Disclaimer: Same thing I've said for the past two chapters, or haven't you been paying any attention, you naughty girl?
Laughter. Clarice's days were filled with it, and her nights were occupied by passion. Whenever Hannibal was at work, Clarice found that she no longer had to stay at home and while the hours until he came back. Instead, she went out with Angelus. They shopped, walked around Florence, visited museums, markets, and went out for joyrides in Angelus' many cars.
Today they were in a red Ferrari F50, cruising with the top down along the Tuscan countryside at 80 miles per hour. Clarice was not afraid to zip around like a maniac, for Angelus, like her, loved speed. That was why she owned so many fast cars.
The colors flew rapidly by, lush greens and golds, fields full of ripe, bursting wheat. Flocks of sheep grazing peacefully in their pastures.
Angelus was reclining in the passenger seat, looking for all the world to be sleeping, but the steady drumming of her fingers on the door said she was quite alert and lucid. They were listening to an Oasis C.D. and the song 'Go Let it Out' blared from the speakers, fighting for supremacy with the wind.
She was dressed semi-formally in a black suit and white lawn shirt, a dark fedora pulled over her strange eyes, and instead of her usual designer boots and pocket watch, she was wearing black Doc Martens, yellow stitching like flags, and a silver wrist watch.
I guess this is what casual mean to her, Clarice observed mentally. She herself was no slouch in practically the same attire, except that her shirt was burgundy and she had the jacket off and the sleeves rolled up. They bought it last week; on the same day that she found out Angelus could speak over sixty-five languages, forty-seven fluently, and it was the first time they ever spoke in English.
Clarice had nearly eradicated all traces of her 'Country Twang' as Hannibal had termed it, but Angelus had politely inquired, "West Virginian?" Disconcerted, she said yes. Unlike Hannibal, though, Angelus merely dismissed it with a curt nod, and Clarice could not tell if she was annoyed or displeased.
"Turn left at the next fork, Hannah," Angelus cool voice cut through the wind and music. Her accent was an oddity itself. A strange mix of American and British, she sounded like a Yank who had spent too much time out of the country. Overall though, it was very pleasing to hear. The rise and fall of the vowels and consonants so similar to Hannibal's inflections. Clarice saw the fork and turned left, right at the weather-beaten sign roughly in the shape of an arrow that read; 'Castillo Tejada.'
They drove along in silence for ten more minutes. One of the things that Angelus found odd about her friendship with Angelus was how they could be so comfortable in total silence. Even with Ardelia, whom she had known for more than eight years, she would feel ill at ease without the swearing and idle chitchat that had punctuated her former existence.
Angelus was seated upright now, fedora beside her as she hammered away at her laptop. She never seemed to travel anywhere without it. Just like Hannibal and his Harpy, Clarice thought. Blue tinted shades hid her unusual maroon eyes. Her cellphone rang and she answered it, speaking rapidly in a language Clarice did not understand. She caught snatches of English in it, though. The words yes, no, Florence, Castillo Tejada, and her name, Hannah Ruiz. Clarice assumed correctly that she was informing whoever it was on the other end about their whereabouts and destination.
Towards the end of their conversation, however, Angelus switched to English, saying "Yes, I understand……of course, nona……Alright. I'll see you then……No, but I'll be in Russia two weeks from now……yes……No worries, I'll not forget to drop by……Oh, and Mischa?…thank you for telling me that…Alright. Goodbye."
At the mention of the name Mischa, Clarice's ears perked up. After all, Mischa wasn't a very common name, and with Angelus maroon eyes, the idea at the back of her head began to take root and evolve into speculation.
"Angelus?" Clarice started.
"Hmmm?" Angelus did not look up from her laptop, seemingly engrossed in the numbers that were crawling up the screen.
"Who is Mischa?"
"Mischa…" she looked up now, "is a friend. A grandmother of sorts, I would like to think."
"You're not related?"
"No. Actually, she isn't even old enough to be my nona, but I remember her telling me when I was a child that she felt so old, you follow? It's like that song; 'My body feels young but my mind is very old.'" She finished, singing the last part in a clear alto.
"Oasis, Half the World Away."
"Quite right. Anyway, Mischa is Russian, I think. I first came to know her when I was in a museum in Moscow. I was six. We were both looking at this painting on temporary exhibit, and she started telling me all about it. The painter, the painting's history, why he painted it. Naturally, I was enraptured. I think she was a little intrigued that a six year-old might actually be able to understand her ramblings."
"Did she tell you, or is that your own opinion?"
"Possibly both. Oh, turn right into that gate."
The large cast iron gate was open and looked to be centuries old. Ivy crawled all over its delicate patterns, obscuring some of its original design. A medium-sized fort could be seen at the top of the hill, its single watchtower standing out like a beacon. The lightning rod on it glinted when Clarice glanced at it. Olive trees lined the drive they were on now, providing some relief from the hot afternoon sun.
"The Castillo Tejada. It's been in my family for generations, Hannah. I and my best friend used to play in there when we were children." Clarice looked at her in an odd fashion before turning her attention back to the road.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"No, of course not, Angelus. It's just that I've never heard you speak of your family, or your childhood for that matter. Ever."
"Rather remiss of me, isn't it? I don't like talking about it much. But very well, what do you want to know?" Angelus finally logged off the internet, disconnecting the car phone and shut her laptop before regarding Clarice.
"I don't know, you tell me."
"Well, I was born on the first of April, twenty-seven years ago in our family estate in France."
"You're French?"
"As far as I know." Angelus ran her fingers through her hair.
"What do you mean by that?"
"My mother is French. The Comtesse de Valois."
"I see. Your father was the Comte de Valois?"
"No. I never knew him. He could be French, Spanish, Italian, German, English, or even American. I could not care less. Jack-my mother, Marie' Jaqueline Antoine- never told anyone. I believe everyone thinks me to be the spawn of Satan himself." She let out a bitter laugh.
"You're not very fond of your mother, are you, Angelus?"
"No." short, curt, and harsh.
"May I ask why?"
"No." her words rang with finality. They pulled into the vast courtyard, where a fountain stood in the middle, water spouting from the mouths of babes. A tall regal-looking woman was walking towards them, raven hair swinging from side to side. She had pale skin and exquisitely sculpted features. She walked in a gait similar to Angelus'. Clarice wondered if this was her mother, but no, she was much too young to be. They got out of the car just as the woman stopped to look them over from head to toe.
Her twinkling blue eyes were good-natured and friendly, an exact opposite from Angelus', which was the exact color of blood before it dries. A strange tableaux they presented, three women in the courtyard of an old fort, so silent you could hear a pin if it was dropped on the loose cobblestones.
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hiya fellas, please r/r. i know it isn't very good, but if you should feel the urge to flame me, do it via e-mail okey dokey?