CHAPTER ONE , welcoming party

      The car ride to Oxford was tense, to say the least, and it may have been the only time Desdemona Troy wished to get to school faster, instead of praying on red lights and toppling trees.m

To start, her father slapped her hand away when she reached to the front seat to change the radio station from the drab, political nonsense he was listening to, to something with music to distract her from her travel sickness. She let out a quiet noise of offence and he blew a harsh breath from his nose in return.

Her mother handed her back a headscarf to hold, hoping that the feeling of the satin would ease the knot in her daughter's stomach. She did this in the same manner she did everything around her husband; silently.

   Desdemona clutched the accessory tightly in her fists. She put her head against the window and looked at the people and telephone poles they passed on the drive, counting how many ladies had red bags, and marvelling at the fact that every pole they passed had an even number of birds perched on its wire.

   "Will you miss me?" She asked in foolish boredom when they waited at a traffic light.

   "What is there to miss?" Her father asked, jaw strong and eyes steady ahead.

   "Your daughter and her dazzling company, maybe?"

   "You spent most of your time with the Cattons, you're more of a ghost than a daughter." Her mother looked at her husband in shock. Only then, he looked away from the road, almost daring his wife to tell him off. She didn't. Desdemona stayed quiet.

The car ahead of them started moving again, and that meant the conversation was over. Desdemona took advantage of this quiet and used it to study her parents.

   Her father was a proud man of 58. His hairline inched back further, seemingly every day, but nobody made mention of it. His hair was jet-black. Desdemona wondered if he invested in dye, because she swore it used to be brown. His eyes were cold, irises of pure salt and ice. His eyelashes and eyebrows were both wispy and barely-there. His nose was the same as Desdemona's—long and straight. The wrinkles on his face showed that he was a violent man in his youth and an angry man in his age.

   Desdemona's grandmother always warned her about angry boys, praying she wouldn't make the same mistake her daughter did, she said; When a boy is born angry and selfish and cruel, no amount of wishing will turn him into a man. When he curls a fist, you run, and you don't look back.

   Maybe her grandfather was an angry man too. Maybe every man in her family blood had been angry. Maybe men were born angry. Maybe it's their curse, the true test of character, born to be cruel with the choice to be kind.

   Her father coughed in the same manner all old men do—loud, raspy, and visceral—and broke her thought. He cleared his thought after, again, obnoxiously loud. With one hand, he folded his used handkerchief back into his pocket, and Desdemona saw the marks on his fingers.

Before he became a banker, he tried his hand at craftsmanship, like his father. He soon learned that he wasn't made to get his hands dirty, as all he was left with were burn marks, callouses, and splinters.

   Desdemona then looked at her mother, well, more so the back of her head, but she'd spent enough time drawing her to know her face like the back of her own hand. Her mother was who Desdemona took after, it was something that made her swell with pride.

   Louise Alarie (because Desdemona refused to attach her to the mutt sitting in the driver's seat) was an angel among men. That once-in-a-lifetime fairytale beauty that you pass on the street and realise you can now die happily. Her hair, long and fair, smelled of hyacinths. Her eyes, green and inviting, had crinkles of laughter at their side. You could tell what kind of lady she was with one look; kind. Her lips were full and painted a dull red. Desdemona knew her mother blended a dot of that same lipstick on her cheeks every morning before she left the house.

Everything about her was soft. The gentle curve up of her nose, the absentminded and almost immovable smile on her lips, the way she looked at you as if she could see everyone you ever had been and ever would be and loved you in spite of it. Desdemona was thankful to have been born to a woman like her.

   With her gentle hands folded in her lap, nails perfectly shaped and coated in a light shade of pink, courtesy of Desdemona the night before, Louise looked so statuesque, it wouldn't be hard to mistake her for a work of art.

Desdemona reached for her handbag, a burgundy Hermés Kelly with lacy ribbon and rosary beads tied around the handle. She took out a compact mirror and studied her own face.

She hated her nose because it was her father's first. She liked her eyes because they were a shade closer to her mother's. She liked the softness of her jaw and the redness of her cheeks, she liked the way they dimpled when she smiled. She liked the lipstick she wore that she was gifted by her grandmother. Desdemona found that there wasn't much about herself that she didn't like. The thought made her happy.

She was happy in the realisation that she was an innately happy person. She remembered she was in the car, nearing her favourite party of the journey, the scenic road that meant the school was five minutes away. She smiled at the trees like they were old friends and noticed that all the birds on telephone poles were now in odd numbers.

The headscarf passed back by her mother was now in partnership with the ribbon and was proudly hanging from Desdemona's bag. Her mary jane's made little noise on the path as she stepped out of the car and to the boot to get her suitcase.

   It was still early enough in the day that the grounds weren't mobbed with incoming first years, but she could still spot a few familiar faces that she'd passed at Saltburn parties and Secondary School. She was certain she heard a distinct American accent over the hustle, but bit down her excitement while her father got out of the car. He didn't open the door for her mother, Desdemona noticed. Instead, he walked to stand like a statue (a gargoyle, to be specific) in front of his daughter.

   She could recite what he was about to say word for word. The same old lecture about behaving and attendance and study that he gave her every year since she was a child. His voice was stern, as always, and he didn't hug her, or even shake her hand when he was finished.

   "Do you understand?" Was all he said. Desdemona nodded, and he nodded back, and sat back in the driver's seat.

   Louise was, of course, graceful when she stepped out of the car. Her heels made a subtle clicking against the pavement as she walked to Desdemona, arms open wide. The girl wasn't ashamed to say she hurried into them, wrapping her arms tightly around her mother's waist.

   With one hand rubbing the square of her back and the other cradling the back of Desdemona's head, Louise squeezed her eyes shut and made a silent wish that they could stay like that forevermore.

   "I love you." With voices so similar, airy and soft, anyone walking by wouldn't be able to tell who said it first. Louise kissed her child's head, and Desdemona kissed her mother's shoulder, and they stayed like that for a few seconds more.

   Louise cupped Desdemona's face, thumbs grazing the apples of her cheeks. "Take care of yourself, my love. You'll do amazing things." She let her eyes drift past the young girl, locking on to an all too familiar figure. With a warm, teasing grin, she looked back at Desdemona. "I think someone wants to take you from me."

   Desdemona looked over her shoulder, smiling when she saw Farleigh stood with his arms folded and a cigarette between his fingers, half-listening to their friends. He raised a free hand to languidly wave at the two women.

   With one last squeeze and a kiss on the cheek, Louise slipped back in the car, and Desdemona walked over to her group, suitcase dragging behind her.

   Her friends—although, 'friend' was a rather loose term, they were more the children of her parents' friends—softly touched her arm, feeling the fur of her coat and asking about her summer, making way for her to stand beside Farleigh before their previous conversation continued.

   He unfolded his arms, wrapping one of them around Desdemona's shoulders, pulling her into his side. Farleigh leaned down to speak lowly, only to her. "I was getting a bit worried, thought I'd have to deal with these bums on my own."

   Desdemona laughed into her hand, turning her head to face Farleigh, nose brushing off of his own. "They're not that bad." She whispered.

   Farleigh let out a 'tsk'. "They're pretty bad." She looked at the group, their tight and tense voices arguing over a pointless debate on whether or not pub rule should go clockwise or anti-clockwise.

   He was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to concede. Desdemona grimaced, sucking in a harsh breath. "Okay, yeah, they're pretty bad."

   "Told 'ya." Farleigh gloated, chuckling to himself. Desdemona angled herself to nudge her elbow into his side with a quiet murmur of 'asshole'. He only laughed more.

   "Hey, guys." The debate came to a sudden close. Desdemona thought the idea of them seeing Farleigh and his cousin as gods, the ones to tell them how to live, was rather amusing, and, as they all stared at him with eager eyes, she thought they might just have a shrine. "I'm gonna help Mona bring her stuff to her dorm, see you 'round."

   A chorus of "bye, Farleigh", "bye, Mona"'s followed. The couple gave them quick waves goodbye and hurried away.

   Farleigh had taken the case from her, wheeling it along the cobbled path while Desdemona ranted about how foul her father smelled. "Of cigarettes, but not in the way you do. The stuff he smokes is vile, it tastes like tar. And his cologne—ugh! It's too rich, it's almost performative. You know, I think that if people didn't know him, they'd smell him and think he's poor. Trying to overcompensate by a strong perfume without realising that it's choking."

   He laughed at her animation, the way her hands flailed as she spoke and the way her eyes screwed shut. She stopped in her path. "What are you laughing at?"

   "Nothin'." Farleigh shrugged and continued to walk.

   Desdemona took quick steps to catch up to him. "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"

   Farleigh laughed again, shaking his head. "Don't know what you're talking about." A smile danced on his face and Desdemona scoffed.

   "You beast!" She gasped in faux-offence, lightly slapping his arm. "You're so horrible."

   The boy clutched his heart dramatically. "Oh, you wound me."

   "Good." Desdemona huffed, not daring to look at him, lest she break character. She'd gone up five steps before she realised Farleigh wasn't beside her.

   At the bottom of the stairs, he stood, leaning against the bannister, flashing her a Cheshire grin. "You know, if I'm that much of a 'beast', I guess you won't want me carrying this up the stairs for you."

   One beat of silence passed, then two. Then Desdemona hopped down the steps, shoes tapping and hair bouncing as she did. She raised herself to the tips of her toes and pressed her lips softly to his cheek, giggling at the red mark of her lipstick.

   "I take it back, I love you." She smiled innocently and Farleigh rolled his eyes. "Here, let me fix that." She was about to wipe away the stain on his face, but he took that hand in his and started going up the stairs.

   "Leave it." He insisted. "It's a fashion statement." He gave her a wink and Desdemona rolled her eyes, despite the flare of her cheeks.

"You're incorrigible." She laughed, pushing his shoulder.

"It's why you love me." Farleigh leaned down, softly kissing her temple. Desdemona squeezed his hand three times and he ran his thumb along the edge of her palm.

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   Desdemona's dorm room was one of the more lavish on campus, just across the hall from Felix and Farleigh's dorms. A cozy space of four walls and a large dresser, with a window overlooking the courtyard and ugly curtains. Farleigh left her bag beside the door, knowing she'd be spending most of her nights with him, anyway.

   She let out a groan as she stretched out on the bed, cracking her knuckles and holding her arms over her head, arching her back. Farleigh lay down beside her.

   The dorm had a slightly musky smell to it, one of aged wood and rest. But, with her head in the crook of Farleigh's neck, all she could smell was Paco Rabanne and cigarettes. It made her smile and shuffle even closer to him.

   Farleigh didn't say anything when she took his hand in her own, tracing along his fingers, drawing shapes on the back of his palm. He looked down his nose at her, having a clear view of the top of her head.

   He could see the gentle lid of her eyes and the smudged style of eyeliner that she adopted from Venetia over the summer. Her skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat, and he knew that he was no better.

   "How's your mum?" Desdemona asked, voice soft and sweet like woven sugarcane.

   Farleigh swallowed thickly. "She's doing," he paused, "fine." The words didn't feel right coming out. Desdemona knew he was downplaying her struggle. Farleigh may be spoiled, thinking he belonged on a throne at the top of the world, but Desdemona was the one person he refused to ask for money.

   The Cattons were fine, they were family. Sir James had made a promise to support him, and, yes, he did take advantage of that offer at times, but he knew they'd be okay.

   Desdemona, however, wouldn't be giving him money from her family. Her father was tight with his money and hated Farleigh enough without him coming around with the begging pot. Mr. Troy thought Farleigh had a negative influence on his kid, said that Desdemona got even more rowdy when she had someone to entertain her ideas. Farleigh thought rowdy was the last word anyone could use to describe her.

To detach herself from her father's name as well as she could, Desdemona chose to embrace her entrepreneurial streak. Most of her days in Saltburn, when it was too hot outside and Venetia wanted a nap, Desdemona would retire to the drawing room and paint for hours on end with nothing but a crackling record to keep her company.

Sometimes, Farleigh came to watch, sitting with one leg folded over the other in an armchair in the corner with his laptop balanced on his knee, admiring her with her hair tied up, beads of sweat on her neck, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Over half of the paintings were of her mother, a few more were of the Saltburn grounds, those were the only ones she sold. The others, the ones of the Cattons and Farleigh were gifted to Elspeth and hung proudly on the walls.

She hadn't made any major deals yet, mostly up-and-coming art collectors who paid more attention to her name than her work, but it was enough for her to buy pretty things for herself.

"We should probably go back outside." Farleigh said before Desdemona could ask if he needed help. "Felix is probably rolling in around now." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge and lighting a cigarette.

"He'll manage without us, he's probably got a welcoming party ready for him." Desdemona kneeled beside him, putting her arms around him and kissing his neck gently. Farleigh raised a hand to hold onto her arms, thumb dragging across her skin. They sat like that for a little while longer, until he stood up and dragged her after him.

   On their way out of the dorms, Farleigh and Desdemona were joined by Annabelle and. . . some guy she was slightly embarrassed to admit she didn't know the name of. Farleigh's arm hung loosely around her, holding her at his side as they walked.

   A boy who walked with the nervousness of a first year, but was dressed in the same fashion as a professor passed them. "Nice jacket." Farleigh mocked, laughing to himself, the nameless pair joining in. Desdemona slapped his chest and gave a silent look of apology to the boy, but her lips were rolled in to hide a giggle. His glasses were slipping down his nose when he gave a shaky smile back.

   Felix Catton, the walking legend, a celebrity amongst their peers, stood as the pinnacle of pride in a blue sweater, towering over the small herd of people who were, as Desdemona said, waiting for him to arrive.

   He smiled brightly and gave an enthusiastic wave when he saw the couple walking towards him. "Farleigh! Mona! It's been ages." He beamed, an arm around each of them and hugging them tightly.

   "You saw us last week, mate." Desdemona laughed, patting him on the chest.

   It didn't take long for Farleigh and Felix to be pulled into a conversation of their own. Desdemona turned to her right, sharing a smoke with Annabelle, who was telling her about her weekend in Italy and her summer love affairs.

   A chill ran down Desdemona's back and the hairs on her arm stood up. She looked over her shoulder, as if one of her friends was about to sneak up behind her and scream in her ear. Her brows furrowed when she saw no one.

   "You okay, babe?" Annabelle asked in concern, tucking a strand of fiery hair behind her ear.

   "Yeah." She breathed, shaking her hands to try rid herself of that paranoid feeling. "Thought I felt someone watching me, dunno."

   "Well, you do look fit, it was probably just someone walking past."

   Desdemona forced a smile. "You're right, it's probably nothing." She pulled at the bracelet on her left wrist, a gold chain bejewelled with rubies, a birthday gift from Elspeth.

A bird cawed loudly, and it was enough for her eyes to flit upwards, unintentionally locking onto a pair of vibrant blue through the thin glass of the window.

His glasses were still hanging down his nose and his eyes widened when he realised he was caught, physically recoiling from the window and cowering further away in his dorm.

A knot formed in Desdemona's stomach, but, as Felix called her name, she had little time to dwell on it. After an invite to the pub and a round on Felix, she'd forgotten all about Oliver Quick.

But he couldn't say the same about her.

—author's note
idk if i like this but it'll get better once they're actually in saltburn i swear 🙏🙏🙏