Chapter XXX: Spoil the Child
The East Wing. 7:09 pm.
When Reinette woke the next night, all trace of lavender had been removed from her room, a bowl of vinegar placed in each corner and beside her bed to eliminate the scent. She sat up too quickly and the need for blood went to her head. The Count of Monte Cristo was open on her lap. Picking up the book, she brought it close to her face and breathed once before closing it. She had not imagined it. The petals of saffron were still nestled between its pages and another memory had been added to her blood. It was the first flower she had smelled after they left the North, her mentor taking her south for a gathering of seers. She remembered waking at night, her nose fascinated by this scent that had come on board. Saffron-growers transporting their goods from an island in the Mediterranean. A good memory. Warm.
More awake now, she set the book on her bedside table and gathered the blanket around her shoulders, dragging it from the bed with her, looking to her pendant-watch for the time. Twenty after seven. She had forty minutes until the tutor arrived. On her desk, there was a covered tray bearing her morning meal, an embossed porcelain bowl filled with blood. Her chemise, nightgown, and drawers were clean and folded, the lack of staining a testament to the presence of bleach in the household. The impression that Rena had been there moments before, the clothes only recently ironed, the blood still steaming when she sat down to break her fast. Washing her hands afterwards, she donned the undergarments without suffering a single red smudge. From the wardrobe, she selected a navy blue skirt with a small bustle, pairing it with an off-white shirt, high in the neck with the pendant-watch laid over top. She laced up her boots, deciding it would present a strong front for a lycan tutor if she were seen in full attire. She then walked to the bathroom, kneeling by the bronze basin and looking purposefully into her reflection.
The sight did not bolster her confidence. Nothing had changed. Her face was as wrinkled as the night she had left that monastery. Her cheeks were sunken, her neck a gathering of tendons and sinew. Only her hair showed some of the time that had passed, each strand falling almost two inches from where it grew from her scalp. Faster than a human, but slower than a vampire in the prime of life. It would be a few more months before she would be pleased with its length. Holding her hand up to her forehead, she smoothed the strands back…and then forward again. They would not fall as they should. Compelled to make some kind of choice, she picked up the ivory comb and smoothed as much as she could forward, drawing a part above her right eye. For the final touch, she pinned her veil behind her ears and stood, turning away from the basin. More confident now that she was in shadow again. Returning to the bedroom, she took a seat, the pendant-watch in hand, content to wait until this mystery tutor arrived.
…o…o…o…
The London Den. Lower Levels. 7:49 pm.
At precisely that time, Lucian was rising from his chair, standing before a crowd of exactly one hundred and eleven souls, including children. They were the residents of the London Den, those who lived beneath the surface of the Kerr estate. Soldiers, runts, and children. Most of them dressed as labourers, about a third fashioned as upper-middle class and gentry. What would seem as a class difference was only clothing in this hall, for all were considered equal in a Gathering of the People. All could bring their concerns to the table. He raised a hand, drawing them into silence, banishing the immediate outcry that had met his declaration of Reinette's presence in the den.
"I recognise your concern," he said quietly, forcing them to lean in. "…however, I can assure you, our guest poses little threat to our way of life. She is an exile, and by her cooperation, she represents a tool by which we can increase our hold in this continuing war." He had rehearsed that line in front of the mirror…twice before dusk.
A brash voice piped up from the back. "And what if she's a spy?"
Beside him, Raze's head whipped like a bullet in the direction of the voice. "You will give your name and rank before you question the lycan-master, soldier," Raze growled. Feeling he could go either way on the necessity of that one, Lucian waited for the faceless voice to pluck up some courage. Sometimes he imagined Raze took more delight in rules and decorum than he let on. But that was the crook of den politics, Lucian, its twisted head, and Raze, the almighty stick that would throttle you if respect was not given where it was due.
There was a discomfited silence before the voice decided to bite the bullet. "Avery, sir." The lycan came forward so that his face came into the light, though his moustache took most of the glow. He was one of only three soldiers that had kept to uniform despite the dictate that this was an off-duty affair. "Lance-Corporal Avery of the 2nd Battalion, Line Infantry. I feel it is my duty to speak out, sir…" He sounded rather affected by his own rank. "…without proper interrogation, how can we to be certain she is not a spy?" He made 'proper interrogation' sound like a cure to all ills.
Lucian did not budge. "She has been interrogated in an official manner," he stated, adding the word 'official' for the sake of Avery's unwavering belief in the power of the system. It would seem one good thing had come out of their Parisian detour, after all. "Next question."
A hand went up near the front. A lycan woman with enough scars on her face to warrant a rank. "Grace Marsden, sir. I work in the scullery." She managed a small bob of curtsy, forcing the girl holding her hand to do the same. "…sir, if I may, will there be more of her kind entering the den?"
Instantly, two dozen voices jumped into the fray, half of them yelling "No more coven-breeders," the other half growling, "Shut up, you mongrels." Before Lucian could even raise a hand, Raze had snapped the disarray in two. "Silence," the lycan roared. All obeyed, though Grace Marsden now looked regretful over having asked her question. The onslaught was starting. The soothing that would be required before Reinette could ever call this den her home. Tolerance for the greater good.
He spoke into the silence. "Need I remind you," he said. How many times had he reminded them since the day Christos had left. "…we are all descended from the same line, the same blood…" His contempt showing, he found the group of lycans who dared to use the word 'coven-breeders.' "…and disregarding your beliefs, I will not abide with bigotry in this den. Not when it is the refuge of our enemies." He was memorising their faces. All of them members of the Lycan Conservative party, the majority of them dressed as gentry. Two of them regular guests in the upstairs dining hall—a mistake he would remedy in future.
He looked down upon Grace Marsden again. "Grace," he said, calling the den's attention back to the source of their cries. "There will be no other vampires entering the den." And with a gesture, he sought the crowd's displeasure again. "Next question."
A bearded man near the front. "William McNally, sir. Wainwright." His voice was gruff enough to sand wood. "Is it true drink-fighting's been banned?" About two dozen burly men suddenly became very interested in politics, craning their necks over the crowd, six of their mouths sagging open, waiting for the answer.
"Yes…" Lucian said, casting an unyielding eye over the crowd. "…any combat under the influence has henceforth been abolished within the confines of this den. Now I will ask you to stick to the matter at hand, McNally. Next question."
Another hand. This time from the group that had yelled 'shut up, you mongrels.' A sign that they were of the Liberals. Their speaker ducked his head before opening his mouth. "James Sewell, sir." One of the few names that Lucian remembered, though he had never spoken to the man. "I…we…" James gestured to himself and eight others standing behind him. "…the lads and I, we do the roster call in Exile's Port, and we were wondering, sir…will this have any effect on the statute of communal living?"
"Communal living," Lucian repeated, recalling the rules. The Statute of Communal Living, 1842, Section XII. 'Any lycan living in communion with a vampire must make their home in Exile's Quarter.' The terms were harsh, but the Horde would have it no other way; and despite his past, he agreed with them. "…how would you suggest this have any bearing on the statute, James?"
James looked uncomfortable, though he seemed to take heart from the lycans standing behind him . "Well, this vampire …" he said. "…she's a prisoner, right, but she gets to live here…" His forehead lowered in a frown, gaining a firmness that had not been there "…but my Isabelle…well, she's been with me longer than half these people been lycan, but we still live in the Quarter, see?"
That was the source of discord. Those few vampires that had done more than choose the lycan side. More often not, they were called 'coven-breeders' by the lycan conservatives. Fools to use that word while he was standing in the room…but then, many believed he had changed his mind about vampire-lycan relations after the uprising. It did not help that he entertained known Conservatives in his dining hall.
"I understand your frustration, James…" The silence in the room became absolute as the majority of lycans began studying him for some sign of past woes or weakness. He did not avoid their gaze, adding a piece of silver to his own. "…however, the statute remains in place." He felt for these men, he truly did, but there was nothing he could do for them at this time. Weakness was not a choice in his line of work. He crossed arms behind his back. "The majority of the Horde, time and again, has made their feelings known, and for the sake of their security, I have upheld their decision." So many decisions he upheld despite his own wants. It was the price one paid for adding the word 'legislature' to their political discourse. "In any case," he said. "…I doubt your wife would sacrifice her freedom for the imprisonment she would receive here. Her life would become one of constant servitude, forever isolated from her own people. Her secrets would belong to the Horde."
Curiosity now entered the silence. Constant servitude. Isolation. How would she be serving the Horde? What secrets? People began to mill upon each other, whispers growing, the questions sweeping from mouth and ear, but before another hand could go up, a short lycan behind James stepped forward, starting to speak out of turn. A youngling, barely twenty by lycan years, but he was determined to be heard.
"No, wait," he yelled, shrugging James' arm off with a scowl. "…it has to be said." Rather than just his alpha, he was speaking to the entire Gathering. "I been married six months now…I'm not saying it's a bad place to live, but them other exiles, they never treat 'er right for bein' with a lycan…" Another outbreak of voices, but the youngling was determined to be heard. Scowling over their heads, he grunted, "I ain't finished …" The voices quieted enough, and still glaring at them, he cleared his throat. "…and since that murder, God's honest truth, I think she'd be better off livin' with them mongrels than where she ain't wanted."
For the third time, the entire Gathering erupted, lycans growling at each other, the upper-middle class yelling "How dare you," while the men behind James yelled, "We have rights!" Raze did not even use words this time. Eyes silver, the black lycan's face began to lengthen, the growl coming from the throat of a full-fledged beast rather than a man. Only a half-Change, but enough to the silence the entire hall. Lucian could feel a scowl attaching itself to his face. Years of experience told him it was that scowl more than the half-beast that exacerbated the scent of shame on the air. Shame. They knew he was disgusted by any who could not maintain discipline in the face of war.
Again he spoke into the silence, maintaining the same tone of voice, knowing how it would unnerve them. "You have rights, but until the Horde votes otherwise, the statute remains." And let pity flee from his sight. He let his gaze rest on the youngling. "I am sorry, Owen…but you and your wife must continue to make your home in Exile's Quarter." Rather than argue further, the youngling frowned in confusion…and then closed his mouth, taken aback that the lycan-master knew his name without introduction. It would probably stun him then to know that Lucian had memorised the names of every lycan-vampire coupling in Exile's Quarter. None of the unions had ever produced children. Owen Atherton and his wife, Lydia. They were the last on the list. "In light of the murder," he continued. "…we are doing all in our power to track down the culprits. Until such time, keep to the rules of curfew and safety." Lycan culture was bred upon danger, every situation having a series of rules attached to it. 'Curfew and safety' had twenty-four, among them, watching the back of others and restricting one's outdoor movements to a six-hour window.
"As for the rest of you …" Narrowing his eyes, he examined the crowd. The men, the women, the children…a few lycan-pups standing with their mouths open, as though it were a treat to see Raze in a half-Change. Which in theory it was since very few had mastered that trick. "…you have given me much to think on, but little to change my decisions." He turned, hands clasped behind his back as he sought the end of this meeting. "Until the Gathering of the Horde, this vampire will be an imprisoned member of this household…" He faced them again quite suddenly, on the verge of pointing a finger at the Conservatives. "…and you would do well to remember that we do not murder members of this household. We keep to our statutes. We adhere to the rules laid down for our protection." Our protection…but where did the exiles fit when the Horde had not fully accepted them. Keeping his thoughts from his face, he signalled the end of the address. "Keep to the shadows, survive the war."
Men, women, and children…whoever knew the drill bowed their heads, repeating the words in solemn communion. "Keep to the shadows, survive the war," they intoned.
Meeting adjourned, he thought, stalking for the exit before their words had even echoed. No one dared question or stand in his way. All the better. He had a multitude of things to do this evening…going over the day-brief with Raze, the details of tomorrow's meeting with Christos. First and foremost, a two hour tête-à-tête with his advisors on the state of France. Unlikely they would have anything new to say, but vital that he appear to be taking every syllable of their advice into consideration. Little did they know, he had made this evening's vital decision just under three hours ago. Benoit had sent a dispatch requesting a personal address before the Gathering of the Horde…and though Auguste would not be pleased, he had granted the lycan's request. It was the first move on the board, the first sign of that French merge that they all wished for, but could not force.
…o…o…o…
The East Wing. 8:00pm.
Reinette heard a knock on the door and stood, folding her hands in front of her, drawing herself up to look tall. She was a vampire. She had no reason to fear this other lycan. And for that matter, it was just…a language. Just a simple language."Come in," she said in what she hoped would be a clear and confident voice. On the contrary, she sounded scratchy and old.
The door opened and instead of a tutor, she saw Rena. Rena who never knocked. The lycan woman met her eyes for a split second and then continued into the room, her arms laden with books. An age later, she was followed by a pale, meagre man walking quite unenthusiastically through the door. This was her lycan tutor…yet his stature fought with every image she had ever had regarding this animal race. His face pock-marked, his eyes beady behind a pair of round spectacles. His hair was receding, tied back in a tail, the strands holding an oily sheen. Peering around the room, he gave the impression of one used to ducking through holes, his arms held very close to his body, his shoulders slouched. One of his eyebrows was raised in scepticism; it took her a moment to categorise this as permanent.
When he spoke, his words were aimed at Rena…in English she presumed. A lean voice, thinner than Raze or Lucian, something that she believed he did not use often. At Rena's answer, his eyes rolled in unmasked exasperation before settling upon her as a target. Whatever Lucian had offered this man for tutoring her, she suspected it was not enough. He continued to stare at her over his glasses, his shoulders growing more hunched before he took one of the seats. The one closest to the fire.
"Open your book," he said in Russian. There. She heard an accent… like Sabine when she spoke Russian. Was he Austrian then?
She looked to Rena, but the woman was seated on the floor, playing with the iron-ring puzzle. The man was no longer watching her and he did not seem to care if she obeyed him or not, though he did look to the pocket-watch on his coat, scratched metal on raggedy wool. Yet Lucian was wealthy…surely he would have offered this man enough to buy a proper coat? Feeling more curious than anything else now, she obeyed, picking up the book and sitting in the opposite chair.
"Read," he said.
She opened the book and looked down. The letters were gibberish. "I cannot," she replied, still intrigued enough by his feeble appearance that she did not even question his first instruction, that she should read a language she did not know.
He exhaled and got up. "Perhaps we do this at the desk then."
How this would help if they did it at the desk, she did not know, but she got up, waiting for him to pass before she did. He seemed to find this worthy of skepticism as well. Seeing that he was making no move, she pursed her lips and then walked to the desk, taking a seat, startled when he plunked the book down in front of her. He could still move faster than most humans. Before he could tell her to read again, she felt her mouth open. Rudeness flowing out of her mouth of its own accord. "Are you a lycan?"
"No, I am an amoeba," he said pointedly, flipping a few pages and then pointing at one of the words. "We start with the greetings. I dictate and you repeat." He walked to the chair and pulled it to the desk, so he could sit nearby, his scrunched forehead telling her how pleased he was to be teaching her. She was still observing him. Were lycans born this small…or could he have been changed? Would he not be too weak to be changed?
"But who are you," she asked. There was a rhythm to his speech like listening to hills.
He was not listening to her question. "First in Russian, we say, Zdra-stvooy-tye." His Russian was far better than Sabine's had been. "…and in English, we say, Hello." Huh-lo. That one she had heard. The word similar to its Danish equivalent.
"But who…"
"Repeat," he said, pointing at the book.
She frowned, and then made the word. "Huh-lo." It did not sound the way he had said it. In fact, it did not sound like anything at all. "Heh-lo," she tried again.
"Good enough. Next. In Russian, we say dobraye utra…" He was not looking at her, just intoning the words. If his Russian was anything to go by, she would have an Austrian accent by the end of the night. "…in English, we say, Good morning."
"Gud…" She touched her tongue to her lips. 'God morgen' was good morning in Norwegian. But this one ended differently. "…what was the second part?"
"Morning."
"Mor-nin-guh." She was rolling her tongue too much. Gud morninguh. "Gud mor-nin-guh."
And so it began. Word after word, sentence after sentence. Every few seconds, the lycan making her repeat everything she had learned, dashing through from start to finish, picking words at random for her to say on the first few pages. They paused so she could retrieve pen and paper from the desk, writing the words phonetically for memory's sake. After the first quarter of an hour, she became used to the feeling…learning by rote, listening by rote, repeating as she had once done for her mentor…repeating the words of higher learning.
…o…o…o…
Outside the Library. 8:37pm.
On his way to collect one of the journals he had kept in Paris, Lucian exhaled, feeling the muscles in his neck twitching. Blood. Fuck. Damn. He turned. He had been this close to stepping through the library doors. This close. "Yes, Mrs. Fulligan, what is it?"
Mrs. Fulligan was about twenty paces away from him, but had called him at a run. "Sir, I…" She bent over, putting her hand to her mouth, catching her breath and then stood upright, pointing behind her. "…I think, there is a problem, sir."
"With?"
"The Lady, sir. She and the little girl…they ran right past me." She swallowed, shaking her head over what seemed a nightmare rather than a memory. "I believe they are…"
"Calm yourself, Mrs. Fulligan." Confident, he put a hand on the library door again. "I am fully aware of their behaviour, only I did not find the matter serious enough to warrant your attention. Jacqueline has asked to spend more time with Sabine, and I have given my consent as of this evening. Now unless they are trying to murder one another, I think there is no cause for dismay…"
"But sir, that is…" A few grey strands of the woman's hair were starting to fly, an expression of how serious she found the matter. "…what I am trying to tell you."
"…that Jacqueline, in addition to domestic tyranny, now requires the head of your lycan charge." Feeling he understood the stem of her dismay, he took a step closer so they could level this out in quiet. The hall was empty. His French advisors were waiting in the study. So far as he knew, there was no one in the library. No servants in sight. "In all seriousness, Bess…" he said, lowering his voice in the most convincing manner that he possessed. "…don't you think you're overreacting by just a tick?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I am not."
Always 'sir.' Eight years of calling him Luka in Germany and now she was pretending it did not happen. In which case, he could do the same. "Very well, Mrs. Fulligan," he said, emphasising the missus. She was the one that left him. She was the one that walked out in the middle of the night and then showed up three years later with some blighter of a husband, no offence to Henry now that he was old. Turning back to the library, he pushed against the door, dropping that sentiment before it could rise up. If she wanted to forget, then fine. Join the queue. "…I thank you for your diligence as a housekeeper. Now if you would be so kind, I'd ask that you send Thomas after them…"
"Sir…" There was an angry flush growing in her cheeks. "…this is not a matter for Thomas. Your Lady was chasing my charge into the restricted section and by your instructions, I was to inform you as soon as anything of that nature happened…" Whether it was taking care of his mistress for the past three months or being confronted with his face for the past forty years, she looked like she was about to cry. "…and it has." With an uncharacteristic sound of exasperation, she opened her mouth, shook her head, and then stalked away, holding her skirts as though ploughing through mud.
She did not turn around.
And there goes another one, he thought, letting his hand fall back from the door and looking after the retreating woman with some annoyance. Blood. Fuck. Damn. The only words that could properly express how he was feeling at this moment. He turned in the direction of the East Wing.
…o…o…o…
The East Wing. 8:27pm.
Fuck higher learning, thought Reinette. English sounded like the rotten garbling of people trying to cut their tongues out. She was bored, her pendant-watch resting open in her hand. Almost forty-five minutes had passed, and the tutor was still going. He did not seem to care that she had stopped repeating. He was here to do his job and at the end of an hour, he was leaving. She was about to put her head down on the book, when they were both shaken from their stupor.
Knock.
And then…
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!
From the door, this very quick and very persistent stream of knocks caught their attention; someone was trying their utmost to be heard while being quiet. On the floor, Rena seemed to uncurl. She sniffed, and then swiftly took the key from her belt, stepping forward to unlock the door. What met them when she did could be described in a single word: desperate.
The handle had barely turned before Sabine rushed into the room, her hands scrunched around what appeared to be a torn, silken dressing gown. The girl was breathing fast like a hare that had just escaped from some ungainly beast, her eyes too wide, her teeth starting to lose their point on the edge of safety. "Rena," she said, collapsing into the woman's arms. Rena neither held nor pushed the girl away. Sabine did not seem to notice. There were angry tears in her eyes…and with a fervency that bridged on fire, she took Rena's hand, pointed at the door and cried, "Ich hasse sie!"
Ich hasse sie.
From her seat, Reinette folded her arms over the wooden back of the chair, listening with a frown on her face. German. They were words she had never heard before …but from the tears, 'ich', 'hasse', and 'sie' were things that Sabine felt very strongly about. Never one to show emotion, Rena continued to observe the child's declaration with the same tilted head she would use to observe mouse-droppings. The tutor seemed to be studying a new amoeba that had entered the room…and by his expression, it did not matter what the amoeba did because the whole world would still disintegrate in a million years.
As if hearing this, the girl moaned, dropping Rena's hand and starting to pace the room. Like a hunted mouse searching for its hole, she travelled to the wardrobe, the fire-grate, the bathroom, the corners of the bedroom…wherever she went, nothing seemed to hold refuge. Tired of watching this frenzied pace, Reinette closed her book with a small clap, immediately drawing the attention of all parties in the room. Sabine did not immediately come to her. She first looked to the book and then the door. A decision in mind…and then, almost running, the girl came to her side, taking her hand up as she had done with Rena.
"She is horrible," she said in Russian. "Horrible. I tried to leave, but she would not let me. She wanted to eat, she wanted to talk, she wanted to comb my hair," she said, closing her eyes as though the entire world should know this was an unholy indiscretion. Her eyes opened wide. "You will not let her eat me, Reinette?" She shook her head in pleading. "You will not let her?"
"I…" Reinette glanced up and was shocked to see Rena give a small nod of encouragement. And then a shake of the head to indicate what answer she should give. Since when did Rena care for children? "…err…no," she finished. "We will not let her eat you."
"But she is coming…" Sabine moaned. Finally, the girl's source of desperation was coming to light. "She is coming now. I snatched her gown off and got away, but she will find me." She put her hand up to her hair, starting to pace. "I need to hide. I need to hide." She looked to Rena. "Here." She thrust the dressing gown at Rena and then headed for Reinette's bed, crawling behind the drapes and concealing herself from sight. Desperation made children do desperate things.
Perhaps observing this, the tutor wrinkled his nose. "I think this is my cue to leave," he said, casting a disapproving eye at the drapes. He pulled his coat closer and stood, heading for the door. "I will return tomorrow night. Good-bye." He said the last in English, and thinking hard, she made a final effort.
"Uhm…" Horrible language. "…gud-bye."
The door shut. In the same moment, Rena locked it and began to gather the language books, putting them away in one of the drawers. Still in her chair, Reinette watched and for the first time began to wonder what thoughts lay in the mind of Rena. One who heated her meals, did her laundry, filled her baths. Silent but dependable when given orders. Orders that meant it was becoming harder to hate Rena. "Do you…" It was official. Clearly hell had frozen over for she was engaging Rena in conversation. Standing up, she picked up the last book and helped put it away, trying to sound relaxed."…do you think this woman will come looking for her?"
"Yes." Trust Rena not to be worried that they were harbouring a fugitive; this child-terrorising, possibly naked woman was about to close in upon them any second, and all they had were books…and claws, but she had a feeling lycan dens did not take well to vampires using any form of weaponry.
"And she is as horrible as Sabine says?"
Behind them, the drapes resounded with a firm affirmation. Closing the last drawer, Rena leaned against the table. "I have not met her," she said, her expression dull. Hard to hate, but easy to hiss over how little Rena spoke. How much coercion was required in exchange for answers.
"Is she the governess," she asked, leaning against the other side of the table and boldly curious over what kind of woman Lucian would allow to keep charge over his unclaimed offspring. That is to say, she who happened to be grey-eyed with a penchant for staring.
"No…" Rena paused. "She is his…" But her eyes darted to the door before she finished. She was listening…and seemed to make up her mind about what she was hearing. "…she is coming," she said simply.
She is coming.
It was like waiting for an attack.
Two minutes later, there was a resounding crash against the door, the sound making her jump. A terrible noise followed by the grunting call of what sounded like a very put-out English beast. The name "Sabine" was shrieked several times into the keyhole. Sabine was not willing to be found. The child's face appeared from behind the drapes, and without a sound, she stepped onto the carpet and crawled beneath the bed, hiding herself behind the bed-skirt. This beast…this woman must have tracked one of either the gown or the girl for she was not leaving from the door…
"Do we open it," Reinette murmured, staring at the single piece of wood protecting them from harm.
Rena shrugged. "Eventually," she said in the same tone of voice.
Instantly, the banging became more insistent. The woman had heard Rena and by this fact, appeared to be convinced now that Sabine was hiding in the room. The door, once so strong, was now starting to give violent groans with every hit, the power of this woman seeming to grow with her volume. A temper tantrum from one with the strength to back it up. Watching with very little expression, Rena, after the passage of one minute, once again removed the key from her belt and stepped to the door. In English, she said something very quietly and the moment she did, the banging on the door stopped…and then, fulfilling whatever promise she had given with those words, Rena unlocked the door. And instead of a beast, there entered…
…a lady.
A very tart-looking young lady. Beautiful to be sure, but…tart. Perhaps it was the scowl on her face or the fact that her hair had been rifled with. Short, flaxen curls and perhaps one of the largest bosoms ever seen. She was wearing another dressing-gown. That did not stop her from walking up to Rena and snatching the stolen one out of hand. She looked, prowling around the room and then snarled something. Out of the snarl, Reinette was able to pull out a single word. Where. Whoever this woman was, she wanted to know where Sabine was.
Bland in voice, Rena still must have been thinking of her, for she replied in French, a language she could understand fairly well. "You would be Jacqueline?"
The Golden Tart swivelled on her heel. "Where is she," the lady snarled, speaking what Reinette was surprised to hear as perfect French, identical to Rena in its swiftness and accent. "…the little girl." She turned, looking towards the bed. There was a ferocious glow in her eye. "Her scent is all over, but I know she is in here. Is it the wardrobe?" She stalked to the wardrobe, opening it with a bang, her hands rifling through the hanging dresses, searching for a child hiding among them. She closed it, prowling to the corners of the room, following the scent. Entering the bathroom, she began peering in all the corners, seeming not to care that she was in a room not her own. A few seconds later, there was another shriek. She came out holding Lucian's comb.
"Thief," she declared, her eyes latching onto the only possible culprit in her mind. Of course, it would be the vampire. Reinette felt the instinct to shrink, but before she took a step back, Rena took a step forward, standing firmly between the Golden Tart and herself. Protecting her? The Golden Tart was still raging. "…vampire thief, what are you doing with this?" She was looking between the two of them, over the shoulder of Rena, her eyes bulging at the fact that neither was answering her. "This comb belongs to…"
"Jacqueline."
A deep voice cutting through the higher one. All of their heads swivelled to the door. With a cry of relief, Sabine crawled out from under the bed and sprinted past the Golden Tart, coming to a stop behind the figure standing ominously in the doorway. Lucian. Odd to see them both standing there, their eyes silver. The smaller one breathing fast, assurance on her face now that she had found her final hiding place. Jacqueline would not eat her as long as Lucian was present. "This area is restricted," he said. He sounded very cold, very firm, like one who was not in the mood to hear arguments.
"That girl…" the Golden Tart began, but Lucian interrupted her.
"Was it not you that said you wanted more time with children, Jacqueline," he asked, taking a step into the room, his face coming into the light. "Did you not say, and I quote, I have to prepare myself for the idea?" He was looking increasingly merciless.
Reinette breathed. Keep talking, Jacqueline. Please keep talking, she thought, following Rena's lead and fastening her eyes on the ground, her ears drinking in the argument. Hoping to blood that he would stay preoccupied enough to continue speaking French in her hearing. Now she understood why it had taken Rena so long to leave that interrogation room in Paris. It was like…gold, witnessing Lucian in his anger and for once, not being on the receiving end. For surely, he would take this spoiled child down by a notch. She had to be a child. Seventeen, eighteen. How old was she? Who was she for that matter? Did she not see the trap she was building around herself?
"Yes, but that child," Jacqueline hissed, still having taken not a single step. "…needs a lesson in manners. She is rude, destructive, and disrespectful." She flung the ruined dressing gown to the floor. "And I will not have it, Alexander. I will not." She put her hands on her hip.
Oh blood, thought Reinette, wanting to roll her eyes like the tutor. 'I will not have it, Alexander.' Well that explained everything. She had to be one of the dally-women…but how was 'Alexander' going to deal with her?
Rather than deal at all, Lucian turned, looked down at Sabine and said something in English. Something very short. The show was over…at least for the ones who could understand French. He did not look nearly so frightening, but there was the air of reprimand in his tone. Immediately, the girl nodded, backing away from the room, her eyes still trained on Jacqueline like prey keeping track of its hunter. Only when she passed out of sight did they hear her sprint off into the dark corridor. Now, Reinette thought, almost eagerly. How would Jacqueline receive his displeasure?
She saw him incline his head…and then to her dismay, he stepped into the room and said something equally quiet in the ear of Jacqueline; something which by his tone hinted at things neither Rena nor herself wished to know as eavesdroppers. Where there had been a short reprimand for Sabine, there was only quiet seduction for Jacqueline. A single touch of hair, and all the Golden tart's woes seemed to melt away, a fierce look of triumph now adhering itself to her face. Smiling, she handed the comb to him and turned her head once to sneer at them before leaving the room. The sound of her feet walking away, one who was so used to announcing her presence that she could no longer hide her passage. A scantily-clad woman…spoiled in every sense of the word.
With her departure, it was only the three of them left behind. Rena and herself leaning against the desk and Lucian standing by the door, his body half-inclined, a man on the point of leaving if not for the weighty shackle he had accidentally dropped in this room. Allegra had warned her, but it was one thing to hear the tale and another to see it in all its glory.
"That was Jacqueline," he said after a while. He sounded resigned, the tone of one who had little else to say. Or perhaps one who believed it was enough to say little to describe the natural disaster they had just witnessed. "I had not…" He seemed very interested in the grate. "…intended for you to meet her." He was speaking Russian. Perhaps for her benefit.
She prided herself in being able to say nothing at that moment. Surely it was the most awkward silence they had yet encountered. Of course Rena had taken to examining the carpet, so that wasn't helping matters. Poor Rena who likely did not feel like speaking. Rena who had kept company with him in Paris.
Seeming not to care a whit whether Rena was alright, Lucian inhaled deeply. "At least she's dynamic," he offered, almost to himself. Not trusting herself to speak, Reinette could only nod. Very uncertainly, she herself somewhat stunned by what she'd just seen. Dynamic was one word for it. Dynamic…vulgar…loud...
Before the awkward silence could become insulting, he held out the comb. "I believe this is yours."
"Thank you," she said coolly, taking the comb and tossing it onto the desk behind her, making certain she was in line with Rena. Rena whom he had chucked aside like a piece of meat. And how many others? She could feel her eyes growing stern. Like a storm brewing behind the veil. He might think this was his territory. He might think he could just parade his whores in front of Rena…but if he had any sense, he'd realise the 'Thank you' was his cue to leave.
She did not have to wait long.
Eyeing the comb she had tossed aside, Lucian frowned, sniffed the air once…and then in the space of a few seconds, bid them good-night. As though ending on politeness could somehow wash away the air. She heard his steps moving away, the door closing and Rena turning the key in sequence, putting the key back in her pocket. The hard-faced woman turned around to lean against the painted wood, her shoulders inclined to the floor as though she were tired. Prisoner and warden trapped in the same room, and perhaps for this singular time, sharing the same thought.
"Actually I was thinking of the word whore," Reinette muttered abruptly, taking off her veil and dropping it on the carpet. She needed air. She needed to speak freely, to say something about what had just happened. For how must it feel to be dropped from Lucian's bed? How must Rena be feeling right now? Folding her hands together, she reconsidered the woman she had once called 'whore.' Rena who had stood in front of her, willing to protect her from that harpy. Rena who said not a single word of protest, even when Lucian was treating her like a carpet. And then, before she could change her mind, she swallowed her pride and opened her mouth. "Are you alright," she asked.
Rena raised an eye. She had been staring at the carpet, but now she looked confused. "Why?"
Rena. Always so quiet. "Well, in Paris…" Reinette found herself playing with her lip, wondering how painful this must be for the woman. "…I gathered that you and Lyosha were…" With her hands, she tried to indicate what they may or may not have been doing, but the moment she did, she saw Rena give the slightest shake of the head. Which meant… Her mouth dropped open. "You never…"
"No."
"Not once?"
"Of course not." The words came with a hint of a wrinkled nose, as though this were something that had never and would never happen. Not even in the wildest dreams of God.
"And that thing we just saw…"
"His mistress."
"His what?" Reinette gasped, her palm coming up to her face. Not just a mistress. Rena had used the words 'maîtresse-en-titre.' It was a French term used to indicate the King's official mistress. She did not pause to think over why her French education included words like 'kill, poison, whore, and official mistress.' "You mean to say, his favourite?"
For a moment, a line near the edge of Rena's lips twitched. "His only mistress," she said. "For almost a year now."
"…but…" So many questions. Should she ask? How could she not? "…how old is she?"
To her disappointment, Rena paused on this information. True, it was the most they had talked since the interrogation. Their status as warden and prisoner threatening to end this conversation. But then it seemed even she could not keep such a delightful piece of marrow to herself. "She will be twenty tomorrow morning," the woman said softly.
"Twenty," Reinette exhaled with a pursed brow, trying to equate that number with the word 'mistress.' Almost twenty years ago, she had fallen into hibernation. Twenty years ago, Jacqueline had barely been a meeting of two minds. "…she is…" How could Lucian stand being around that…that…youth? A man who had been alive for over a thousand years and he was dallying with a girl that was fifty times younger than him! What words could describe her feelings? Disappointment. Irritation. The feeling of…
…old age.
He was as old if not older than her, but his age did not show. He could dally with this girl because his face lied for his age. Whereas hers had taken to telling the truth. She was old. She looked down at her feet. Leather boots, cracked at the edges… "…I think my shoes are older than she is," she said almost bitterly, feeling a mite useless. Putting a hand on the back of the ladies' chair, she dragged it back to the grate so it could sit beside its twin. Then she took one and held an indicating hand out to the other. At least they had two things in common now. Neither of them felt an affection for Jacqueline, and they were both stuck in this room. "Will you sit," she said cordially.
Rena looked at the chair, but rather than take it, something approaching amusement drifted across her face. A very hard, very bland form of amusement…one which came and went very quickly in comparison to the slower pace of its carrier. She continued leaning against the door, and like the night before, she looked up as though thinking and then recited something, a lilting line of words that ended in a rhyme. At the end of the rhyme, she looked at Reinette in expectation. It seemed she was waiting to hear a reaction. A test before she would take that seat…
…but the words were in English. Unable to understand, Reinette frowned, wondering what words could bring amusement to the face of a rock. "What did you say," she asked,
Rena smiled, already veering for the puzzle on the ground. She stepped forward, picked it up and started to arrange the rings, translating the words for Reinette as she did. It was an English children's rhyme, one which had to do with hearts and tarts and a King. Reinette listened with a frown on her face. At the end of the rhyme, Rena explained the rhyme…
"That is to say," she said in French, arranging the puzzle with her tongue clamped in concentration. "…if Lyosha is the King…" She looked up from the puzzle and looked very directly at Reinette. "…what does that make his spoiled mistress?"
Reinette squinted in thought, continuing to frown, going over the elements of the rhyme. There was the King. The Knave. The tarts. And then she felt something approaching spasms in her stomach. An emotion setting in before she could contain herself, the frown slipping away, replaced by peals of laughter ringing through the East Wing. Rena had made a joke. A satirical one at that. Lucian was the King…and his mistress was a Spoiled Tart.
In the midst of her laughter, she heard Rena sit down in the chair across from her. As though she had passed the test by being able to laugh. The hard-faced woman leaned forward, drawing a deck of cards out of her pocket. Probably a common item in lycan dens if they all seemed to carry them on their persons.
She held up the deck. "Do you want to play a game of Piquet," she said without expression, her amusement having dried up. Whether the amusement had dried, the tone still reminded her of Lucian when he was in a mood to barter. Like some part of him had subconsciously rubbed off on all these females he had put around her. Sabine, the precocious, staring child. Rena, the hard-faced warden. Allegra, the smirking fashion-plate. But was Lucian the only connection between them all?
Still thinking on this, she answered the question. "I think I would rather play Hearts."
Rena shook her head. "Hearts is no good." Another Lucian-ism. "We would need another player…"
"…and the King is busy," Reinette finished with a light smirk, getting up to pull her bedside table between their two chairs. The Count of Monte Cristo she placed on the bed, no longer feeling inclined towards the flower between the pages. He probably threw entire fields at his mistress…and they had seen how worthy she was of his attentions.
A/N: Still need to do a good proofread of this chapter, but I figured it was alright to post in its current state. (It takes a while to get things the way I like them, so if you see any typos or oddities, you can hope they will be banished by Saturday morning.) After which, we tackle Chapter 31, including among other things, this meeting between Lucian and Christian O'Riley (Xristo or Christos,) who as you may recall is under house arrest and has been so for the past fifty years. We'll see how that time has affected him.
Thank you to Mackenzie, Sheen, Keriwgd, Twisted Obscurity, aethershine, Jen Rock, Bellicose, Epilachna, mas, Angelic Hellraiser, Executrix, Thea Wolfe, Hic Jacet, and Checkers86 for the reviews, favourites, and story alerts! That being said, feel free to read and review (though do not be surprised if on occasion I answer back with an opinion as well.)
Mackenzie: Glad you enjoyed the update and Ridiculously Long Reviews are coveted things in my book. Moving onto that review, he does indeed have a way with the ladies...though at times, they see past this. Or they witness him having his way, and suddenly, there are a lot of ladies saying things like "He had his way with you too?" Regarding the film, very flattered you thought my Lucian was better than the RoTL one, though I must say, M. Sheen did work those lines as best as he could. (Without a doubt, he still oozes Lucian, but I keep wanting to rewrite the script. ;))
Sheen: Thank you!
Keriwgd: Good to know (really...it is good to know.)
Twisted Obscurity: Very glad you enjoyed my Lucian, and indeed, the coping mechanism was written as you suspected. (We will see a bit more of that in future as Reinette gets to know a bit more about what makes him (as Allegra said) a "difficult man.") Hrafn does mean raven, and Reinette is indeed difficult when she wants to be (she's also a bit of a drinker as hinted in Bottles of Blood, but that too will come later.) Anyway, thanks for all those reviews (they were fun to read.)
Jen Rock: Brilliant words for a review...and Singe is definitely becoming one of the characters we will see more often.
Bellicose: Love that you took two days to read the story (and glad you were honest about skipping the paragraphs, though I must point out, it is possible to miss a few bits of plot, but each to his or her own.) I think I sent a reply with the answers to your questions, but in case anyone else is curious: Reinette can only have visions as a result of ingesting lycan blood. Anyway, hope you continue to enjoy the story.
Epilachna: At this time, I'd prefer not to reveal Kolya's secrets yet or his full reasoning for murdering that woman (besides the plain "he's mental" reason, that is.) For the last question, I suppose looking at it from a different perspective, you could say he wants a bloodseer for his war, and perhaps in the smallest part of his mind where even he is not aware that his conscience is saying something, he might be seeing a peer. Another exile who was alive in the 11th century, someone hunted specifically for a reason that she cannot help. These are all things he can identify with. I can think of a few more, but listing them all kind of ruins the development for me. I believe we have discussed the point of whether he has asked for anything yet. On that note, glad to see the review and wonderful that the story makes you ponder these things.
mas: Glad to hear it.
Angelic Hellraiser: Thank you. Part of what I enjoy about the character is that contrast (warm emotion and cold logic.)
Reference:
The King of Hearts
Called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.
Ich hasse sie. - I hate her (German)
Piquet - French game of cards for two. We will learn the details of the game later.