Chapter 7

"Ah, Bertrand," the Count was far too loud for this early in the evening, especially after Bertrand had come from a sleepless day. It wasn't as though he hadn't attempted to get some much needed rest, but rather that every time he found himself drifting off, his mind would wander towards Mira, and the blood-binding, and how right it had seemed with his arm around her, and then he found his thoughts going to more base levels and this really wasn't the type of thing he ought to be thinking about in front of his soon to be father-in-law. "Have you got a moment?" The Count seemed paler than usual, if that was possible. "We need to, uh, talk."

"Of course," Bertrand said. Really, how else could he respond? He couldn't think what they had to talk about; his intentions towards Mira possibly? Despite what he had said to Ingrid, Bertrand really didn't think the Count was the type to believe in giving out a dowry for either of his daughters; not even the preferred Chosen One. "What is there that you want to talk about?" He asked. It wasn't his imagination, the Count really was paler than usual.

"Well," he began, stammering more than usual, and fidgeting with his hands – a sure sign of the Count's own unease with a topic. "You are going to be married to my dear Vlatk... Vladimira," he said. Using the full name? Bertrand began to get a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what the topic of this particularly little talk was going to be about. Oh blood, why him? "And, well," the Count was not comfortable with this topic at all, but even Bertrand knew that it was a conversation that had to be undertaken before a blood-binding. "We're both men of the world, aren't we?" Again: oh blood, why him?

"Yes," Bertrand managed to croak out the response, hoping that he was giving the right answer. He hoped that suddenly, Mira would come in with an intense need for immediate training on a particular subject. Any subject. He'd even taken her wanting to go over dusty, boring, old methods of speaking in the Council chambers than having to sit through this conversation. "Yes, I would … think we are," he added slowly, hoping once more that it was the right answer. The Count shifted once more.

"Yes, yes," he said in a distracted manner. "Well, you'll know, that, after the blood-binding that is, there are," he stopped, arching his fingers together as if to calm himself. It didn't seem to be working very well. "There are duties that must be performed and I," he stopped again and Bertrand wondered if there was anything he could say, really, that would help the man. He doubted it, this was a tradition of a blood-binding after all. But still, perhaps there was some small way...

"I will take good care of Mira," Bertrand said, wincing inwardly as he hoped what he said did not come across as too crass. The Count's shoulders slumped as he relaxed, seeing no need to go on the conversation. Thank blood.

"Er yes," said the Count, patting Bertrand's shoulder. "Good man. I'm glad we had this … this talk."


Mira had been roused from her sleep by her mother and her sister, and dragged into the secondary living room and forced to stand on one of the lower tables in the room. She was still partially asleep, finally having managed to drift off again after that rather … interesting dream that she had experience. She was made to quickly change into a thin under dress shift type thing – she wasn't actually what she should call it, and her brain wasn't awake enough to consider asking her mother for the name of the thing. She was just very aware that she was cold, sock-less, and standing on a table. "Um," Mira said, "not to cast doubt but," she bit her bottom lip, and looked around, "what am I meant to be doing here?"

"Dress fitting, darling," Magda flung a swath of fabric over her youngest's shoulder, pulling it back to make out the shape of her body. "Hm, no, makes you look fat," she declared, tossing the fabric to the side with little regard for who would need to clean the room later on. Then Mira remembered that it would likely be Renfield, and she wasn't much fussed if he had a lot of tidying to do. As long as he didn't try her skirts on again – he kept bursting the stitches and her sewing was not good for constant mending.

"Try this," Ingrid made to hand over another roll of fabric to their Mother, looking up at Mira with a very careful examining eye. She held the fabric back, pulling out a corner of it, and holding it up against her arm. She scowled. "On second thoughts, it puts too much colour into her," she said, copying as Magda had done earlier and tossing the fabric away. "Luckily we've narrowed your choices down to two, isn't it, little sister?" She beamed.

Mira didn't feel very lucky.

The two dresses were laid out flat in front of her. Mira had never really been one for dresses, feeling that she didn't possess that elegant stride needed when one wore a dress to make it worth it, but these two dresses were enough to make her reconsider her whole position on the matter. The first, if she were to be honest about it, probably wasn't for her but it was very beautiful. Made of a deep purple silk, with golden lace embellishments the first was strapless, the bodice of it being more like a corset than anything else. The skirts fell to the floor, before the purple were gathered up, showing golden cream underskirt. "That one would make you look like a princess," Magda said, smiling in such a way that let Mira knew that this particular dress had been her choice.

The second dress had been chosen by Ingrid, and if Mira's first reaction to it was any judge of the matter, it was the perfect dress for the occasion. The dress was rather like an icicle to look at, being largely white in colour. Like the first dress it was strapless, but the bodice looked fitted, and the skirts trailed on the ground just slightly. The hems of the bodice and the skirt were tinged with a spreading dark blue colour, trailing light vines up the skirt. "Ingrid," Mira reached out to touch the dress, "it's perfect."

Ingrid gave Magda a triumphant smirk. "I thought you might say that," she announced. "Come on, we'll need to try it on you," she instructed, "see if any alterations need to be made." Mire hoped that nothing would need to be done to the dress, it was far too perfect and she feared touching it in any way to change it would ruin that perfect quality that she just couldn't put into words properly. Her hopes were heard; the dress fitted her as though it had been made for her all along – and Mira wouldn't have put it past Ingrid to do that just to one-up Magda, who thought all attention should be on her whenever she came swanning back into their lives. "Who knew," Ingrid commented lightly, "you actually look half way decent for a change." Mira gave a laugh, as she smiled back at her sister, knowing the compliment for what it was. "Bertrand's going to be a lucky man."

Oh. Yes. That.

Mira had forgotten it wasn't a proper wedding.

Bats.


Bertrand had been looking for somewhere to lie low after the very awkward conversation with the Count. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the, the, the intention to, erm, guide him through what should be one of the happiest nights of his unlife. But, really, no, he could do without it and now it felt like it would be a short while at least until he didn't feel just slightly uncomfortable being in the same room as the Count. Initially he had retreated to the library, to lose himself in a book on vampiric law and consider how it would work in relation to the Chosen One being female. That was something that still slightly threw him, but Bertrand was nothing If he wasn't a believer in training and knowledge being enough to set anyone up for whatever life was prepared to fling at them.

The staying in the library, however, did not go to plan as Bertrand found himself constantly distracted by loud chattering coming from the next room along, the only voice of which that he could clearly make out was Ingrid's. He tried to ignore it for as long as he could, but the noises get getting louder, and he found himself less and less able to block them out efficiently. Sighing, he shut his book with a snap, and made his way to the other room intent on telling Ingrid to at least consider other people who stayed in the quarters whenever she was having one of her chat sessions, or whatever it was she called it when she filmed herself for her video blog. Opening the door, he found the words dying in his throat.

He hadn't been noticed, but he could see the room perfectly. Mira was standing on a table, in a white and blue dress, comments being made by Magda and Ingrid. Bertrand's vision had tunneled, all he could see was her.

Bats, but she was beautiful.