Chapter L: A Sail before the Winds

Forty-eight minutes later.

It was over. The final vote cast amid a tumultuous uproar as the fists of a shallow minority pounded their disapproval upon a battered oak table. The scene encapsulated by that most apt of immortal sayings: if vampires must choose one way, then lycans will choose another. Like comparing a pallid grave to a parliamentary shouting match. The loudest opponent on their right already thundering to his feet as though the floor were still open.

"Milords and ladies of the Gathering," he began with a pompous ceremony. "…I must protest." The one-eyed pack-leader of Berlin, Gustav had never had qualms about making himself or his objections heard. Raising his scarred palms to his peers, he called for silence before turning to face the one at their head. "Lycan-master, this is not some harmless exile living in a forgotten quarter," he said. "Surely his lordship can see that this is a highly suspect individual living in clear violation of the Oaths of Security Act of 1681…" He stabbed his index finger against the table. "…an individual without sufficient proof of merit. One that must be executed!"

There was a chorus of 'hear, hear's.

"Et cela, sans parler de…la…" Auguste was having a fit on his side of the council table, for a moment losing himself in his native tongue. "…la Statute of Communal Living," he added in English. As though a line dividing exiles from the den was enough reason to cut off her head.

Keeping her opinions to herself, Allegra allowed her finger to grace her chin in the face of this croak of naysayers. Watching Lucian more than Gustav or Auguste. He had barely registered their address, his thumb pressing into the skin above one eye, his scent masked in a void. Having exorcised his childish demons in private, he had spent the majority of the council meeting in a morose silence. The kind that led most to believe he was neither listening nor cared until he occasionally raised his face and graced his council with such memorable retorts as…

"The term 'merit,' gentlemen, is clearly defined as being at the sole discretion of this council…" The pause was remiss. "…and as this council has already voted, I fail to see how his lordship's perceived failure to understand a document…that he wrote in 1681…holds any relevance."

The controlled nature of his tone drawing more than a few guarded smiles from their number before Magnus unabashedly started to laugh in the background. The blood from his late supper seeping down his chin and the undisguised humour draining it all-the-more fast from Gustav's face. The silver remaining beneath the surface for even the smallest Change was grounds for dismissal in this hall.

Gustav closed his eyes for a measure and then turned from the Norseman to the source of his gripe. "Your case rests upon a loop-hole, milord?"

"There is no 'case,' Gustav." Lucian had switched from thumbing his brow to considering the position of his thumbs in relation to his hands. "There is merely the vote," he said. "…and by suggesting that my vote is in clear violation of the Oath, you are also suggesting that select members of this council have committed treason by voting in collusion with me." He put his thumbs together, raising his face to stare his opponent in the eye. "Now if that is the course of your inquiry, then I respectively advise this council to reopen the floor at once."

Allegra inhaled before it started. The tension rising by a claw. Like a chill tendril creeping its way forward as the void began to smell like death, making at least three of them look elsewhere as the rest of them waited on Justice to speak. Her voice taking its time for even she had an opinion.

"It is enough, Gustav," the Lady Morrigan finally said. Sweet-tempered and kind she once had been, but a slaver's axe had given her a crueller sense of balance than the two halves of her face combined."The floor remains closed and the voting is fair." The words might hold a grudge, but as acting chairwoman, it was her duty to let the matter rest and by her scent, she expected Gustav to do the same.

The overbearing pack-leader taking his seat with an acrimonious grunt, still muttering to his peers even as the verdict was recorded. Allegra raising her palm once before the end in a final show of hands as the Registrar added their names to the edict, giving them each a chance to sign before he filed it away with the rest of their rulings. The assassination of Amelia in the next year. The death of Selene if Kraven failed to give news within a month. The merge of the three great Northern packs. The merge of Auguste and Benoit.

The minutes passing as they moved from ruling to ruling—to finally remembering those who had fallen in the past year. A feat she had never been able to sustain for very long…

…and of course, there would be an appeal, she decided. A strongly-worded letter from Berlin. A petition or two from the Conservatives. The worst danger presenting itself over time—for the blood-seer or Reinette as she should call her—would be watched over time. Every year of her life recorded and judged by a neutral party reporting to the Council, allowing them to determine for themselves, in time, whether she was proving herself 'useful' to the Horde.

She could only pray the Council would overlook that ridiculous business with the catacombs. The thought almost causing her head to shake. It might have been easier if he'd just told them. For Blood knew the rest of his wagers were strange enough…and after that choking incident in Morocco, they could even chalk this one up as 'typical.'

A voice broke the silence. "Keep to the shadows…"

"Survive the war," she replied in tandem.

Their voices meek and the lycan-master already rising from his seat before most of them had raised their heads. His mask of disinterest so much in place that it would seem Thore and Gottfrid had not just made history by standing on his behalf. Their shoulders and heads covered in the furs of their pack despite the warmth. Like wildlings of a darker age, their faces scarred and grey; making her pity the small wives she had seen in their company.

Her assessment taking just enough time to render the seat on her left empty. The main doors of the council chambers flung open and the lycan-master's steps now retreating from their presence. The man never spending more than a minute at a Gathering once it was finished. Always quick to move. Quick to speak. Quick to anger. Forgiveness taking him years to muster, if at all.

Her eyes watching the door for a spell before she casually leaned back in her chair, allowing her fingers to graze the silent statue on her right, signing the words quickly before any could notice…

For she was the nightingale that sang for silence before thunder. Her heart no longer bitter for the years they had lost, but the time they had yet to lose. The stolen moments. The years she would miss in this marriage that was not for convenience but for love. Her duties tying her to Vienna and his forcing him to leave with the morning train, returning to London as soon as possible. Taking the reins for a master who must remain behind for several days. His duties to his friend coming before any pack, any leader, and any wife.

So she signed a final warning into his palm, the tips of her fingers speaking of life and love…and above all, laudanum. For according to her Linemaster, two cases of it had mysteriously appeared and then disappeared from the Viennese docks this morning—which meant they were either en route to London or about to be. In other words…

…he is slipping.

Her husband taking the news in stride, stroking her hand once for the uphill struggle that she sought to ease, and then rising from his seat. His resolve unwavering as he followed after thunder. Their thoughts riding on the same storm, for there could be only one master of their Horde; and it was not laudanum.

o…o…o

Two days later.

Whether the laudanum was found or not was of little consequence to one whose concerns rested on more immediate horrors. 'One' referring to that singular person of Reinette, who was now seated on the edge of her bed, her throat hoarse and her breathing shallow.

She had woken to the smell of vomit again. Dried blood caked over her bedding and her mind able to conjure up all manner of reasons why they would neglect her for so long. The first day spent in fear of an axe that she now longed for. Her arms clinging to her knees, trying to find skin that did not slip with perspiration. Would they burn her? Was that why they were taking so long? Was that why no one was speaking to her?

Lucian. Rena. The faceless Norseman. All of them staying away from her quarters as though she carried the plague. Her bathing water unchanged. Her clothes filthy. The thought making her breathe faster, causing the sweat to run down her back. How had she not noticed? How had she not seen that this was a prison? Every day passing like it was a year, making her flinch with every sound, every step. Her heart beating in time with a waking dream.

Any minute. Any second now, the door would open and it would happen. Step by step. Moment by moment. In her mind, she could see it happening as her Mentor had told her. The long walk of the execution. Her wrists tied together as they led her down a torch-lit corridor. The rusted grate above their heads showing the darkness of morning. The slow death of a rising sun.

The end of a thousand year old bloodseer at the hands of a ruthless beast. And in her mind, she was sure of it now. She knew that her Mentor had spoken truth. That only the coven could provide the mercy of an executioner's wheel. That the lycans would stake her outside. That they would let her burn for the length of time it took dawn to come. The minutes it would take for the shadows to recede. The agony she would bear as the pitch of night became lighter and lighter until finally her skin turned black in the light of a full sunrise.

She could hear herself screaming in her mind. The thought becoming real as her eyes jerked towards the door. Hearing the fateful sound, the echo of footsteps approaching her room. A soft cry falling from her lips as she covered her mouth. Her hands shaking as she realised it was not a dream. That the end was nigh. That there was a metal key rattling in the lock. The handle turning from the outside and the door swinging open on silent hinges.

Her eyes longed to see Rena. With all her might and will, she longed to see Rena.

But it was him.

Saving and tormenting her, the one that started it all. He would be the one to tell her…that it had failed. That she would be executed. That he commiserated with her, but that it was out of his hands. Her hands now pressed to her mouth, staring at him, waiting for him to speak. Starting to weep into her palm as she waited. Desperate and silent, willing herself to see through his mask. For what did it mean?

The guarded stare. Like a feckless lodger entering the wrong room and then flicking his gaze around as though it offended him to have to come here. His attention resting on her for less than a moment, the time it took for him to brush off the fact that she was crying. That she was in a prison cell. The blood rancid and her eyes sleepless. All of these things his eyes rested on, and yet she was certain he saw none of them.

Her lack of movement finally prompting him to circle. His breath taking him around the room, considering the walls for the length of an age before uttering his message, one that informed her that they were leaving in 'twenty-nine minutes,' and that if she intended to travel looking like 'that,' then he was leaving her behind. This was followed by a terse exhale as though he had forgotten something and blamed her entirely for the oversight. Searching his waistcoat pockets and then flicking what appeared to be a playing card across the room. "Do not lose that."

It was an order. The man gone before she could reply. The door shutting behind him and the shock of what he had said finally hitting her.

That.

Slowly, she lowered her palms from her mouth. Her fingers beaded with sweat. It could not be real. She had spent so long imagining the worst that to hear something else was to render it false. Still, she reached forward, touching the edge of the card he had flicked onto her bed. Touching, but not taking. Staring at the card in wonder and then quickly looking back at the door, suddenly afraid that it would open. That he would return and take it from her. That it was a ruthless game from a madman without mercy.

But the door did not open. And only after the silence had dragged did she let her fingers hold onto the edge of the paper, drawing it into her palms and examining its surface. The edge thicker than the one she had travelled with. The scent impossible to distinguish, but the name visible to the naked eye. The only difference revealing itself in the top right corner of the card.

Jeanne-Antoinette…

…de Laroche.

It was a surname. Each individual letter causing her eyes to brim as she understood its cruel meaning. Reinette of the rock. Reinette of the catacombs. Reinette of the monastery filled with rats. The name providing her with a reason for anger for why else would he have named her so? And yet reason alone could not explain the air flooding into her lungs.

Breathing for the first time in two days, the sound rising in her throat like a sail before the winds. The fear rising in her heart as she understood that it was not fear that made her cry, but relief. He was taking her back to his home…and she was relieved.

She wanted to go back with him. She wanted to leave the catacombs. She wanted to return to her golden cage filled with books and blood and dresses. Her hands reaching out blindly for the yew rune as she closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to the fates. Áris help her. Hrafn help her…for she was losing herself in this world.

o…o…o

22nd of April 1900.

And yet to 'lose oneself' was to imply redemption. A chance to be saved from the temptations of the soul. Áris forgive her, for she had fallen beyond that point. No longer in her cell or her travelling box, but on an ocean of a bed, lounging with a cushion over her eyes, having recovered suitably enough to realise that neither fate nor fortune gave a cock's crow about her problems. Never mind the fact that he had waited for her. That he had dropped hawk's blood into her box this time. That she had just sung for her supper and the only one who cared about it was the same person that had sedated her less than an hour ago.

Certainly he cared…and why?

So he could rip off the cover of her box in the middle of the day and 'transport cargo.' The warm light barely registering before she realised it was a ship's chandelier rather than the sun shining down on her. The bastard already snapping his fingers, tasking her to move 'today please' so he could get started before next year. After all, when was it not a good idea to use her box to transport bottles of laudanum? And how could anyone complain when he was installing an 'entirely safe' false bottom?

The question moot for she had given up. She would no longer fight it. He was an addict…and as long as she was his 'prisoner', she might as well enjoy the few cursory moments she'd have before he threw her back in the catacombs. Her sleep thrown asunder by the constant hammering. The sense that they were lost on this endless ocean. That her purpose was merely to lie here and listen to nails and numbers.

Her new scent-card initially dropped on the floor and now tied to her wrist after it became clear that she was caring less and less about details. Her thoughts meandering around his threat to nail the scent-card to her forehead. The sick part of his intellect managing to tell her off while enlightening her about the number of annual exiles that ended up dead after losing their scent-cards by accident.

Thirty-eight.

He had then informed her that the national average was forty-two and that if she really cared to think about it, approximately twenty-eight percent of those forty-two scent-cards were reported missing on the third day of acquiring them. The entire speech accompanied by the tapping sound of a nail being driven into her chariot. As though she needed further proof of his morbidity.

"Your move."

"You drugged me."

"Reinette, I gave you half a gram," he said, taking a long draw from the smoke. "Now move."

She sighed, letting the pillow fall off her face. Raising her fingers to her lips and finding them empty. The last time she had refused to move he had flicked a nail at her. A rusty crooked nail. She probably had tetanus now; her body struggling to heal itself like a human. But no…never enough to just use her for the black-market. No, he wanted to be amused by her as well.

The chessboard looking hazy from where she was lying. One of his knights had moved. The majority of the game kept alive by an opponent who seemed to have a keen talent for grabbing chess pieces as they rolled past him and plunking them back on their exact square of origin. Unless he was cheating, which she considered entirely possible.

"Pawn to Queen's four," she said after a moment, returning the cushion to her head. Her mind only half on the game and the rest trying to at least appear as though she were not swimming through whatever stupor he'd put her in. Her mind still rolling around with the sea, trying not to remember the number of times she had dissolved into a sobbing mess within the last fortnight. Once in front of Rena and once in front of him. He had not mentioned it, but she was sure he'd use it against her later.

Her eyes spying out for the brief period in which his back was to her. His beard unkempt, his hair reaching past his shoulders as though he'd lost sight of the times. Too straggly for good society. The hammer abandoned, the grease-stained fingers reaching across the board, moving the piece for her. He was a beast. She could not forget that. A ruthless beast leaning over an army as he contemplated his next move. As though nothing had changed in the past two weeks. As though it were the exact same game. The one from two weeks ago when she still had her dignity.

Oh the shame, she moaned in her head. Once a proud lady of the Blood…and now an old creature sneaking looks at someone's backside from beneath a cushion. The bitterness making her speak through the haze. "I could tell Raze."

"And I could throw you overboard, so let's keep each other happy, shall we?" The threat holding very little expression, giving her the impression than regardless of whether he would or would not carry it out, he was still more concerned with making this move.

"You wouldn't dare," she said. He'd already given her enough of his personal stash that throwing her overboard would be a 'waste of resources.'

"Reinette, you'd be surprised at the things I'd dare to do after this many years." He said it without looking away from the board and then with a nod, he reached forward and shifted his knight. "Knight takes pawn. Check-mate."

What?

Feeling the air leave her lungs, she wrestled both the pillow and blanket off and stared at him. "Knight does not take pawn," she said. "It was not even close to pawn." That was not possible. She was two moves away from the win. He had to be cheating.

He shrugged. "Knight takes pawn." The hammer back in hand and the king returning to his work. "It's not an insult, woman. You play better when you're drugged."

She glared at him and then pulled herself off the bed, lowering herself to the floor and crawling over to his side of the room so she could stare at the board. Her finger finally thwacking her King over and then the rest of his pieces one by one. He had drugged her. She was crying and instead of listening, he had drugged her. His use of the word 'hysterics' earlier in the evening merely adding coal to the fire. Which was not to say she was in the mood to boil over.

She looked up. "I was not hysterical," she said again. It was the second time she had declared it. Hardly a pressing point, but in the face of fate not caring, she may as well take some dignity into her grave.

"Reinette, we've talked about this." He was on his back, hammering as he worked, speaking around several nails, clearly more interested in the hammer he was using than having a conversation with her.

Fine.

She had more interesting things to occupy her attention than his cursory answers. She got to her feet, circling his quarters in the same manner in which he had circled her prison cell. It was the same ship from the last time. The same gilding on everything, the thick carpet, the large bed…that she had all seen.

And now for the rest of it.

Her inspection taking her along the right wall, opening the first drawer in a three-foot long mahogany and brass sideboard. Linens. She opened the next drawer. Cutlery. She peered inside the two cupboards and then shut them. She supposed everyone needed their share of glass and dishware, but somehow she had imagined there would be something more…interesting.

Next came the wooden chest.

A garish monstrosity at the foot of his bed. The wood blackened with time and the face scratched along the edges. Almost reverently, she knelt before it and then chanced to look to her right. He was not stopping her…which meant it either contained something exceptionally boring…or incredibly exciting. The still-beating hearts of his enemies. The teeth of every beast that must have defied him in the years before his demise. Digging her fingers under both handles, she wrenched the chest open…and then allowed herself to be crestfallen.

Blankets.

She started pulling things out. Blankets, blankets, blankets. She sighed and then got up, looking for something else. Trying to put the two together. The creature of legend…the unflinching mind of this lord that she had seen during that council meeting. Where was he?

His voice came out of the box. "Can you sit down please?"

"I am exploring."

The hammering stopped. "May I remind you that your head was almost cut off two days ago?"

"I have a short memory," she replied, trailing her finger along the wall and continuing on her walk. It was his choice to ignore his prisoner. And as long as he was ignoring her, she was going to amuse herself. "…can I look in the wardrobe?"

"No."

She touched the handle, looking back at him. She could only hope. "Are there bones in it?"

"Bones?" He put the hammer down, giving her a look that wondered at whether he should have shared his stash with her. "…why would I put bones in a wardrobe? How does that make any sense?"

"It doesn't," she replied stubbornly. Almost to herself. Why would he put bones in a wardrobe? Only ruthless, insane people put bones in wardrobes…

…and he was not insane.

She returned to her blanket and pillow, allowing herself to drop on the bed. The hammering continuing, the ship rolling until finally she said it. "Did you know there were bagged cedar-chips in that chest?"

"That and the wardrobe." He removed one of the nails from his mouth.

She made a wordless sound. Ha.

Of course he knew…

…next she'd find out that he knew how to do his own laundry. His own washing. Blood. He was probably the one that did the place-settings. It had been measured. He was the kind of creature that measured place-settings.

He stopped hammering for a moment. Even the exhale was sane. The look of an entirely lucid person that thought she was crazy. "Reinette…it was half…a gram."

"I know," she said to the ceiling, letting her fingers walk aimlessly along her forehead. The hammering continuing after a moment, letting her meander back into her world. Her doubts. Her prejudice.

She would have to come to terms with it eventually. That voice of her mentor that lingered inside her mind, poisoning every word of confidence. The one that called him ruthless and wicked. The one that sowed doubt, making her wonder if he had made a ruse of the entire thing. But it was a question that she no longer cared to answer. A voice that she was tired of hearing for her mentor was wrong. He was not insane. Damn him for not being insane.

She sniffed reproachfully and then sat up. "When does it end?"

"In about an hour for me and probably six for you." He was sorting through his toolbox. The nails going back into one compartment and the glass-paper coming out of another. "…not that I don't find it hilarious, Reinette, but you are not made for this."

"Not the drug," she said with a sigh, letting herself fold over on herself. It truly was the most comfortable bed she had ever lain on. The key word being 'on' since he wasn't letting her get under the sheets. "…when does the truce end?"

"Forty-six hours," he said, giving a quick sand to the edges, evening everything out before he righted the box. "…that gives you a night in your old quarters if you want it. Clean clothes. Full stomach. Catacombs in the morning."

"I think I want it."

"Then it's yours." He was barely paying attention to her. The final touches consisting of laying thick wool on the bottom of the box, using one of the dinner-knives to tuck in the sides. The cotton covering the wool and then the cushions. One that could speak and work without losing his rhythm.

"No, I want to…" Her eyes were starting to close. "…I want to stay upstairs."

"Mm," he said. Still working out the details, giving the surface a final once over before setting the knife on the table and rising to his feet. Scratching his neck and then turning for the commode with an inscrutable look on his face. "A conversation for later, I should think."

Later?

She was trying to keep her eyes open, but it was all becoming dark. He had been harping on her for months now and the moment she gave in, he failed to give a reaction. Her voice trying to stay with her thoughts. "Why later?"

He was standing by the washbasin, pouring water on his hands, setting the pitcher down and then drying them on the towel. "Because memory is a fickle thing…" he said. The sound of his voice moving around the bed, picking things up and putting them back in place. The chest closing on the mess she had made. "…and while your choice may be right, Reinette, the rest of you is floating on a wave of euphoria. So we will wait until you are back on the ground and then continue this conversation…" He was enunciating every word like she was a child. "…later."

"You shouldn't have drugged me."

"I know…" she heard him say through the haze.

The room starting to waver, making her dream of a giant beast picking her up, raising her up into the air and laying her gently down onto a soft berth. Her hands reaching out, trying to find all the corners and then growing confused when she realised there were only four. Her body curling up around one of the cushions, her nails growing for a split second so she could find a grip. Her head was starting to nod. "Lyosha, why did you drug me?"

"Because you needed it." His answer firm, but soft, as though he were for once in his life trying not to wake someone. Why was he trying not to wake someone?

She frowned and then tried to look up. Her eyes filled with wonder as she realised where they were. They were outside and there was sunlight everywhere. A giant sun behind his head and the entire room filled with sunlight…and he was up there. He was all the way up there. "How did that happen," she whispered. "Why are you up there?"

For a moment, he seemed lost for words, leaning with his arms crossed over the edge of the box. Surveying her as though she were a strange mine filled with mysterious resources, a wealth which he could not quite fathom, and yet when he spoke there was a hint of a smirk on his face. A man that no longer cared for wealth. "I live here."

"Oh," she said. She thought he lived somewhere else. His answer making her anxious all of a sudden. "Is this your home," she asked of the walls. And then she looked up at him. "How can you live in a box?"

He cocked his head as though he were surprised that she did not know the answer already. "It's simple, Reinette. You just have to pretend you're very small." It sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. He always seemed to know everything.

"But where did my rune go?" She was checking her pockets. Except there were no pockets in her dress. Did dresses even have pockets?

"What rune?"

She was speaking into her hand. "The giant left it in my room. He said I was going to die."

"You're not going to die, Nette." His voice was getting farther away. "And we'll find your rune. Alright?"

"Okay," she agreed with a soft exhale, letting her head fall back down again. Her eyes starting to close. The feel of a blanket being left on her. The edge brought up to her shoulders like night falling on her face. The cover coming down on her box, and her awareness lost in the haze.

The dream telling her that what she heard was actually real. That he was thunder and she was the sea. The giant currents sweeping beneath as the nails of a god crashed into her back, sending her to the depths where she belonged. His great victory causing him to laugh into the wind, as though she had amused him.

o…o…o

Elsewhere.

Grace Marsden was plotting. In the scullery of the London Den, she held her Little One in her arms, whispering what the madman had told her to say. Taking her little girl's hand and pressing the small rough-spun bag into her small fingers. The silver key inside and the madman's message written on a small note. Her instructions clear. Leave the key and the message in the exile's room. Do not be seen. Do not linger or your scent will betray you. Instructions her mother had once taught her as a child on the streets. Stealing from other lycans 'til age drew her scent too close.

Still she gave the girl a hard cuff across the head. Always wanting to touch silver; always wanting to hurt things. A malicious child if she ever gave birth to one. Her small legs taking her up through the hallways and staircases that would lead to the woman's room. Not the catacombs, for they had seen Rena making preparations. Airing the bedroom out and making their lives easier.

Though Grace could only laugh for there was no way for Kolya to break into the den. No way for him to avoid his fate after threatening her with paraffin oil and fire. As soon as a her Little One came back from her task, she'd be on the train to Tilbury. She'd meet with the madman, she'd take his silver, and then she'd set the wolves on him. Every Blackmark in London…

…and pity be on the exile if she was in the arms of this madman when it happened.

A/N: Hope people enjoy the chapter! And just in case is wondering, cannabis was historically available to the British public in 1900 (apparently even Queen Victoria was prescribed it on occasion). I also believe half a gram would be sufficient for a weakened vampire to feel the effects of 'being stoned,' especially if her ability to heal is not as strong as it used to be. (And yes, I also believe Lucian would rather give someone cannabis than listen to them be 'hysterical' about being in a prison for two days without any news.)

Thanks to Agagite Whispers, NeverEndingNights, Naturally Nocturnal (twice!), Mackep, Celtic Aurora, Ameryll Cullen, daydreamin345, CHIBI-CRAZY, Hanna-Ray-Michael, absinth-tein, and shadowflame89 for the reviews, story alerts, and favourites! Much appreciated and as always, feel free to read and review!

Agagite Whispers: Good to hear! I will continue to update as often as possible!

NeverEndingNights: No apologies! (Although it does make me feel great to know you're still reading since you're one of the earliest reviewers all the way back from Day One :)) Definitely know how difficult it is to balance work and hobbies, and even if a review just say "I really liked this," I always appreciate it. I'll try to keep the quality improving (although as usually I think I might be worst critic.) Also, Sabine is definitely coming back! (And with a vengeance. Poor Lucian is going to have to realise that she's not the most well-behaved of little girls and that there might be a reason why things keep going missing from his office. Then again, she is being raised in his household so it's only natural that she cause havoc. ;))

Naturally Nocturnal (Re: Chapter 20): Thank you! Glad to hear it (and glad that Chapter 20 finally got some attention! ;) From what I recall, I think I might have posted two chapters in the same evening, so most people ended up reviewing the second one. )

Mackep: No problem! (I'm finally getting closer to all those chapters I wrote during my hiatus. :))

Naturally Nocturnal (Re: Chapter 49): Good gracious, I hope you are well! That first bit made me worry, though I'm glad I can provide reading material. :) Lovely review, so I shall now address each paragraph specifically...

1. Very kind of you to say that the writing is up to snuff.

2a. Very pleased (in a sick way) that you like Kolya. Even though he's mad, I've always loved the concept of character who is so obsessed with making things right for someone else that they completely lose sight of morality. (Ah the teachings of the Brontë sisters!)

2b. Yes, there is a lot about Reinette's past that she herself is unaware of (the way I see it, most of her memories are tied to the more innocent times of her life. To the point where despite being trapped in the body of a much older woman, her mind is that of a naive young lady just starting to make her way in the world.)

3. You have me there because (to be entirely honest) I wrote Chapter 48 about three times. The first time included the entire council and gave a tremendous amount of detail about all twelve council members. The second time had all the detail, plus a ton of dialogue. The third scrapped the detail and just had twelve people talking about all the issues at stake (the Northern merge, the dispute between Auguste and Benoit, the danger of having Reinette in the den etc.).

In all cases, the chapter was based around Lucian being bored (and forced to linger in a setting that he hated) and after a while, I realised that I was bored. The characters were interesting, the politics was necessary, but it had very little to do with moving the plot along. Instead I was just introducing character after character, issue after issue, when all I really wanted to know was whether Reinette would be okay or not. (And for the record, I think Lucian would have felt the same way.)

So I got rid of it. I scrapped the whole chapter and skipped to the aftermath. (On the plus side, however, I now have a detailed history of all twelve members of Lucian's council, so in future, we can unveil the rest of their characters one by one. :))

4. I've done that! I was at work and I made a mistake on something and I just went "Blood!" and my co-workers were like "What's that you say? Blood? Is there blood on you? Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?" SO embarrassing.

Anyway, that was a great review! Very thorough. I feel like I've had a conversation, so thank you for that. _

Celtic Aurora: Aww, it's okay. Things are definitely starting to heat up (although not nearly as much as the day when Lucian and Hrafn/Kolya/Nikolai Proshkov Andreev end up standing in the same room...with paraffin oil and a match. Because it's bound to happen. ;))