Chapter 1 : Veronica de Sade
Death comes easily, a final flick of her sword and the throat splits open lifesaving blood dripping down onto the icy ground. The traitor is dead before he even hits the ground, his desperate hand landing a centimeter from her foot. He should have known that there would be no mercy to be found in her. Mercy was a word that did not exist in her vocabulary. Veronica turns on her heels, cleaning her sword on her blood splattered shirt and starts picking her way back through the devastated hall. Sunlight streams through broken windows, bouncing off glass shards and creating patterns that would be beautiful in any other circumstances. She's overstayed her welcome. As it is, it'll be difficult to slip away before the alarm is sounded. With a sigh – the largest sign of attrition that she'll allow herself while at work – she bends down to retrieve the small black satchel that had started this mess. It's heavier than she expects, thudding against her hip when she hoists the strap over her shoulder. A quick glance inside reveals a blue book, satisfied she shuts it again and continues downstairs.
The stairs are a shattered mass of stone and twisted metal, so she forgoes them entirely and leaps out into open air. Lifts a hand as she falls and gathers water around her hand freezing it into the rough outline of an outline, all sharp edges, and grating claws. It's not pretty by any means, but it does the job, numerous legs skittering along the walls and slowing her fall just enough, so that she lands with a thud and not a bone break crash. She dissolves it as she slips out the way that she had come, through the servants' quarters and out the window. Steps towards the stables, looking around for a familiar mare but there is nothing in sight.
Her preferred beast of travel – a lovely Ariégeois pony named Sucre – had been slated to become horse meat as her coat was an undesirable silver-grey instead of the traditional black. Veronica had rescued her on sight with grace and etiquette – despite what some snot nosed princess with straw for brains might claim – and ever since then, Sucre had become her most loyal of companions. She was not the sort of horse to wander off in search of better grass, if she was missing then it was likely that someone else had come along. Her hand returns to her sword hilt as she exhales slowly and looks around with renewed vigor, eyes scanning the ground for tracks – a loud nicker interrupts her musings – and she looks up. Exhales in relief and rushes over to the far side of the barn.
Sucre greets her with a hearty head bump and nuzzles happily at her shoulder, her smelly breath a welcome scent. Veronica strokes her forehead, scolding her gently under her breath when the words die in her throat as she spots the second horse. Standing of an even height with her Sucre but weighing nearly twice as much, Ombre tossed his black head and bellowed a challenging neigh. Veronica sighed. If that nuisance was here, then the intruder could only be –
"Sister!"
She sighed again and looked up at the small figure perched in a nearby tree. Her hair – longer than even Veronica's was dark as night and barely restrained in a braid – her cheeks still full of baby fat, and her smile impish. She scampered across the uneven ground, dressed in an outfit unbecoming of a young lady but as Veronica was covered in blood, she supposed she could throw no stones.
"Sister!" The newcomer called out again, and leapt down, flipping in the air with the sort of grace that would make a prima donna jealous and landing neatly in a crouch. She bounced up and Veronica was relieved to see the dagger at her hip, the little pest was here on official business then and not an ill-thought-out whim. Veronica bites back a smile, hidden as it is behind her fox mask, and resumes preparing her horse for departure.
"That is Renarde Glacée to you, little one," she points out mildly, and gives Sucre one last pat deeming her travel ready once more. "Skipping lessons, are you?"
"Sister," Dominique chirps again, her eyes peeking out impishly behind her messy bangs. "Letter for you." She reaches into a pocket and removes a thin envelope, as dark as the bluest skies and covered in silvery patterns that resembles the constellations, they were no doubt based on. Veronica stiffens when she sees it, worry flaring briefly and then disappearing behind a thin veneer of calm. She'd been hoping for a vacation after this mission, a chance to visit her brother and Loki but it would seem that her fate would be otherwise. She removed her formerly white gloves and accepted it with delicate fingers, eyeing the lack of name warily.
"From…?"
"Not father," Dominique says hastily, looking around with morbid curiosity at the wreckage of the house behind them. She's itching to go and explore, Veronica can tell, but if she unleashes her onto it then they'll both be in for a world of delays. Veronica shifts slightly to block her view of it, staring down at the shiny letters suspiciously. It's impossible to discern head or tails from them, but there are only two people who use such spindly script – for script it was even if she couldn't read it – and she huffs. Dominique's eyes flicker back to her, watching intently and so Veronica feels no regret about angling the letter so that she has no chance to read it. With a practiced movement, she slits the seal and removes a single sheet of paper. There are only seven words. Meet me in the greenhouse for tea. There is no signature, but a little black cat has been etched where one might be found.
"Grandfather," Veronica grumbles, and resists the urge to groan, her hopes for a vacation are decreasing by the second. "When did he give this to you, little sist- do not touch that!"
Dominique looks up with a guilty expression, her finger already wet with blood. Veronica stares. The little pest smiles back. Veronica stares harder until with a pot, the teenager wipes her hands off and stands up. "Louis wanted to know what it felt like," she says as if that explained why she felt the need to poke the disemboweled doorman.
Perhaps it made sense to the 12-year-old, but it had been many years since Veronica was that age – young and still full of insouciance, incapable of keeping secrets – although that was an unkindness. After all, Dominique had managed to keep the existence of her twin a secret for seven long years. Thinking about it, was still quite odd. Within the span of a year, she had gained two new little brothers – one via a slave auction, and one via blood – Veronica still wasn't sure what to make of all that. It wasn't that she didn't understand, the issue in her mind is that she did. The Marquis de Sade, the man who had sired her and her siblings, was not a kind person. For all that he had never lifted a hand to her personally, Veronica still remembers the bruises on her mother's skinny wrists. Can visualize the way that Antoine flinches whenever someone walks behind him unexpectedly.
Theirs had not been the happiest of childhoods, and it had only grown colder when Dominique – or more accurately her mother Annalisa– had joined the picture. Her father had first laid eyes on her in the city, and within the span of two months had wooed her away from her family and into a lawful wedding. Veronica wasn't sure if love was the appropriate word, or if a sick form of lust was more fitting, she couldn't find it within herself to care. Annalisa had only stayed for a few years, just long enough to give birth to Domi and then she had fled. At the time, Veronica had thought her a callous bitch for abandoning her only daughter like that, but now – years older and far more world-weary – she realized the woman had been faced with an impossible choice. She had tried to take her children, Veronica now knew, and flee to safety with the assistance of Grandfather, but in the chaos, Dominique had been left behind. There had been a terrible fight the night she had disappeared, Veronica well remembers hiding with Antoine in the servants' quarters, huddled together as above them their father and grandfather came to blows. The screaming had lasted for hours, and in the aftermath both Annalisa and Grandfather were gone.
It was many years before she saw her grandfather again, he came to visit her at school and though Veronica was reluctant to confer with a family traitor, he won her over with his gentle words and respectful stance. Sweet but not condescending, kind but not patronizing, the soft grandfather she remembered from her younger ages. Her sword was a gift from him, and it remained to this day one of her most precious possessions. It had kept her safe through many a fight. Veronica drags herself from her thoughts and shoving them back into the dark recesses over her mind and looks once more to her sister. Dominique is already perched upon Ombre, a small creature seated prettily on the massive behemoth of a horse, the two of them together looking like the very definition of trouble.
"When did he give you this letter?" Veronica asks, swinging onto Sucre and pointing her towards home. "For that matter, do I need to escort you back to your school?"
"Was on my desk when I woke up. I don't know how it got there, anything urgent?"
The question about schooling, Veronica notes, is studiously ignored. She lets it slide, if Dominique wishes to fail her classes and become a disgrace to society then it is of no concern to her. "Just Grandfather being himself, nothing to trouble yourself with. How is – are your brothers?"
Dominique's rambles about the various antics Noé and Louis have gotten up to is enough to keep them occupied until they reach the outskirts of the de Sade territory. It is not the home that she and Antoine grew up in – no, that one had burned to ash in a mysterious fire the previous month – but the estate that her Grandfather had rebuilt. Veronica thought it quite petty of him to go and renovate a building from before her father became the marquis, as if he were trying to erase every molecule of his existence from the family lineage. Her grandfather is nothing if not meticulous.
Veronica leaves her sister at the door and heads to her quarters intending to scrub away the dried blood coating her limbs before her meeting. A maid is already in the process of drawing her a bath when she enters. A shy little thing with curly blonde hair, and big brown eyes. She smiles and bobs her head when she spots Veronica, freckles dotting her cheeks like stars in the night sky. She has dimples, Veronica notes. Two of them, deep enough to press her finger into, and she is tempted – by what she isn't exactly sure – but there is something familiar about the long curly hair, and the smile is certainly infectious. She asks the maid to stay. Though it takes but a moment for the sweat and grime and blood to be removed from her skin, it takes her many more to lay the maid down on her bed and explore the soft recesses of her body.
Veronica departs from her chambers, her step light and her heart even lighter, having been well satiated by the little maid in every sense of the word. Grandfather is already in the greenhouse when she enters, reclining in on a settee in a manner that would be inappropriate for anyone other than him. She learned early on that rules didn't apply to the Marquis de Mazan, especially those having to do with etiquette. "Grandfather," she greets him quietly and takes a seat at the table. The tea is already served, small biscuits arranged in a platter, all her favorites she notes, and the nerves return ten-fold.
"I take it you enjoyed yourself," Grandfather asks, not deigning to look up from his papers but Veronica feels her cheeks heat anyway. Of course, he would notice. He had a knack for sensing such things.
"I did. The mission was a success," adds the latter part in the hopes of distracting him from questioning her further.
"Shall I feign surprise," is the only response. "You were the one assigned to the task; it is little shock that you were victorious." He lowers the papers, setting them aside and finally turns his dark gaze onto her. Veronica tries not to squirm, she's not a little girl in need of praise and his faith in her is appreciated, even if deep down she would have liked him to be slightly more concerned. "Eat. Blood is not a substitute for a proper meal."
Veronica selects an assortment of pastries, biting back a comment about how he should take his own advice, and starts to nibble. As expected, they are delicious and she's already on her third one before she realizes it, having become lost in the sugary daze. The conservatory is a place that she spends little time in. For all its beauty, she has never had great interest in plants – that has always been Loki's area of expertise – the Oriflamme prince often spending his hours in the gardens instead of at his desk. She has no idea what her brother sees in such a slacker. For all that he is a friend of the family, he irritates her just as often as he provides entertainment. She huffs and takes a sip of tea, allowing the sweetness to wash away the darker thoughts. Thinking about Loki usually leads her thoughts into a more unpleasant direction, and her thoughts return to the maid from earlier.
It is with annoyance that she recalls who the curly locks had reminded her of. Princess Faustina Oriflamme, heir apparent to the throne, younger twin of Princess Luna Oriflamme and Veronica's roommate for most of her school years. Even the sweetness of the tea could not stop the flood of annoyance as the memories threatened to surface. The memories of the maid are being superimposed with thoughts of Faustina – flushed and needy – and she shakes her head, dislodging them with no small amount of anger. "Grandfather," she starts, in one final bid to distract herself, "why the summons?"
"Can I not summon my eldest for a cup of tea, I merely wished to see your lovely face, my dear," is his prompt reply, and if it had been anyone other than him saying that she might have believed it. As it is she merely raises an eyebrow and he cracks a smile, his own crinkling up at the corners. "You are to be married."
The cookie in her mouth turns to ash and she coughs indelicately, holding the napkin up to her face. Grandfather's smile grows, it's not a cruel look – almost sympathetic in fact – but the sight of it sends chills down her spine. She swallows a mouthful of tea, feeling the liquid cool down far to quickly as her ice escapes her control. "Forgive me, I must have misheard," she manages, fingers trembling slightly when she places the mug down.
Grandfather merely hums and the chills return ten-fold, the ringing in her ears such that she fears she might just faint away. She has no desire to find out what man she's being sold to, or what sin she could have committed that was so great that her grandfather would withdraw his protection and leave her at the mercy of her father. "Who," the words are barely audible over the pounding of her heart, there is ice in her blood. Her fingers tighten reflectively around the teacup, and she lifts it to her lips, taking the tiniest of sips hardly enough for the liquid to wet her tongue.
"You are to be engaged to the Grand Duchess of Oriflamme, although you might no her as Princess Faustina," Grandfather replies, not looking up from the quill he is turning between his fingers. Speaks the words as if they could not be more obvious, as if it is a done deal, signed and sealed. Veronica supposes that it must be for him to be bringing it up now, still she falters, to be engaged to a princess – let alone that straw brained shroom – is something that simply cannot be. Fury broils to life in her stomach, as her hands coil into fists. It has nothing to do with her preference for the fairer sex – although, she's positive that the heir to the throne won't be allowed to marry someone incapable of continuing the family line – and everything to do with her burning dislike of the princess. The whole suggestion is sheer lunacy and yet her grandfather does not appear to be joking. In fact, he seems quite serious in a distracted sort of way, for he has not truly made eye contact since she joined him at the table.
She coughs, clears her throat as the tea freezes in her mug. "Grandpa, please if you could grant me more details, I would be most appreciative," she says, and it is a struggle to keep her voice demure and polite. For all that her Grandfather has never seemed to pay mind to social hierarchy he is still a man, and her elder. "Did you perhaps me Prince Luna?" She asks, and prays that he confused the twins, anyone would be better than her. Resolute she shoves aside the memories of Faustina's laughter, beating them back with a broom until they dissipate. "Or Prince Loki," she adds – though that idea is also a ludicrous one – but her options are swimming away faster than the fish before a shark.
There is a sigh, and he lifts his gaze to look at her. There are ink smudges on his face, Veronica notices belatedly, and dark bags under his eyes as if he's been forgoing sleep again. For a moment she feels guilty for adding more to his plate but then she remembers her impending doom and the guilt gives way to anger. Her tea is undrinkable, but she manages to find an unfrozen cookie and snaps it between her teeth, staring at him unflinchingly.
"My dear," he begins after a long pause, his fingers steepling under his chin. "You have a preference for women do you not? The fairer sex as it were." Tilts his head and lowers his voice as if sharing some great secret. "It is always the maids you leave your teeth prints on, never the servants, or so I am told.
"Grandpa, I'm a lesbian," Veronica says, rather than flinging the tea pot in his face as her instincts urge. Lifts her teacup only to remember that it is more ice than liquid and sets it back down again. Grandfather's eyes immediately flicker to her hand at the sound of China clacking against stone, but he makes no comment, merely snaps his fingers and a servant is there to whisk the cold atrocity away. A heartbeat later it is replaced with another mug, steam gently wafting off the top and coloring the air with a soft cinnamon scent, soothing her nerves slightly.
"Yes, yes. That too," Is the careless answer. "And you would prefer to marry one rather than a man, would you not?"
Veronica frowns at him, trying to make sense of the nonsense that he is speaking, because though the answer should be obvious, it is not one that she can give, especially not when it is her duty as the eldest daughter to marry into a wealthy family and produce an heir. "Grandpa," she tries again, tone weary. "I know it is common practice among the common folk to marry whom they please, but as Father has surely told you, it is the duty of us nobility to marry into a decent family. I must find myself a member of the peerage with whom I can create a strong marital alliance, and as Prince Loki is apparently not an option." It is less that he is not an option and more that he turned her down flat when she'd asked, but Veronica refuses to dwell on those thoughts and continues relentlessly. "I have my duties and I intend to see them through."
"Which is why you're to marry her highness," Grandpa replies and waives an imperious hand. "Have you any idea how difficult it was to find a person of high enough status, who likes women, and who would be a useful marriage ally?"
"I do not but father said– "
"It's a good thing that that man is no longer here then, isn't it," Grandfather interrupts and smiles like he's won some sort of grand prize. Veronica isn't quite sure just what he thinks that he's won, but if he thinks that she'll simply bow down and marry the bane of her existence, then he has another think coming.
"Then allow me to marry Prince Luna," she offers instead, and his gaze turns cold. "Why must it be Faustina? Grandpa, we don't get along! We're just as likely to duel then we are to reconvene in any bed. I– "
"Veronica," Grandfather interrupts and there is steel in his voice, no mercy to be found in his dark eyes. "The deal has already been struck. You will be engaged to her highness in a fortnight, and you will do your family proud. There are no other options." He waves a hand, dismissive of her angry tea-kettling. Abruptly, Veronica wonders if this is what her father felt like growing up. "Do not be ungrateful child, it is uncouth to look a gift horse in the mouth."
Veronica opens her mouth to protest once more but the look in his gaze chills her to the bone and she falls silent, her jaws locked tight as fear rears its ugly head. She will find no pity in him, nor aid, she knows now. Whatever deal he has struck to win her this match is one that he apparently values more than her happiness, the thought has her eyes burning in ways that they haven't in years. "I understand," she says slowly, inhaling deeply. She is a de Sade Lady, and she will do her duty despite the sudden fog in her mind. "Is Faust– the princess aware of this… delightful event? For that matter when am I to meet my betrothed?" Knowing Grandfather, such details will have slipped his mind, he's never been good at keeping to an organized schedule, but as this is her future at stake, she hopes that he'll do his due diligence. The smirk that he gives her though, is not as reassuring as she was hoping for. It unfurls on his face, curling an upper lip, and making the scar that bisects his left cheek crinkle disturbingly. His sunglasses slide down his nose slightly, just enough to show a flash of glittering eyes.
"Our good Lord Augustus Ruthven the second, should be informing her of it as we speak," speaks the words so cheerfully, that Veronica is almost relieved, until like a splinter jabbing into her foot, she remembers that Grandfather and Lord Ruthven get along like a fire staying lit during a thunderstorm. That is to say not at all, and her fears return ten-fold. "Oh, do not fret, dear, we reached an agreement on that matter," Grandfather replies, interpreting the horror on her face accurately.
"And how did you achieve that?" Veronica asks, her voice wavering like an exhausted bird trying to survive the temperamental winds of the sky.
Grandfather laughs at her question, a particular sort of chuckling sound that escapes from his chest in awkward wheezes. Normally, she would feel proud to be responsible for his laughter as it is a thing rarely heard in the villa, but normally he isn't laughing at her nor withholding vital information, and frustration begins to bloom in her chest. "Grandfather," she says sharply, fingers curling around the tea mug again, a single nail tapping against it impatiently. "If you would be so kind."
"Through tactics that should not be discussed with the present company," Grandfather replies, and presses a handkerchief to his mouth, quelling the last of his rough chuckles. "You need not fear, my dear, your encounter with the princess will go without issue. I trust that you will be on your best behavior."
As she is the only one currently present – the three servants flitting around the conservatory not withstanding – his words strike another chord in her chest, and her jaws tighten in response to the slight. "Fine then," she says stiffly. "When will this meeting occur?" She prays that it will not be too soon, meeting with a princess will require weeks of preparation, gathering of fabric to form new dresses, deciding on what she'll wear, on how she'll do her hair, on where they will be meeting.
Grandfather hums, and taps his own tumbler, expression thoughtful as if Veronica cannot read the truth of it on his face, and she barely bites back a sigh. "When you find out, please be so courteous as to let me know."
"Of course, dear, I wouldn't want you two to start things off on the wrong foot," is the reply, all amusement and not an ounce of shame. "I'll let you know when the time comes."
Looking at him, at his smug smile, and the way that he hides his thoughts behind a taunt or a teasing word, Veronica is abruptly reminded of how little she truly knows about him. Of what secrets lurk behind the shallow surface of his smile. It is just the way that her grandfather is, how he has been for as long as she's known him, and how he will no doubt remain for the rest of her life. Having long ago accepted this, she swallows back her words, and plasters on a sweet smile over her growing irritation. "I will be taking my leave then, Grandpa," she says, and is gratified when he looks briefly surprised.
"You haven't finished your biscuits, dear."
"They were delicious, but I am afraid that I must beg a moment to myself, before I meet with the younger ones for supper," She says, and for a delusion moment thinks to invite him, but then she remembers who all will be in attendance and so bites her tongue once more. "Thank you for this lovely tea, Grandpa, I'll see you around." The words come out as more of a question, then the firm statement that she intended, and her cheeks pinken in embarrassment.
He looks up at that, eyes hidden behind those dark shades, but Veronica imagines that they are quite assessing as it is, but then he nods, and that damnable smile returns. "Yes, do take care of yourself, my dear. There is much planning to be done." And, with a wave of his hand, Veronica knows herself to be dismissed from his presence – and no doubt from his mind – she takes a quick step back, curtsies, and then hastily leaves the conservatory, brushing past the green fronds that try to slow her steps with careless heed.
