrid smell hit his nose. Was that— Clark sped up, breaking into a jog when the hint of smoke grew stronger.
“RILEY.” Clark burst into the hall to find her with her back to him, standing in front of the hearth. “Tell me you’re not intentionally starting a fire.”
She arched to look at him over her shoulder. “You want me to lie?”
Was he not due a break? Did he truly deserve these incessant torments? Had he not spent enough of his life picking up the pieces of someone else’s recklessness?
His father was gifted and important, and everything else fell to the wayside. Payments to Clark’s school he said he’d taken care of, doctor’s appointments for Mum. Every family holiday was at the mercy of his career. Clark had learned to double-and triple-check every contract, schedule, and commitment, to pay extra for travel insurance, to remain always, always on guard.
He marched forward. “What could possibly possess you to do something so reckless?”
“I’m using the fireplace,” Riley protested.
Indeed, she’d placed a small pile of dried sticks and brush in the blackened hearth and held a matchstick, still smoldering, between her fingers.
Where should he even begin to list the number of problems with that plan? Oh, yes, how about, “That hearth has likely been blocked for a century.”
“Oh.” She stared at her tiny blaze, the flames merrily dancing in shades of orange and gold, then bent her knees to try to see up the flue. “That’s not good.”
At least the floor in this room was dirt. Muttering under his breath, Clark began using his boots to kick together a pile large enough to douse the fire.
“Next time you’re cold, try putting on a hat.”
Seeing what he was doing, Riley began to help using her own boots. “Please. I’m not that delicate.”
Her words drew his eyes from her feet up her thick thighs, the wide sweep of her hips, the sweet dip of her waist. Clark dragged his gaze away before he could get any higher.
“I wanted to run a diagnostic on the dagger we found.”
A diagnostic? But then why— “Wait, were you going to put the dagger in the fire?”
He hadn’t thought he could lose his composure any further today, but once again Riley had gotten the better of him.
Kneeling, he began sweeping dirt from the pile into his cupped hands.
“I know Martin said you could examine the artifacts you find—against my advisement, I might add—but that doesn’t mean you can treat them so cavalierly, pursuing every whimsical idea that pops into your head.”