Chapter XXIX: Saffron in the Garden
The Back Door to the Garden. 3:24 am.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood in a shadowy doorway, a light white gusting through the air, only one of them able to look upon a snow-dusted lawn. Blindfolded, Reinette was behind him, her breathing far too soft, her smell far too poised for his liking. She was not speaking to him. Possibly because she had run out of things to say…or maybe…because of his more recent demonstration of how easy it was to choose between sympathy and efficiency.
It had started off well.
…o…o…o…
They had entered the corridor and managed an uneventful turn through the maze that was the East Wing. Dust-covered memories from his past. The drawing room. The pianoforte. The brandy. Only after they reached the staircase did he begin to notice her unease, her boots clamping on the steps, her movements jerky, the blindfold causing her to trip every five seconds. An eighth of the way down, she chose to stop, wrapping one arm around the banister and clutching his arm as if her life depended on it. A vampire. Afraid of falling. Left with no choice, he had surprised even himself when he said, 'Let go,' and picked her up, balancing her for a moment against the banister. She had mumbled her thanks, breathing heavily as if stairs were some heady ordeal that he was rescuing her from. Unfortunately, that was not the case… like any vampire, young or old, she had to learn to trust her instincts.
There was no time for her to scream. Two stories below, she landed on the balls of her feet, her limbs bending into the fall rather than away from it. The dress spreading like a pool of black, almost imperceptible from where he stood. From so far above, it was a beautiful thing to watch. Graceful even. Like throwing a fish into water. A second later, he landed beside her, taking in the blinded look of shock on her face…the open mouth. The wonder you sometimes saw in a child taking its first fall. Taking her wrist, he forced her to stand and walked on before she could catch her breath. He had known she could do it…the only thing holding her back was fear.
The real problem started afterwards, as they were walking through the house. They had been walking on carpets for so long that at first he did not notice when they stepped onto the floorboards. Hollow wood. Creaky steps. The sound of leather boots. There should have been something, but to his surprise, there was only silence as she walked. More, she had stopped bumping into him. He found himself studying her movements, watching as she became more efficient, more fluid as though her body were remembering things it had forgotten. Habits of stealth: walking with the heel, rolling the feet, breathing in slow, measured breaths. She stilled when he did, she stepped when he did. All with nary a sound. So that by the time they reached the back door of the kitchens, he felt like she had absorbed his shadow. Like he was being stalked by his own personal deathdealer. He had enjoyed the feeling once, but so much time had passed that he did not relish it any more.
…o…o…o…
He reached behind, but her hand was already reaching forward. She was listening for the same signs. Steps. The crunch of snow. The count of the patrol. He was quite certain now that in her past, she had been trained in more than just bloodsight. He frowned and then took her outstretched wrist, stepping forward onto a stone path as the patrol turned the corner. The chill of the outdoors hitting him, the falling snow covering their tracks. Ahead, there was an old wooden gate leading deeper into the garden. A sighting would be unavoidable, so for propriety's sake, he slipped Reinette's wrists behind her back, forcing her to walk in front of him. Like the prisoner she was.
On the other side of the gate, he made a short-handed signal and almost in the same moment, a very sombre-looking, black-haired lycan uncurled himself from one of the evergreens above their heads. He and four others landed under the cover of falling snow, bowing and then leaving in silence. Come morning, there would be five different stories circulating the den, all of which would begin with the words 'you will not believe what the lycan-master was doing last night.' All stories would end with the words, " …and she was old.'
He started to walk faster, already drafting the statement in his head.
"Dear London investors, No doubt you have heard the rumours by now. There is a vampire in the den and as of late, I have been in her company. (Far be it from me to keep you from juicy gossip.) As it is, I am not, as the whole den would have you assume, consorting with every female that moves, young or old. (On that note, addressing Gautier, Jacqueline and her mother will be returning to your household before spring.) Sincerely, Alexander Kerr, Esquire. P.S. I realise we got off on the wrong foot, Gautier, but I would appreciate it if you could stop preparing for my imminent death. In all honesty, I had no idea she was your daughter until that night we met in the opera-house."
Maybe he would rethink the wording.
A few more turns on the path, flanked by tall hedges, and they stepped through a second gate, entering a fifty-square foot expanse of ground covered in a thin layer of untouched snow. Leafless branches and brick walls kept the area hidden from lycans and mortals alike. At the far end was the glass conservatory, an intricate structure crafted of iron, windows and wood. The outer frame was relatively large, stretching twenty-five feet across the snow. During the day, James Whitby, their silver-haired gardener, made it his business to guard its door as if he believed every lycan was born with a hatred of flowers.
Once mortal, Whitby had suffered a neck-breaking fall in the autumn of 1859. His twelve-year-old assistant made an error in judgment and two days later, their now rapidly-healing, entirely-lycan gardener experienced the first pangs of Change. Not only did the man survive, but after the initial shock, he seemed to believe fur and teeth were an equal trade for being able to smell azaleas from two hundred yards away. No one asked whether it was equal to being eighty-three for all eternity.
He pushed against the cold, iron handle. Locked. Through two layers of glass, he could see the prize inside, calendulas, chrysanthemums, snapdragons, poppies…he was especially curious to see how well the poppies were doing in his three-month absence. From the look of it, James was taking care of them as required. Dry conditions, as much sun as winter would give them. The next crop would be needed soon.
"Wait here."
Her response was prompt. "For how long?"
So she was talking to him again. "Less than ten minutes," he said with a vague wave of the arm. "…just muck about the garden or something. Get a feel for the place." He edged along the conservatory, picking up rocks here and there, placing them back as accurately as possible. The key was around here somewhere, but Whitby had a habit of changing the hiding place every second moon.
"Muck about," she said. "You mean wander?"
"Yes, wander…" He sniffed the air…and then changed direction, following the whiff of tobacco coming from the wall on his left. "…but try and stick to a path. We have a number of snowdrops, and yes, I have a mind to see them grow this winter." As expected, her smell tipped from mild confusion into utter skepticism. She thought he was being sarcastic. Lycans might jest with one another, but when push came to shove, most were comfortable enough in their masculinity that they could admit reading poetry without an axe, and yes…having snowdrops planted in a garden.
She started to walk.
"And no scuffing along the perimeter," he added suddenly, eying the direction of her walk. He could not keep the irritation out of his voice. He also could not count the number of lycans he had told off for tunnelling in this garden. Unlike his wilder predecessors, most of his men had managed to curb some of their earthy habits, but it did not mean the ground was altogether safe along the edges.
"I do not scuff," she replied bluntly. "…and I certainly walk softer than you do."
"Really," he said, as if she had just expressed an ability to walk on water. "…softer than a lycan and without scuff." He kneeled beside the left wall, avoiding any marked sections of wall. "Perhaps you can explain the rest of your abilities after you establish why 'undeserving prisoner' means I can say things like 'no scuffing' and expect obedience instead of backtalk." In spite of his light tone, his rebuke was veering towards the structure he often used when dealing with generally stupid, non-compliant soldiers.
The corner of her lips twitched, but she said nothing more. Abandoning her previous direction, she turned around and took a few tentative steps back from where she came, coming to a stand-still upon reaching the outer door of the conservatory. Finding the handle, she turned away in another direction, her arms outstretched. Four steps and she was back on the path. And then contrary to his orders, she found the line of it and stepped into the snow. "What if Rena were to escort me outside once a week?"
"No good." With his hands, he began to trace a line, taking a whiff of the snow left and right. "I trust my den…but times being what they are, I prefer you in your quarters." Ha. There it was. Feeling a shiver as a gust of wind moved through his coat, he began to dig. After a moment, he pulled up a stone the size of his fist, revealing a key frozen into the hard, icy ground below.
"Times being what they are, Lyosha," she repeated, crouching rather ungracefully in the snow, her hands reaching forward to touch the ground. Sifting the white through her fingers as if trying to even an already even landscape. "…you are suggesting a situation worse than a den of lycans?"
He scoffed. "Try murder…"
She aimed her blindfold to where his voice was. "In the den?"
"On the streets." There was no purpose in beating around the bush. "…and I rather think, Reinette, if there had been a den murder, you'd have been the first to know." With one of his nails, he began to dig the iron key out of its icy berth.
"And just as I was getting comfortable," she said sarcastically. She let the last of the snow plop to the ground. "Was it an exile?"
"Yes."
"A man?"
He looked up. She was asking a lot of questions. Seeing her across from him in the snow, he had the rather uncomfortable sensation of being stalked…even hunted. At that point, the key came loose. Beneath he found the single leaf of tobacco that had led him to the hiding place. He dug that up as well and then carefully replaced the stone. Only then did he answer, his fist resting on his knee as he crouched. "The details are disturbing, Reinette…would you rather not speak of something else?"
The stalking sensation died. As if she were focused on other things now, she shook her head as if it did not matter one way or the other. "Only tell me if you would," she said.
"Right." She asked for it. With the key in hand, he stood up, watching her from across the garden. The information would do little for her, but it helped to go over facts that had already been distributed around the den. At this point, everyone knew. "The victim's name was Mary Parker. 5'6", 140 pounds, eighty years old and hailing from South London. She worked the second and fourth shifts and had a reputation as a thief, a liar, and a whore. The last person to see her alive was her friend and confidante, Sarah Henderson. She maintains that they were working the usual boundaries of Whitechapel when the murder occurred. At the moment, we have three witnesses to corroborate her story and…"
"Is Kolya one of them?"
"No," he said, making no attempt to disguise the faint note of provocation in his voice. He built her a boudoir, she gave him backtalk. Kolya kissed her hand, and it was please, lycan-master, tell me if Kolya's face is intact. She could dream all she liked, but the vampire would be gone before summer. "…he was not involved."
"Are you certain?"
He rolled his eyes. It was clear she was still holding a candle for the man. She was leaning forward for this new scrap of information and far be it from him to disappoint her. "Well, now that you mention it," he said in a bored voice. "…his resemblance to Sarah Henderson is frightfully uncanny. Perhaps he gave us the slip while posing as a fat middle-aged chamber-maid."
"Oh you know what I mean…" He almost got a smile this time. Her fingers dipped in the snow again and she flung it in his general direction. "…his past is a burden, and because of it, you would suspect him."
Rising from his duck, he took a deep breath of fresh air, exhaling very slowly. Her aim was rather good. Particularly for someone that was blindfolded. "We suspect everyone…but as far as our investigation can deduce, Kolya had nothing to do with the crime."
According to Raze, the man had gone on for twenty minutes about how pleased he was that a former companion had come to see him in his new home. He had not even noticed the Blood-sweep going through the den. It was a practice often used for seeking out a guilty partisan, the most long-serving member of an Exile's Quarter given the task of tasting the blood of all. The method was not full-proof, but in the case of a murder, they expected such a recent and likely vivid memory to stand out. As it was, the memories of all, including Kolya, appeared to be clean.
He dusted snow off his shirt, realising for the first time that his coat was open. When the temperature lowered, he often forgot he was wearing certain articles of clothing in an inappropriate manner. He looked up again. "As a matter of fact, he's doing quite well. Proving his worth, as they say."
Reinette did not seem convinced. "Are you sure he is doing well?"
"Does it matter?"
Now he knew he sounded exasperated. And with cause. Three times she had brought up the question of Kolya. Given his history, yes, it was his nature to suspect the man, but it was beyond aggravating when Reinette worried over him like some orphan child in need of a maternal figure. Besides, whether by charm or appearance, Exile's Quarter had welcomed Kolya with open arms. The man pulled more than his weight, and somehow managed to have an alibi for every hour of the night. And the day.
She frowned as if he had said something daft…and then gathered her coat around her like a woman folding up her secrets into a fan. "I merely think," she said, sounding very mysterious."…he is as new to this city as I am, Lyosha. We are one and the same in that sense."
"You mean like you and Dantès," he muttered under his breath…and then ducked as another handful of snow flew through the air. He dusted that off as well. He still thought she was taking an unnecessary interest in the life of Kolya. He sniffed the air and then looked down at the key in his hand.
"I'm not sure what else to tell you," he said, turning the key between his fingers. "…but all sources give him an alibi, so take comfort in that." His fingers were still bored.
He started playing with the key, throwing and catching it with the flat of his palm. "On the flip side," he added, watching the key and unwittingly chewing his lip with fascination as he threw it higher and higher. "…all sources point to one of my men as the culprit."
Too high. A gust of wind took the key, but his eyes never left it. Unconcerned, he watched it make a descent over ten feet from where he was standing…but then a split-second before it touched the ground, he lunged, the iron piece in his hand before he could even blink.
Sometimes it was…maddening being in this place. Living the life of the mortal Alexander Kerr when he knew he could run faster than most of the horses he bet upon. He looked at Reinette and then slowly walked over to where she was crouching. "So you understand," he said, as if he had not just been playing in the snow. "…I cannot let you wander the grounds until the matter is closed?"
Blindfolded, she had seen none of his antics. "Pssh," she said. She looked very small all of a sudden, the snow dusting the foot of her skirt."I have nowhere to wander to, Lyosha." Blunt as if such things were set in stone, her blindfold looking towards his face.
"Nowhere to wander and no bridges to burn," he finished, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet. The hand felt dangerous…like he could break it if he stopped paying attention. Such a tiny thing, bony to the point that her veins had more substance than she did. With that thought, he switched his grip to her wrist again.
Leading her to the conservatory, he put the key in the lock and turned it, pushing the door open by a crack. There were no flowers on this outer layer and as a result, the temperature was still quite cool. Behind him, Reinette smelled hesitant, her pulse beating faster. She was getting nervous for some reason. Drawing her through, he shut the door behind them, locked it and then paused on the stone landing, peering through the glass of a second door, finding his way with his eyes before he took another step. The poppies had no scent. The lavender had too much. Which way to go?
The answer lay with the ninety-pound ingrate standing behind him.
He looked over his shoulder. She was holding her hands beneath the arms of her coat, craning her head around, the bird that had no sense of the cage until it was shut behind her. She had not expected this. "Are you still cold," he asked, making no reference to where they were. It would be warmer in the inner conservatory, but that would spoil the gift.
She shook her head, her hands quickly finding their way into her pockets. And then with resolve, she asked… "Are you locking me in the catacombs?" He could tell she was breathing faster. "Is that why we are here?" Breathing faster and scared.
They had already set down the rules for that deal. So why, after an evening of amiable discussion and a quiet stroll through the garden, did she still expect him to lock her up without any warning—without any food or clothing after he had said ten minutes? The answer was ugly, but it gave him some insight into how she must view him on a daily basis. First, she was under the impression that kindness must come with cruelty…whether it was him or Tanis. And second, she still thought he was off his rocker on laudanum. Even now. Granted he had been off his rocker that night on the ship…
…but really, she should know him better by now.
Except that too made him pause. She should not know him better by now. They should not even be in each others' company anymore. But he had never been good at following rules. Even his own. Having decided her first question was not worth answering, he changed the subject to one that suited him more. "So why do you hate lavender," he asked as if she had not spoken. Better to ask up front…it would save him the trouble of trial and error. And Whitby would thank him for not ripping a sample off every plant in the conservatory.
"I just…do not…like it," she said softly. Carefully as if it had just occurred to her now that there was a cat sitting in the cage with her. The scent of her nerves had doubled, and she seemed to take it as proof of his instability that her question had fallen on deaf ears. She took a step back towards the door, her hand seeking out the handle. "Perhaps we should…" She let go of the handle. Useless without the key. "…perhaps we should go back," she suggested.
Go back?
They had only just arrived.
"For blood, woman, we are nowhere near the catacombs." There. That ought to calm her down. Roses maybe. Women loved roses. But then he had assumed women loved lavender. Still pondering the question, he continued to speak, almost musing the words to himself. "…and do not be concerned over time. You bargained for ten minutes on the outside, but in theory, we are now standing inside. So answer the question."
"I think you must be enjoying this," she said. Some of the tension had left her frame. "You make up rules and then break them whenever it suits you." She had the air of someone listening for a retort.
There was none.
She exhaled. "Oh very well." Having let go of the handle, she wrinkled her nose, now seeking the walls on either side of her, judging the dimensions by touch rather than sight. "If you must know…" she began in her voice of moralistic instruction. "…lavender is like a mask for filth." Her hands went back in her pockets as soon as she found the alcove to be tiny. "People use it when they want to hide something. Coarse smells. Immorality. You expect cleanliness, but are more likely to find three thousand sweating mortals ladling themselves in greasy water." She sniffed. "You may think I do not remember, Lyosha, but even your carving cannot erase that memory."
Whatever he had been about to say had just dried up in his throat. Only a week ago, in that tunnel in Paris, he had accused her of being unable to remember as far back as the fall of Rome. He had made that jibe as if he had been there…but in all honesty, he had not. He was not that old. And by all accounts, neither was she.
He found his voice.
"So you hate bathing," he said with a cursory glance. Many years ago, he remembered Markus on a whim commanding the coven to take up the practice of public bathing. Lavender to scent the baths as the Romans had done. As a boy, he had realised it to be an extravagant gesture, but one of remembrance rather than imitation. In point of fact…when he was a boy, the Roman baths had not been in existence for almost three hundred years. "…and I suppose I put you through hell by making you wash."
"Not particularly," she replied. Her voice was monotonous. She had not noticed the pause before his reply. "…I just like clean water."
"As opposed to fresh air," he said, observing her from across the small alcove. Blood take it. Could she be older than him? No. It was impossible. Bloodseers were all hunted down in the final days of the purge; the training of women only a desperate measure before the end. She had to be younger…but then whose memory was that? A memory of Rome from someone far older than she was…a vampire changed in the first days of Markus' rule perhaps? Could Áris be that vampire? He spoke into the silence, trying to focus his conversation while his mind worked so furiously. "For interest, Reinette, if you had to choose a flower…what would it be?"
She shrugged, looking up to the ceiling as if she could see the sky. "I cannot think of anything," she said.
As if that was a problem. He was the lycan-master. He had worked with difficult long enough. Usually with claws, but in this case, words would have to do. He looked behind him, picking a name at random. "Roses?"
"Smell of dead people."
He picked another. "Lilies?"
"Dead flesh."
"Hyacinth?"
"Formerly crying pieces of dead flesh."
"Brilliant," he said without much gusto, feeling like someone forced to walk the streets of London's West End with a two-year-old that wanted scum and nothing else for her birthday. Speaking of children, hyacinth was known as baby's breath in Greece. And if 'crying pieces of dead flesh' was any clue, then Reinette was severely lacking in the maternal gene. Refreshing being around a woman whose first thought did not revolve around getting an heir out of the lycan-master. "How…about…" He looked over his shoulder, picking another plant at random. "…calendulas?"
She seemed to be losing interest. "I want to go back," she said.
"Pick one." Her age might have thrown him, but he was not letting her off the hook. She was going to smile at least once before sunrise. "And consider it a gift. We have the seeds …so we may as well plant them for spring. You might even be able to walk among them." He was half-lying. The seeds were full-fledged flowers…but he wanted her to think there was nothing but just the hope of a plant through the glass door.
"I will probably have been murdered by spring," she said bluntly, turning away from the door.
"You will not have been murdered…" This would be so much easier if he could just wring her neck. "…so if it pleases you, could you just humour me this one time?"
She scowled behind the blindfold. "So I can what?" She was becoming increasingly cold, her voice growing from monotone boredom to sharp disregard. "Dream about it? Sniff the last remnants of dead ground in the first days of dead winter. Thank you, Lyosha, what an unforgettable experience."
"Can you…" Bad form. He was yelling. He forced himself to a lower volume. "…can you not see," he finished quietly. "…that I am offering you something without a bargain?"
She said nothing.
She did not see.
He breathed, starting to get aggravated by the air clouding in front of his lips. They might be sheltered from the outside, but it was still cold in this outer layer of the conservatory. They had been out here for twenty minutes already. "Reinette," he said finally, closing his eyes, running both hands over his face before he could open them again. It was just easier to threaten. "…I comprehend that you have difficulty with this concept, but just…" He smiled tightly. "…take the gift or I swear you will never see the inside of a garden again."
That made an impression. Her lips tightened. "Aconitum," she said.
"Aconitum," he repeated, nodding to himself, trying his utmost not to bark. It made sense after all. She was troublesome. Insufferable at times. Prone to spite. He should be used to it by now. Or should he? "How about…" He inhaled slowly, taking his anger in hand and leaning back against one of the wooden posts flanking the glass door. "…how about you pick something that is not poisonous, Reinette?"
"You asked."
"Alright…new rules. No poisonous plants. You answer the question, we pretend to be civilised…or you can watch the bastard in me freeze until sunrise, which I believe…" He looked up through the glass ceiling at the sky. "…gives you about two hours."
He heard a sound building in her throat. Frustration. And then, as if she would just as soon choke on the word as say it. "Crocus…" she said. The second word had to be dragged from her throat. "…sativus," she finished. And then almost with a hiss, she said, "…may I go back to my prison now?"
Crocus sativus.
He paused before answering, his anger already ebbing away now that he had received an answer. The saffron flower, cultivated as far back as the Minoans and certainly through the Roman Empire. More precious than gold, it was one of the few spices Whitby had taken pains to cultivate in the conservatory.
"Why not," he muttered tersely in reply, effectively bringing himself back to the present. "…of course it was to be a smile for fresh air, Reinette, but forgive me, you must be tired." Removing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the first door and took her wrist, leading her outside again. "Five days into your imprisonment..." He let go of her wrist, exhaling the words in Latin as though he had only just remembered them. "...and I keep forgetting some roses are not meant to bloom in the morning."
She stopped…
…and then turned very slowly on her heel, both her claws and her teeth growing as if she could not yet decide whether she wanted to rip out his tongue or his eyes first. The exact proverb was 'Pick roses in the morning, lest they fade; like a woman aging quickly,' but he had a feeling she'd get the general gist. Before the insults could fly, he backed into the conservatory and opened the inner door by a crack, slipping through without a sound. It was quite cruel really. By the sound of things outside, she was castigating him and he was not even there to appreciate it.
Inside, the air was warm enough that his skin began to tingle from the temperature change. The plants were receiving a similar reaction. In which case, Whitby might attack him in the morning, though he was willing to risk it for the sake of one flower. They would only bloom for a few weeks anyway. Familiar with the layout, he located his prize in a matter of seconds and plucked one of the blossoms. Reinette was still talking to him outside. And by talking, he meant furiously garnishing her words with a language he could not follow. Sami, Norwegian, Danish…one of those. He suspected there was swearing involved.
Leaving the conservatory, he shut the first and then the second door, locking the latter behind. Watching as her insults dried up the moment she heard the door shut, her head turning to search for the sound. And again, he could not help it. His mind doing the work for him. He knew she was old. He understood that…but it was as if he was seeing her as she might have been. The shadows playing across the face of this veiled, blindfolded woman who would not back down. The blindfold following his footsteps as he left the key in the same spot he had found it, the tobacco below and the rock above.
She flinched in a surprise when he touched her arm. "You left me," she said, frowning in realisation.
"Only for a moment," he replied. Standing next to her and looking down to his right. "…though perhaps a good one considering some of the words coming out of your mouth."
"You insulted me."
"I compared you to a faded rose," he said simply, as though all was fair in this strange, miniature war he had invested himself in.
A flushed red crept into her cheeks, but she did not look the slightest bit sorry. "You cannot force me to smile," she said. Her jaw was locked again.
"Then I concede," he said dismissively, as though she had driven him to the end of his rope. By instinct, his eyes were looking instead up to the moon, the snow dancing across her face as well. While Reinette stood her ground, she, on the other hand, was starting to retreat. Well past four in the morning…
…the sun would be rising in an hour.
Before she could protest, he took hold of her wrist, forcing it behind her back and proceeding to lead her back towards the house, keeping the sprig still protected within his palm. The snow was getting worse. The change in their surroundings seeming to strip the woman of her ability to keep balance. As if balance were something that came and went depending on what her body could remember. Twice she almost fell, but he steadied her, again stopping the blossom from falling with his free hand.
Back at the house, they passed through the back door, shaking off the snow, wiping their boots on the landing. She did it because he did it. But when they reached the stairs, she politely, but very firmly, removed her wrist from his grip and started to walk on her own. It seemed she trusted the banister more than she did him. Again, it was understandable. Not the most flattering of sentiments, but understandable.
At the top of the stairs, Rena was waiting for them on the landing. He signalled her to hold her position and for the life of him, not knowing why, he walked Reinette to her room. The door opening and his steps growing faster, his movements silent. As she walked forward, he aimed for the desk and opened one of the drawers. The lady still fumbling with the knots of her blindfold, as he picked up The Count of Monte Cristo and opened its pages, finding the section she'd been reading by the small piece of thread she used as a place-marker. Beside the thread, he placed the crocus and shut the book, returning it to its place in the desk.
And then he left.
…o…o…o…
Reinette turned around as the door shut. She had just untied the last knot, the light from the grate causing her to squint. "Lyosha," she said, holding her hand up to her eyes, looking around. The room was empty. He had gone without so much as a goodnight. She was still standing there when Rena opened the door, locked it and then walked past her to the adjoining room. That door shut as well and then she was truly alone.
Again.
Frowning, she removed her gloves and then her boots one by one. She hung up her coat and stepped out of her dress. There were no other layers to remove. She had not mentioned it to Lucian, but she had been freezing the entire time outside. She had been missing all of her petticoats. Her stockings. Her corset. Trust a lycan to think that two layers were all that was necessary for dressing for inclement weather. All in all, it had been a strangely disappointing outing. She had not seen the stars. He had not seen her smile…and yet she had been outside. She should be grateful for that.
Feeling thoughtful, she walked into the bathroom and found her nightgown on the floor. It was too filthy to wear. Naked, she returned to her bedroom and pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapping herself up in it and taking a seat by the fire. She was not tired.
And then before she could stop it, the thought cropped up. Why did he have to leave so abruptly? He could have said goodbye. Or even… 'thank you, Reinette. You have been most insufferable this evening.' She knew what he thought of her. And it was not that she truly wanted him to stay. They had had their discussion. They had their spats. A walk. That strange business about the seeds. Very strange, she decided, thinking back. In fact, the very idea of a lycan-master knowing anything about gardening was ludicrous. It was like him reading botany. Strange. Unexpected.
Feeling more in her element now that she was criticising him in her mind, she got to her feet and walked to the desk, opening the drawer and finding her book again. Whatever he said, she could rely on the sympathy of the Count of Monte Cristo. She was just like him. Locked up in here. Alone. Pulling the blanket with her, she tottered over to one of the chairs and took a seat, flipping the book open in front of her and then sitting up as something fell from its pages. Something purple. Her fingers reached to the ground and plucked what appeared to be…
…a flower. The petals soft as if they were still attached to a plant. Waterstains on the pages, like snow falling from the inside of a cold stem that had been so recently outside. Hesitantly, she brought the flower up to her nose…and sniffed.
Crocus sativus, she thought, looking at it in wonder.
The saffron flower.
…o…o…o…
Forty-five minutes later, when Rena opened the door, she was surprised to see Reinette no longer standing in a snow-dusted dress. Instead, the woman was stark naked under a blanket, sitting by the fire with a book in her hand. And to her wonder, she was…smiling. She smelled content. Pleased. Very odd. Still unable to muster anything short of ennui on her face, Rena passed the vampire, heading into the bathroom to pick up the nightgown, the chemise, and the linens, taking note of the dirty water. She would have to empty that by hand tomorrow. She returned to the bedroom and stood opposite the vampire, the linens still in hand.
Reinette looked up…and then, as if she had forgotten her vow of silence, she spoke. "Yes?"
Again very strange. Rena folded her arms. She did not trust the vampire's French, so in Latin, she said, "Lyosha has instructed me to inform you that you will begin your lessons in language as of tomorrow night. Your tutor will be in this room at eight o' clock sharp and will visit you for one hour every night until you have learned…"
"…English," Reinette finished with a sharp shake of her head. She sounded exasperated. "…always the English." And then to herself, she muttered, "What does it matter if I speak his language?"
Rena did not smile, but in a way, she understood. In her youth, she had been forced by Lucian to learn languages. And as a twelve year old French girl, she had been most insistent on her opinion that it was not exactly love that fell between the two nations of France and England. "C'est le ton qui fait la musique," she said with a shrug, and then in Latin. "It is…" She paused, thinking hard for the translation and then continued. "…the tone that makes the music." Still not satisfied, she tried again. "That is to say… not what you say, but how you say it, you understand?"
Reinette closed her book with a nod. "Yes," she said, eying Rena as if she had said something very odd.
Perhaps it was odd.
Usually such things remained behind the drug. Quotes. Conversation. The notion that at one time, she had been more than just a muted soldier lacking the capacity to sympathise or question anything. But it was still too soon for them to speak of that. She got to her feet and walked around Reinette, heading for her own bedroom. But before she could open her door, she heard the vampire say in a voice that was uncommonly sedate. "Thank you, Rena. Goodnight." It felt like someone holding their hand out, unsure of whether they were taking a wrong step by offering this truce.
She paused with her hand on the door. She hated vampires. It sometimes made her wonder if Lucian had been thinking of this when he asked her to become the woman's caretaker. "Goodnight," she replied and then closed the door behind her, leaving the linens in the corner of her room. She still had one more errand to take care of this night. The tutor. Rather than go himself, Lucian had scribbled something on a piece of paper and instructed her to give it to a lycan she would find living on the third level of the den. A hermit that spent very little time on the outside. A runt. But one that Lucian trusted. She looked down at the paper.
His name was Singe.
A/N: Finally got through the chapter. Sorry for the long wait, and of course, I have no good excuse (i.e. Work, life, music, rewriting the chapter at least three times, and on occasion, forced to stop writing because certain wonderful, but occasionally in-the-way-of-my-writing people cannot sleep while I'm typing. Argh!) Anyway, started on chapter 30 (the big 3-0,) and it will be a miracle if I can finish it by next weekend, but as usual, I will try. (You should see my wall. I'm looking at the whole story right now on index cards. Who knew that about Reinette? Oh wait. I did.)
Thank you to seren23, zepplin82, mars, Sheen, Mackenzie, trestreschic, keili77, Willy Nilly (love that name) Keriwgd, Ligeila, Mnemosyne's-Muse, lucie dans le ciel, aethershine, HollowEmotion, holdme4evr, flight of the conchords (brilliant show), beautifulmess2005, AnnaALF, TwistedObscurity (read the sweet reviews on Nightrunner), and Morose Scarlet for all the reviews, favourites, and alerts! I appreciate every single one. On that note, please feel free to read and review. :RR:
seren23: Thank you! Dialogue is one of my favourite things to write…lots more riddles to come.
zepplin82: You're welcome, their relationship is certainly an enjoyable thing to write.
mars: Yay! (And I will be updating with chapter 30 as soon as possible as well.)
Sheen: Glad you liked the chess connection! (I figure Lucian is pretty logical, plus a gambler, so he's bound to have a connection to medieval games. In the end, chess seemed the one that would be most accessible to both characters during their lives. Plus, I'm a bit biased towards chess. Wonderful game…)
Mackenzie: Awww, he does like her company (though like you said, no questions! Or as his demons would say, no questions for Lucian or he starts biting everyone's head off.) And please, never fear over the length of a review. All are appreciated, long and short.
trestreschic: Never fear. This story is still going very strong for me (I've had it in my head for a long time so at this point, writing it out is a hobby that I don't think I will be stopping anytime soon.) And I hope you know, the last bit of this chapter (His name was Singe) was specifically written because of your review. (Glorious questions by the way…they remind me of my wall of index cards [see A/N above] At this moment, right across from me, I can see a medley of notes saying things like "History of Brand," " Fear of England," "Lucian's Journals" "History of Kolya"…:))
keili77: Thank you! And yes, Christian O'Riley is going to appear in the story. (Probably the next chapter.)
Willy Nilly: Welcome to you as a new reader! (And feel free to send me reminders whenever you think I should update faster. It often works. :))
Keriwgd: Ha ha, that review made me laugh (and yes, it did make me write faster. :)) Anyway, happy to know you are reading.
Ligeila: Thank you! Very glad that you loved the wording. Hope you enjoy the latest and welcome to the story!
Reference:
'Most of the horses he bet upon' - referring to Derby Day, that weekend in the summer dedicated to thoroughbred horse-racing. It takes place at the Epsom Derby, which apparently has been hosting official races for over two hundred years.
Ne pereant lege mane rosas; cito virgo senescit - Latin proverb meaning 'Pick roses in the morning, lest they fade; a maiden soon grows old.'
C'est le ton qui fait la musique - It's the tone that makes the music (Meaning: It's not what you say but how you say it.)