Chapter XXXIV: A Plague of Thought
The East Wing. 20th November, 1899. 7:45 pm. The next day.
Seated at her desk, Reinette adjusted her veil, using her pen to demurely work the gauze and in doing so, attaining a better view of her book. Honestly, she just wanted a better bite on her pen, but she was being watched, so some form of dignity must prevail. She had been learning English all morning. Half of the evening too. In a word, her memory was proving 'faulty,' and in several, the words were losing their meaning before she finished them. One she almost recognised…travel…it looked like travail.
'To work' in French.
Within moments, her head slipped onto the table, her cheek coming to rest near a blotch of ink. Dried already…a remnant from last week…or was it yesterday? Hard to say with the majority of her time spent working at this desk.
Yet some things changed…
The subject. Her sheets. Her bathing water. The spine of her latest book, the initials 'j.v.' stamped on the cover. She frowned, pulling it closer, opening it to the frontispiece and studying the English title for the fifth time. 'Journey…to the interior of the…Earth' …could that be right? How could one journey inside the earth? Unwilling to admit the rise in her interest, she casually closed it. Lucian had dropped it on her desk…
…and for that, she would spurn it.
Crossly, she began picking at the frayed cover. Shocking the way he believed everything could be solved with an object. 'My apologies for kidnapping you. Have a pendant. Angry because I bled you? Have a book.' It was like throwing meat to a wounded dog. Her nails began making ridges in the cloth. And of course she had screamed that night…how was she to know whether by some sick hand of providence, her position had changed? How was she to act when he, an enemy, her captor, approached her with a drawn knife?
At the last thought, she closed her eyes. She would not think on it. The sooner she learned their language, the sooner she could arrange passage to the North. She must remember all she had forgotten. She must escape this household. This godforsaken isle…
Without warning, her teeth sank into the crease of her lip. Memories of English cruelty etched into her mind. The legs of eight women swaying in the breeze. Their necks hanging from trees. No memory of names, only thoughts of grief, horror, and loss. Anger over what this land had taken from her… Blood dripped onto the table, mingling with the dried ink. Distantly, she felt pain. Her thoughts balanced on the one question she had not factored into her plan.
Could she still poison him?
"Daydreaming will not help you learn," a stern voice said behind her, interrupting her thoughts. Singe. He was getting up. "Adequate rest and good diet have no impact on lazy bones and sleeping on books," he added. "We stop for today."
"No, wait," she said, hastening to keep him there. She stood, folding her hands. "I am sorry, Master Singe. I will do better." Pay attention.
Learn the English.
Escape.
o…o…o
Ten hours later.
With the dogs snapping at his heels, Lucian walked briskly down a hallway, slipped through his bedroom door, shut the door behind him, and for the first time in hours, let his head rest on a surface that was not surrounded by people. Escape, he thought. All he wanted was an escape. Meetings, dinners, drills, paperwork. Even the blood-forsaken murder investigation was getting under his skin. He was tired, and his limbs were aching. Ignoring the bath and the dinner, he stumbled towards the bed. All he wanted was to sleep. His boots off, his shirt thrown the side, and the trousers having to make do with staying on. He collapsed on the bed, curling into the blankets like a grave, reminding himself to take a dose before he slept...
…and then falling asleep.
The laudanum, the morphine, the opium at his bedside table untouched. The clock continuing to tick, tick, tick beside his ear. Sleep taking him down into its embrace. Caressing his neck, his back, his throat…and then inexplicably, telling him to march towards a light. The embers glowing from afar, telling him that he had to be quick. That the iron was hot. That the colour was just right for forging. He started to pound the metal. He had to be quick or he'd lose his chance.
Sweat on his brow, the dirt on his back…
He was back in a place where he belonged. The old smithy. Every tool in its place, every tong, hammer, and chisel ready at hand. Clang. Like the ticking of a clock, he needed to be precise with every strike. Clang. Nails kept in a crude, wooden box. Clang. Steel, iron, and bronze sorted in the back. Clang. Horseshoes on a line. Clang. Unfinished swords on the right, shields on the left. Clang. If he turned, he would see armour. Crossbows. An army of slaves ready to take up the hammer, their faces as filthy as his. For the first time, he forgot to pound the metal. What were their names, he began to wonder. And why so many?
As if to answer his question, the dream hastened forward. The flames rising up, forcing him to look to the metal again. Names did not matter. For he had to be quick or he'd lose his chance. Behind him, he heard the gate…the creak of iron chains. The sound of a horse rearing on its hind legs, throwing a rider from its back. She had no voice. No tongue to cry out.
Clang.
The metal was starting to curl, like paper burning over a wood fire. Clang. Yellow…orange…white-hot liquid pouring down the anvil, sweeping over his feet, splashing over his legs. He could feel his skin melting onto the ground. His arms continuing to pound the metal, ignoring the sight of bone where his legs had once been. Clang. In his ears, the workers were shouting. The coven bursting into flame all around him. Clang. The horses. Clang. The death dealers.
Clang.
The rider.
Her face was burning. Clang. Her teeth going black, her mouth starting to scream. Her body writhing on the stone, shrieking as the fire entered her lungs. Patches of skin melting into her armour. Clang. He could not help her. Sweat on his brow, the dirt on his back…the steel curling. She was burning on the stone. His stone. Clang. Blood pouring down his anvil. His hammer pounding in her chest. Clang.
The colour just right for forging.
Clang.
He screamed.
o…o…o
With a roar, he sat up, the sweat on his brow, his heart racing. Breathe. The sheets were in a mess, his claws wrung through the bed. He could smell the ash. Breathe. The blanket shredded to pieces. Breathe. Footsteps coming briskly down the hall. The sound had carried… The door opened and he saw Raze, the man's face giving off a trace of sweat, a sign of having run from somewhere else…the kitchens, the dining hall…somewhere farther than the upper floors. No words were exchanged. The lycan left, closing the door again. Knowing when to leave, perhaps better than anyone.
The next moments were a plague of thought.
Shoving the blanket off, he stepped onto the carpet, tripping over a book. He kicked it…and then bent to his bedside table, searching for what should have been there. Laudanum. The only mistress that let him sleep. Rest. Forget his dreams. Forget his memories. He could have been dreaming of nothing, but no…
…the smithy.
Just one of over a dozen misshapen memories, all of them ending in fire. The worst moments of his life playing over and over in his head. He was standing in the bathroom now, his face over the washstand, his hand reaching for the syringe. 'Forget or go mad,' someone had once told him. Magnus. One of the pack-leaders in the North and the only lycan who'd ever had the balls to tell him to kill himself so there'd be more blood-wine and less whining. Certainly his first wake-up call in the years following his wife's death. As the needle broke his skin, a sense of cold reality sank in. Despite his initial hatred of the man, Magnus had become a close friend, one he hoped to trust during the Gathering of the Horde. Five months left to go. All the major pack-leaders making their way across the Channel, their minds on murder and assassination. Three leaders merging in the northern hemisphere. Two leaders merging in France. The fate of Amelia.
That he would live to see that day.
Back in his bedroom, he considered the sheets and then the clock. Ten in the morning. He didn't have to be up for seven hours, but there was no way he was going back to bed. Ripped sheets. The scent of flesh burning. His arm went up to his nose, stopping himself from breathing, all the while, backing away from the four-poster. Magnus had once told him it was the plague of getting old. The memories running over the edge…not just in the blood, but the rest of the body too. The touch of a finger, the scent of a nose, the organs of taste, sight, and sound. The senses exceeding their bounds, taking hold of what should remain in the blood…
The thought made him pause, his attention drawn to the bed…and then the door. It was just a theory…something Magnus had said during a raid.
Beyond that door, ten minutes away, was Reinette, her body old, her blood ruined, sleeping under the assumption that her memories were tied to ruined blood…but if she really were that old, her memories might have spilled, remnants of her past clinging to something deeper than blood. Taste, sight, sound, touch. Her mouth sharp, a centuries old tune coming from her throat. Her ability to smell unaffected, an ancient flower giving her pleasure, a conversation raising names, cultures, scraps of memory that neither of them knew she had. At times, he wondered if she remembered more than she let on…
…and if he should have been so quick to bring her to London.
Regardless of impulse, in five months, he'd have to present her purpose before the packleaders. Three days of talks, and only one to prove that her presence would in no way affect the safety of the Horde. Blood knew how he'd step around her knowledge of his name, the onslaught of questions, the potential of execution…yet he'd already decided his plan of attack. Whatever their fate, the historical bloodseers had been tools of war, glorified weather vanes turning one way or another by virtue of blood. One drop and a general could see the potential of any lycan soldier…
…Imre, for example.
The one slated to assassinate Amelia. It was his hope that the pack-leaders would agree to the lycan's blood being tasted by Reinette. But first…vital that they knew she was an exile, trustworthy as a prisoner…someone who'd been stripped bare of all her secrets.
He could feel it…the rush of the drug. The adrenaline…
Time to get a move on.
Four steps and he was at the foot of his bed, gathering research, too eager to look at the titles, stuffing them haphazardly in one of the pillowcases. Scandinavian history. Sami culture. History of the covens. Shoving the last book in, he hoisted the bundle over his shoulder…and pulled open his bedroom doors, squinting into the sunlight down the hall. The more he knew, the better he could treat her. Perhaps even one day, walking outside the East Wing, seeing the rest of the house. The library. The gardens. Not a prisoner, but a genuine member of his den.
An ally.
One that he could help.
A/N: Next chapter coming in a matter of hours. (All answers to reviews, messages, etc. will be at the end of the next chapter!)