“Whatever.” Riley waved him off. “I’m taking the dagger for the morning.”
“What do you plan to—You know what, never mind.” The less he knew, the better. Clark needed to maintain plausible deniability for whatever calamity she undoubtedly caused. “Just try not to damage it.” It pained him to allow her to handle any historical artifacts, but thanks to the HES’s apathy and Martin’s refusal to see sense, he didn’t exactly have the jurisdiction to stop her.
Once they’d parted ways, heading down separate wings, Clark set up shop. He unpacked his tools and his trusty solar-powered Bluetooth speaker, as well as some battery-operated lanterns to supplement the low light coming through the dusty windows.
With a mixture of gratitude and trepidation, he applied the salve Riley had given him, letting out a deep sigh as the fragrant mixture soothed his irritated skin. Assuming the concoction didn’t eventually turn his hands purple or something, it had been nice of her to offer it. Surprisingly nice, considering he’d done nothing but piss her off over the last twenty-four hours. He still had no idea how she’d managed to cause the irritation. Perhaps he had an allergic reaction to something in the tower and she’d merely taken advantage of convenient timing.
Despite her acerbic pronouncement that they were at war, he did hope some degree of civility could be maintained during their shared time in the castle. Ignoring her would be a challenge, but if Clark simply kept to his system, he might finish his work here with minimal additional interruption.
He wanted to do a good job even though his assignment was a sham. As Patrick had pointed out somewhere around sixth form, Clark had always been desperate for approval. Still, this poor, maligned castle deserved better than to fall to capitalist wolves without proper attention worthy of its legacy. Arden had been shaped and sieged, burned and reclaimed, from a thirteenth-century fortress to a fifteenth-century clan seat, until it was finally made into a manor house at the end of the 1700s.
Rumors of an alleged curse contributed to ownership of the estate passing like a hot potato between minor aristocracy and private investors over the last few centuries. No one lasted long enough to finish anything they started. Everywhere he looked he found scaffolding, half-laid floors, peeling wallpaper, and faded frescoes.
On the bright side, this room was in better shape than most of the others. Though water damage had turned a formerly white ceiling brown, and the wood frames of the walls—bent and warped—were now held up by metal beams from previous, abandoned restoration efforts, partial remains of moldings and golden sconces hinted at former grandeur.
This wasn’t a proper excavation—he didn’t have license to dig—but Clark still segmented each accessible room with gaffer’s tape and a digital measuring device, adapting a survey method to make sure he searched for artifacts in the closest proximity to a scientific process as he could. It was why, in addition to the random mishaps Martin had mentioned, he was taking longer than projected to complete the contracted review.
Carefully, he sifted through piles of detritus and debris. Other scientists might have rushed this job, and the HES even seemed to expect him to—certainly Martin would have preferred it—but this work was about more than professional redemption for him. Clark needed to prove to himself that he could work without Patrick—that he was fine—look how fine he was—after the betrayal, the months of despondency that followed.
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?