Chapter XLV: A Penny for a Thought
Three weeks later.
January 14, 1900. The Study.
The new year had come and gone. It was a quarter to nine in the morning, and Lucian was standing in the shade by the east window of his study, his back to the room and an unlit pipe stuck between his teeth. He'd given up smoking over a decade ago, but the steady decline of his laudanum stash was leading him to look to other means for keeping his mental state in check. The principle scourge of an addict being that, more often than not, the addiction had very little to do with the actual substance.
"Good news or bad?" His attention was focused on one of two horses making its way across a pasture. Sabine. Her morning riding lesson, something he had promised to attend at least once, and as yet had not found the time. Probably for the best. Two weeks into the new year and his moods were, at best, erratic: roughly two days of good humour for every one spent snapping at anything that crossed his path.
"If pushed, I would say 'bad,' sir." Weylan, his secondary advisor—after Raze—on all things related to the outside world, was young, but entirely suited to his post. Anyone capable of distilling two hundred hours of minutes into four sentences was always worthy of his time. "The full contingent will be present at the Gathering, however, there is some debate as to the safety of the location. According to one report, there have been Blood sightings in the proposed opera district. Gustav has called for confidence in the state of Berlin, and in the interim, Lady Allegra has put forward a motion for Vienna as a more suitable location. Most are still waiting on your opinion before they proceed with the vote."
He spoke around the pipe. "Anything but Wagner."
"Wagner, sir?"
"Ja," he said, switching to German without a second thought. The horses were moving faster. She was riding side-saddle. Ridiculous, but necessary if they were to conform to the image the public required of Mr. Alexander Kerr's estate. "I have… issues… with Wagner."
"Shall I put that in writing, sir?"
"Why not." He stepped away from the window as the clouds moved. The sun was getting in his eyes. "Tell them—in writing—they've wasted a week by choosing not to vote, and that I am now of the opinion that they can hold it under the lead soprano's arse for all I care." He removed the pipe, taking a closer look at some of the teeth marks, before chucking it onto his desk. "I just don't want to be hearing Wagner as she sits down."
"Very good, sir." Weylan had switched to German accordingly and was now thumbing through the small black box, dedicated to all things local. "Colonel Arlington has submitted a request to widen the scope of his inquiry—he believes the tools used on the victim's eye may be located farther afield than first posited."
"And what's he basing this on?"
"It would seem a lack of options, sir." Though Weylan was not officially involved with the murder inquiry, it was his duty to be aware of any and all things related to the lycan-master's connections with the outside world. "Though the murders have stopped for the time being, the investigation appears to have come to a stand-still. All leads in the distillery district have gone cold, and they still require access to some of the more secretive of perfume houses. "
"Approved." He waved a hand. "Next."
Weylan moved onto the next page in his hand, speaking as he transferred Arlington's request to the approved section of the files. They would be signed later. "There has been some pressure from the investors to release Stafford, McIlroy, and Douglas. No official petitions as of yet, merely letters…"
"Letters can be ignored."
"Shall I inform you the moment they file a petition, sir?"
"Yes." He pointed at Weylan. "Wake me if you have to."
"Of course, sir." This was all old news for Weylan. He had been trained to do this since birth or age twenty as far as mature lycans were concerned. To observe protocol, to imagine what was required of him even before the lycan-master could think of it. "Finally, a report from Singe regarding his experiments in scent-isolation… "
Lucian snapped his fingers. "Summarise."
"The eye was very clean before the scents were applied, and as such, the experiment was inconclusive."
"Fuck."
"Indeed, sir." Never fazed, Weylan closed the black box and removed a short stack of pages from his personal itinerary, handing them over. "Shall I make a note of your displeasure or would you prefer to move onto something more positive?"
"Positive." He wanted to kick something. The trail had gone completely cold. Having the sense that he was stalking something, he headed for his seat. At least the black box was empty now. Supposedly that was positive. "Remind me what that word means again?"
"The opposite of lycan, sir." Weylan did have some humour to him. "Moving to Article three, reference number eighty-seven…" He waited until they both had resumed their seats. "…using the Lady Allegra's notation, I have started a file for the lady in question, however, it will require some key pieces of information before her registry status can move forward. Official papers will take a minimum of two months to process."
Right.
He was already skimming the second page of Reinette's official 'Petition for Lenience', as it was called. All exiled vampires required one…even Kolya. They had processed his papers in France, but Reinette was a more difficult case. The rest of the documents pertained to residency and entitlement. All very official. All very necessary, if she was going to stand in front of his council in four months.
He flipped from the second page back to the first. The bare trimmings of her past. Allegra had filled out as much as she could, which was to say, even less than he knew. According to the pages, she only spoke Latin, Norwegian, Russian, and remedial French. "Her travel arrangements are secure?"
"She will be boxed as last time, but with an increase in comfort." Weylan had been the reason Reinette's travels had been so orchestrated last time. The unsung hero that helped her get into England without her realising or even appreciating it. "If her papers have cleared, she will have access to forged Blood documents and a false passport naming her as a citizen of the Russian empire. Enough to get her out of trouble if she is misplaced before the actual event."
Misplaced…it was quite possible. Unlikely with a lycan guard, but possible. Lucian picked up his pipe again, considering whether to open the drawer and just hold the tobacco. But then he could just as soon as open the drawer and use the one laudanum bottle he had yet to give to Singe. It would be simple. Easy.
"Sir, it would…" Weylan was being delicate. "…help if I could actually meet the lady in question. Does she fully understand what is at stake here?"
He looked up, surveying Weylan for a moment. Enlisted from an early age. Polite. Capable of keeping state secrets. More to the point, Allegra had called him 'pretty' once…and blood knew, Reinette liked a pretty face. Might unsettle her enough to start talking if he brought one with him… "What's your schedule like around seven?"
"It can be empty, sir."
"And how's your Russian?"
"Excellent, sir."
Excellent? He squinted at the other man. Was it excellent? Perhaps, but that was his word. Despite that, Reinette would probably appreciate… He felt his teeth grind into the pipe. …the 'excellence.' And Weylan would probably appreciate meeting the case study he'd spent untold hours on.
His thoughts trying to adjust to the small hairs rising on his upper arm. The slight tension in his back as he tried to categorise why he now felt like telling Weylan to go take his Russian and speak it somewhere silent. Why a tiny part of his brain wanted to break a seventeenth century oak chair across Weylan's face.
Or perhaps just shove him.
Starting to suspect, but not entirely believing what was going on, he put his pipe down for the umpteenth time and opened the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, rummaging around for his last stash of laudanum, currently housed in an ink-well. It was becoming obvious that he needed it…surely Singe could see that. Territorial thoughts. Resentment. Paranoia. Ten minutes from now, someone would say 'hello' and he'd spend the afternoon wondering what the devil they meant by that. "Weylan, you'll have to forgive me…but we'll need to continue this later."
"Of course, sir." The man had already brought out a small book for his final notations. Such things were usually written in 'house-code' as it was called and then burned after carrying them out. To the average reader, it might appear as a list of chores or a cleaning schedule. "Any instructions before I leave?"
"Just two…" The laudanum was not there. He was patting his pockets, hoping he had left it in his jacket. No laudanum. "I need you to go to Rena…" He closed the drawer and moved onto the lower one. "…she'll be in the kitchens at noon for a brief period—inform her that her charge will be having visitors this evening and please stress the plural." From what he'd heard, Reinette had neither washed nor expressed a desire to wash since Christmas. It was questionable if they could even get her out of the tunnels, given how attached she had become to dirt. "We'll be meeting at ten past seven."
"Noted, sir."
"As to the second…" He frowned, thinking as he eyed the contents of the last drawer. The laudanum and tobacco were missing. Someone had even taken his matches. "…swing by Singe's quarters…" Reaching to his left, he ripped a section from his newspaper, scrawled the words 'No Lessons' across the back, and handed it to Weylan. "Give him that, and tell him if he ever goes through my desk again without permission, I will…not…break anything in his laboratory. I will just sit there, watching him work, while holding some matches and a small bottle of highly flammable ethanol. Ask him if he's comfortable with that."
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He placed his palms on either side of the desk and smiled warmly before standing. "Until this evening." Reaching across the table, he very briefly shook Weylan's hand. Still an uncomfortable sensation, but the least he could do for a lycan that had served him so diligently. "Keep to the shadows."
"Survive the war, sir." Weylan backed away to the door, making a short bow before shutting it.
Brilliant.
Left behind, Lucian collapsed in his seat. He was now exhibiting the classic signs of a territorial wolf, except his territory seemed to reside in the form of a ninety-pound, seventy-year-old woman, whose opinion of him ranged somewhere between "slave" and "you half-breed piece of…blank." Insults which felt more like pins than daggers once compared to the bigger problem of how they expected him to live like this for the entire winter.
No laudanum. No sleep. No mistresses. In the words of Allegra, it was incomprehensible. Another fourteen hours before his next drop of a dose and considering he had just threatened his physician, he was unlikely to get any extra doled out to him any time soon. He was doing half-days now…stints from dusk until midnight, waking again at four in the morning and working until noon. Normally, Raze would be on this shift…but Raze was on holiday in Yorkshire with his wife. Because that's what people did with their wives after they just married them. Apparently it was normal these days. You marry someone, you take them to the Isle of Wight. Or Bath. Or fucking Yorkshire.
His eyes lingered on the bottom drawer, its contents scattered in his search. Stacks of papers, envelopes, and wax. A few personal items. An extra shirt, some cuff-links, a variety of grooming implements. He couldn't see it from this angle, but he knew the knife was in there. Steel with an ivory handle. He should never have subscribed to that tradition. Like showing his weaknesses. With more force than he planned, he kicked the drawer shut and stood, looking out the window instead. Definitely a morning for dark thoughts.
o…o…o
Several floors below.
Winter had come. Reinette was fast asleep in the catacombs, her body wedged between two icy rocks and her head folded into a blanket. Her hair was matted, but for all intents and purposes, she was at her best. She was alive, she was eating…and three weeks ago, she had found the safe-room. Her eyes almost fooled by a dead-end until she realised there was a hidden shaft, perpendicular to the wall. Only two feet wide. The hole leading eight feet up into the ceiling; the ceiling leading into a cob-webbed tunnel that ended in the tiny room she had been sleeping in for the past three weeks. Her own personal attic made of stone.
As ever, she clutched the journal as she slept. The small supply of charcoal in one corner. The refuse pile in another, its content comprising of whatever bits of rubbish she found in her nightly excursions. Things that might be useful in future. Sharp sticks, charred bones, pieces of parchment, ribbons, trinkets covered in dust…even a small pile of photographs, their content giving her cause to first blush…and then squint, turning her head, considering the angles. She could not remember being privy to such things…and yet in a millennium, she must have familiarised herself with…a husband…a lover. Someone. In the end, she had put the photographs down.
When not dwelling on the past, she made notes of her present. Thanks to Christmas, she knew what day it was now, so she kept a calendar in the book, marking the dates; seeing the new century come and go with only an underlining notch to indicate the occasion.
The rest of her time she spent in the labyrinth. Every day venturing out a little more, taking the journal with her and mapping her progress with the pen Lucian had left her. Painstaking, but of value once she understood where she could go and potentially what could be hidden there. Like stumbling through the belly of a whale, her path lined with the bones of forgotten creatures, the ones that would never rise from the deep.
The thought proving itself too real for she woke to the sound of climbing. Pebbles shifting and scuffing, like an animal scraping its claws against rock. Alarmed, she folded herself deeper into the hole. Her level of fear increasing, rising into a panic until she saw her visitor crawl into the room.
Rena.
The eyes she sometimes saw in the ceiling above her…yellow and reflecting in the dark. A sight that no longer frightened her; for in many ways, Rena was her only companion in this place. She wanted to say something. Say anything, for she had not opened her mouth in three weeks, but it was Rena who spoke first…
…in French.
"Lyosha is bringing someone to speak with you at seven this evening." She paused. "There will be no lesson with Singe." Like a clock that had been wound, she said her piece and then turned to leave.
She had not spoken French in three weeks. Barely able to keep up, Reinette found herself trying to sit forward, awkwardly pushing herself from between the rocks. The blanket fell, rewarding her with an icy draft, but she was more interested in asking her question than warmth. "He is…" She rephrased, trying to remember her grammar. "…who is he bringing?"
"I could not say…" With only her back visible, the woman touched the opposite wall, running a gloved finger down one of the scratches. Her expression blank, her words very quiet, seeming to come from somewhere beyond, as though a clock had struck thirteen. "…you have not washed in three weeks. Is it because the water is cold?"
"It…"
She had been about to say something sarcastic, but she broke off. The question was an understatement. The water was frozen to ice every evening. But Rena did not work in the way that others did; Rena followed instructions. Precise instructions, which made her suspect that for the past three weeks…
…it had been Lucian that had wanted her to bathe in ice.
Not Rena.
Moderating her tone, she took the blanket up again, unwilling to hope for any more warmth than that. "…yes. The water is cold," she finally said.
There was no telling what the woman was thinking. The words coming across as quite unthinkable when she finally spoke them. "The water will be hot this evening," she said. And then she turned. "Give me your clothes and I will bring them back before seven. They will be clean."
Clean.
She could hug Rena at this moment. It did not matter if they would become filthy within the hour. Her arms freezing, but her spirits warmer as she began to strip. "Thank you," she said quietly. The woman nodded in reply, leaving her behind to think in the cold, to hold the blanket close, and wonder who might be coming to visit her in the dark.
Ages since the last chapter, but at least I have a good reason. (Writing some of the later chapters, so things are a bit more concrete.) Many thanks to Emerald Gaze, Celtic Aurora, Mackenzie, Ella Palladino, KinneyRock, jess114, Millenia-the-wings-of-valmar, and Agonist for the reviews, story alerts, and favourites. As always, feel free to read and review, as it always helps me write me faster.
Emerald Gaze: Too true, but hopefully we'll be heading in the right direction soon. On the plus side, they may not exactly adore each other right now, but they are intrigued by one another. (Although you're right...she's going to be fighting it. She's not going quietly into the arms of Lucian, and there is going to be lots of fighting before whatever happens between them happens. ;))
Celtic Aurora: Every time I am late with a chapter, I'm going to find that review and read it, so I feel better. :) Hoping the word 'smarmy' is a reference to the "Urban Dictionary" definition (i.e. "A certain attitude often accompanied by a squinty look and a superior smile that makes you instantly hate a person.") If so, I think Reinette would agree with you. ;D
Mackep: Yaaay, glad you loved it. (Couldn't resist throwing a few bits out ahead of schedule, just to keep things interesting.) Trying to write faster, so we have more shrieking. ;)
Ella Palladino: No problem. More fiery tempers to come (and youth, after some comlicated story manoeuvres). ^_^