Chapter LXV: Trouble in Threes
Seven years later.
For the first time in her sixteen years, Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish felt as though she had arrived. She was seated on a hard-backed settee in the grand entry-hall of a stately house just under twenty miles from Oppenheim. Officially, second to the Berlin Den. However, unofficially, first, as everyone knew precisely who lived there and therefore made every attempt at infiltrating its societal boundaries. Or at least, that was what her mother, Lady Cavendish, had whispered to her father, Lord Cavendish, before the two of them had passed, stiff-backed and formal, through the doors to the drawing room.
Unfortunately, none of this was important to Matthias who had taken to pinching her, while trying to get a reaction. She flicked his hand away irritably, still trying to see through the doors. Determined to see something, given how long it had taken her to convince their mother that it was indeed the lycan-master's ward who had left a calling card the previous afternoon, thereby warranting the more formal call in the evening. As it was, they would not meet unless both the lycan-master and Baroness Hermann, the lady's chaperone, found the acquaintance acceptable.
Of course, it was while they were trying to get a glimpse through the western doors that the man himself came striding down the massive staircase, his back lit by the glow of candles. Dressed for some engagement or another, his suit complemented by a sprig of lavender. He stopped to look in a mirror, checking his beard for what appeared to be symmetry, and then turned his head back towards the staircase. Flipping open a golden pocket-watch and then shutting it.
"Nette," he barked.
It was a daunting bellow.
One that had little consideration for decorum or the sound of a teacup being dropped in the drawing room. His voice dropping to an unintelligibly terse mutter as he continued walking. Simultaneously trying to fasten his cufflinks and leave. Pacing down the length of the entryway, scowling through the windows, turning back to the staircase, and…
…very abruptly, taking stock of them. The similarity of their scents seeming to have thrown him for a moment. Grey eyes sizing them up, squinting in thought and then pointing in question. "Twins?"
She closed her mouth. "Yes, sir."
"Fascinating."
He seemed to have no concern over who they were nor why they were sitting in his entryway. Already turning away, he flipped open his watch again, yelled the name a second time—"Nette!" And then proceeded to stalk out his front door.
A moment later, they heard the swift pitter-patter of feet on the staircase. The brief sight of a hooded woman hurrying past them. The front door shut and the sound of a carriage hurtling away on the cobblestones.
o…o…o
Two months later.
It was only by chance that Hannah saw them again. Their acquaintance with Sabine something that eventually resulted quite satisfactorily in several more afternoon teas followed by an invitation to dine. The Rumour was that representatives from at least two other dens would be making an appearance that evening, hence the reason Lord and Lady Cavendish allowed her to attend with the express instruction that Matthias would be her chaperone; however upon their arrival, it was made known to them that Sabine was temporarily indisposed by Change—a fact that one maid quite unfortunately disclosed before the housekeeper hushed her. And as Baroness Herrmann was now occupied with her charge, they found themselves led not to the drawing room where they so typically found themselves, but a sitting room where they were introduced and instructed to wait.
The presence of the lycan-master reading a newspaper in his own sitting room somehow overshadowed by the presence of the mysterious woman they had seen on the staircase. An exile by her scent. Someone she'd expected to be a mistress, based on what she'd learned—or that is to say, scavenged—after rescuing the last page of her mother's Line Rumour from the fireplace, combing it for gossip, and then immediately burning it again, as any upper-class lycan-lady was wont to do.
But the woman was old.
Seated across from him, her interests divided between the game at hand and a second copy of the same newspaper. Her clothing was fiendishly rich, the buttons reaching up to her neck, but the cut slim and stylish, fit to flatter without veering away from decency. Hair styled in such a way as to reflect a penchant for sense. And the eyes…
…startlingly blue. Flicking up for a brief scan of the room, sharp in their appraisal, the irises holding the only colour, and then just as quickly resuming what appeared to be a very serious perusal of the daily news. Even stranger, the manner in which she was sitting…her feet tucked up beneath her. Like a girl lounging on a paddock rather than an elegant sitting room.
"You're friends of Sabine?"
Hannah tore her gaze from the woman, quickly facing the lycan-master. He was no longer reading, but in a blunt manner of speaking, watching her watch the woman. She had been staring. "Yes, sir."
Matthias spoke up. "We met at the Hangrove Society Ball."
"Really."
There was an awkward silence.
She wanted to smack Matthias. Clearly, the lycan-master neither knew nor cared what the Hangrove Society Ball represented to the youth of the decade.
The man took a sip from his glass, moving one of the chess pieces as he did. "Is it a recent society?"
Across from him, the elderly woman had leaned forward to frown at the board. She seemed to be considering one of her knights, but then shifted a bishop forward instead. As she did, she turned towards the conversation, as though she too was now curious to hear his answer.
"Erhm…" Matthias was leaning forward as well, appearing to be more interested in the game than the woman playing it. "…only a few decades, sir. Our father was a member in his youth, and he suggested we join."
"And who is your father?"
"Lord Cavendish…I believe his grandsire served under you during the…uhm…18th century?" By the sound of things, Matthias had no idea whether it was the 17th or the 18th, but the lycan-master nodded, and said, "Of course," as though he really could remember every random foot soldier that happened to be standing near the back of the room.
The silence continued.
"Well, I'm sure Sabine will be down shortly." The lycan-master was flicking one of his cufflinks, eying the bishop. It was all very awkward.
But after a time, the game continued, except now, Matthias was making no great effort to hide his interest, shifting to-and-fro in his seat, occasionally tapping his knee with a broad grin of approval as though some great feat had taken place with each turn. Sitting on the edge of her seat for a different reason, Hannah kept her eyes on the door and her hands folded in her lap. She was starting to sweat. It was only a matter of time before he said something terrible, embarrassing them into the next century.
And then the unthinkable.
"Oh very well done, ma'am," he cried out jovially.
Hannah felt her throat stick.
Two sets of eyes turned to look at her brother, neither seeming to welcome the attention they were receiving from what could only be seen as a 'young pup' in their society. Why could he not control himself in good company?
"Thank you," the lady said at last. It was the first time she had spoken, her voice proving itself to be relatively deep despite the lightness of her frame. Where her eyes had drifted back to the board, the lycan-master had leaned back in his seat, watching Matthias with the kind of raised expression that wondered how much deeper a grave this boy could dig.
Matthias did not seem to notice. "Are you of the Staunton school, ma'am?"
"No." Her accent was crisp.
"Steinitz then."
The woman shifted a rook without answering. She looked up briefly at the lycan-master. "Your move."
Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah could have sworn she saw the lycan-master smirk from the other side of the board, but there was no sign of such mirth when her head moved in his direction. There was also no sign of movement. In fact, he seemed perfectly content to let the young pup yap at his opponent's ankles.
Following his line of sight, she felt her throat close again. Her brother's finger was descending upon the board, about to touch the woman's bishop. For all his interest in the hobby, he had the manners of a goat. His voice sounding out slowly. "Have you considered attacking with the…"
"Matthias," she blurted in an urgent whisper. Her brother's finger froze in mid-air. He was looking at her in question, and quickly, before the situation could grow worse, she indicated the door. "I think I hear Sabine calling us."
"I don't hear any…"
She stood up, curtsied and backed away from the chess board. "Forgive us, lycan-master, but I believe we have taken up enough of your time. We will wait for Sabine in the hallway." Thinking quickly, she curtsied to the woman as well, saying, "Ma'am," before taking hold of Matthias' hand and essentially dragging him out with her.
o…o…o
As soon as the door closed behind them, Reinette crossed her arms. "I want a rematch."
Ah the vestiges of pride. Her strategy failing to strike his fancy, but the boy's ability to provoke her giving him much to smile about. "No rematch and no revision," he said, allowing himself to slouch in his seat. "Them's the rules."
"Damn the rules, Lyosha." She had disappeared behind her newspaper again. "And don't even pretend you saw my bishop before that imbecile mentioned it."
"I saw it, but I also saw the rook you were casually sliding up the right side of the board…" He shifted his Queen into position, flicking her rook off the board instead of the bishop. The bishop was dangerous, but hardly pressing. She was just trying to call more attention to it. "…check."
Her finger reached out, shifting her king back a step. "Can we at least pretend this is going to take more than three moves?"
"Could take four." He shifted a knight forward. "Check."
"Do we have time for a drink?"
"Not sure." He saw her move a pawn. He was starting to become profoundly aware of how hungry he was. "Depends if dinner involves a certain 'Are-you-of-the-Staunton-School' master and his sister." Feeling his stomach start to growl, he shifted his rook over. Three moves and he'd have it…and then dinner.
Across from him, Reinette used her index finger to flick the same pawn a step forward and folded her newspaper. "Check-mate," she said crisply.
Fuck.
He scanned the board once, calculating the number of moves and then flicked over his King. Hunger and chess were not ideal companions. "Were you actually hungry or was that a ploy?"
"A ploy…" She frowned, letting herself sink further into her chair as well. "…in fact, I could skip dinner altogether."
"You're coming."
He would take no argument on that matter.
She might not want to spend the evening with Baroness Herrmann, but he had learned quite quickly that it paid to put Reinette and his mistresses in the same room at least a few times prior to having them move into the guest bedroom. Otherwise there were awkward conversations. Questions about why he played so much chess with an old blood, why she had managed to scrounge an entire wing for herself, and why, if they actually tallied the number of hours, he spent more time in her quarters than his own. Seven years on, he had figured out the routine.
o…o…o
And yet it was not routine that kept her ticking, but its lack. Their first year in hiding granting her leave to wander the hallways of her apartments, the four sumptuous rooms he had given her, without fear of reprisal. Her restrictions at first limited to company, the constant presence of Rena, the sight of an occasional servant or guard, and on the rare occasion, Lucian.
Until a day, eight months after they arrived, she spied a familiar face watching her from the main doorway of her quarters. Red hair. Grey eyes. Lucian observing from the darkness behind as the child solemnly studied her, holding the nightmare they had both seen, before reaching out a hand to grasp her fingers. Holding them, her heart beating in time to the clock. And then darting away. Gone.
How he knew, she was not sure, but whether by word or taste, the child's memories had been gleaned. Every moment she had turned, fought or fled. His only acknowledgement a nod of thanks before he turned. The locks falling away and the door left open.
Every step building her trust.
Her steps eventually passing through doorways lit by moonlight rather than flame. The sight and sound of nature giving her seclusion as she wandered the grounds. The forest. The stable. The evenings spent in quiet and the mornings in solitude. His presence asking nothing of her. Leaving her for months to her choices, her wandering until she deigned to sit longer than a moment. Listening in silence at first to the soft prattle of Sabine, the child who refused to speak of her kidnapping, who seemed incapable of remembering all that had happened. For a time, able to disconnect herself from the hope she had felt. Youth, a dream she had once harboured, but now gone.
By the second year, she began wandering the library. Most of the books in German, but her interest momentarily piqued by her surroundings. Every word reminding her of rose petals. Citrus. Sabine continuing to follow her on occasion. Pointing and naming things for her. Books. Lamp. Table. Like water running across stone, chattering away to Lucian in her native tongue. His ability to listen having increased exponentially, to the point that he could indeed sit through a three-act play involving a rocking horse, two dolls and a set of tin soldiers.
The change in his demeanour seeming affected primarily by her presence, the child who had been lost and then found. His desire for haste, his impatience, somehow muted, as though all his work in the shadows had been put to rest for the sake of her healing. The two of them often to be seen through the window in the early evening, the three hours when they were both awake, paying homage to some pastime or other.
And though his right side was still compromised—the iris masked by a glaze of white and his knee refusing to bend—his ability to trap beetles was second to none. The pastime eventually lending itself to the more precise nature of his obsessions until it became clear he was now spending several weeks in his study, pinning the creatures for display, long after Sabine had tired of the amusement.
So she began to learn German.
Her accent corrected by Lucian, Sabine or Singe, depending on her company. The latter only providing his opinion if he also happened to be using the library, instead preferring to lurk in the cavernous underground space he called a laboratory. Testing her blood every three months, but stopping short of further experiments after she nearly took his eye out with a scalpel. The reason behind his continued presence likely having more to do with Lucian disappearing once a month.
It took her a year to notice. His presence not always guaranteed, yet every third Monday of the month, the clock would strike one and the seat across from her would be empty. Sabine in bed. Rena guarding Sabine's door…and Lucian missing from his usual place by the fire. Any question to the servants or guard would be met with silence or at most, a shrug, the kind of response that suggested that even if they did know, they would not tell her.
A habit she suspected had much to do with the housekeeper, Frau Thiessen, a lycan woman whose life seemed to revolve around sparsity and obedience. Unlike the first housekeeper—the older woman who had accompanied them from England and then left two months after they were settled—this one seemed to have little patience for that which she could not explain, and as an extension of that, so did the guards. As it was, they simply ignored her, their responses respectful in the presence of Lucian, but cold when he was no longer in the room.
The silence of servants and guards bothering her less than the quiet mystery of where the master of the house had gone. His absence like a rock falling in a temperate pond, throwing the quiet of their household into chaos. For when he did return the following evening, he would be unfailingly irritable. Snarling at the ineptitude of others. Snapping at things that did not move fast enough and—for the good of them all—keeping to himself for the two or three days that it would take for his mood to run its course. Another few months passing before she suspected the cause, his addiction to laudanum still present, whether he was surrounded by war or a collection of insects whose remains were sometimes stored in jars that did not contain ethanol.
His ability to lie his way through each withdrawal finally prompting a visit from Raze and Allegra, the latter having lost much of her warmth after the incident with the dynamite. The full understanding of what they had blown up failing to dawn on her until Lucian had the grace to candidly explain it after Allegra refused to acknowledge her. It then took possibly three stilted dinners before the subject came up, and a further fourth before it exploded. The woman chastising her with a fierceness that bluntly stated—whether she aided Sabine or not—that she was lucky not to have her skin used for fabric and her blood for dye…
…however, it was Allegra.
And however much she might disapprove of them accidentally blowing up a portion of Exile's Quarter, the woman was powerful in age, powerful in strength…and powerful in her capacity to forgive. The anger seeming to melt away after the dinner ended. Lucian and Raze deciding to go on an impromptu hunting trip, and Allegra deciding to roost. The rest of the visit ensuing as it would have on the night before she left for the catacombs.
The next evening filled with a different kind of chastisement as the woman realised she had been living for two years with only three dresses. All of which were the same dress, only cut three times out of three different fabrics by the same seamstress. Lucian failing to see the problem on his return, but Allegra insisting that it had to be remedied; thereby resulting in a month of fittings, all of which were presided over by the lady herself, a woman who clearly had a few pins to prick before she would be awarding forgiveness in full.
And yet, she could not complain.
The eventual wardrobe—arriving seven months later in the dead of winter—something that gave her a sense of permanence in the household. No longer just black, but magnificent swathes of green velvet paired with yellow silk. Radiant blues and reds. Intricate patterns of fleur de lys and leaves reaching up to her neck. Every undergarment, coat, and dress, even those meant for her eyes alone, holding some detail of luxury. The boxes accompanied by two notes—one long and one short.
The long one was read quickly by Lucian and then rapidly crumpled into a ball before he threw it into the fire. The short one held a single number, signed with a flourishing A. The number and its currency failing to mean anything to her, but by Rena's wince, providing enough figures to suggest that Allegra might be punishing Lucian through his pocketbook.
The sentiment seemingly lost on him, given how little attention he paid to money. His only comment on the wardrobe one that expressed some curiosity as to where she intended to wear half of them given that they were still stuck in the middle of 'fucking nowhere' and it would be another year before they saw society again. His decision to hide laudanum in the midst of his beetle collection having apparently resulted in another year being added to his house arrest.
For it was a house arrest, she now knew, thanks to a two-hour follow-up to the long note, mostly in German, that occurred after she went to bed. The bulk of it expressed by the sound of Lucian puttering in his study—that is to say, glass breaking, doors slamming, and towards the end, a suit of armour being thrown from one of the upstairs balustrades. When she woke, to say it was the most exciting evening of the past two years was perhaps an understatement.
The majority of the household had chosen to avoid the main sitting room, however, it was not as bad as she expected by the time she ventured down after midnight. A number of the paintings had been slashed. There was a hammer in the wall. And the helmet of the armour was badly dented, sitting in the fireplace, while an inebriated Lucian brooded over it as though he were picturing Raze's head. The moment finally culminating in him noticing she was there, slinging back the rest of his drink, exhaling the word "Fuck" over three long seconds, and then asking her if she remembered how to ride.
She did.
The correspondence of Raze and Allegra having coincided with not just the arrival of a wardrobe, but an offering of horses, as though to appease an insulted deity. The most difficult claimed by Lucian, the smallest marked for Sabine, but the rest, he gave to her fancy.
The man already in the stable and itching to be gone by the time she'd changed into her new riding habit. Her fingers at first unsure, forcing her to look over to the stall where he was working. The horse he had selected already familiar to him, for they seemed to have an understanding between them, he and his lady of sixteen hands, as he called her. A black mare with the white patch on her shoulder. A biter, if she'd ever seen one.
That feeling of knowing…of seeing a creature and knowing its stock, leading her to balk for a moment. Unsure of what she was judging, and then quickly, letting the moment pass before she could remember anything she would rather not. Observing the practiced nature of his movement until she could recall the order of things. Each step prompting her to the next until she forgot that she could not remember. The warmblood she had chosen saddled and ready to leave only a minute or two after he was done.
Her choice to use a side-saddle making him scoff a little—as though he could possibly be judging her for choosing a saddle based on the moral whims of the age they were hiding in, his opinion be damned. Her scent perhaps giving off some of her venom, for he raised both hands in peace before they mounted.
The ride proving itself exhilarating. The surrounding lands holding just enough seclusion and freedom that the only people they saw were from the surrounding farms, all of them lycan, from what she could understand. A people whose centuries had been spent melding themselves with their surroundings, purchasing acres and acres of land until an entire village could be formed out of werewolves. Terrifying and yet humble in its purpose, the lengths they would take to protect themselves from a war which they had supposedly lost.
And yet it was the ride that was her undoing.
The horses back in the stable a quarter of an hour before sunrise, her gloves off, and the door behind them shut as she bid him goodnight. Taking the short route back to her quarters, passing through the library…and finding the path broken. A window to be precise. The drapes torn to shreds by his activities from the previous evening. The light crossing her shoulder, searing across her back with blinding pain. Her fall lending itself to her survival, so that he found her before the sun could rise any further. Her memories of the time filled with gaps.
The sound of a growl—a tremendous growl that seemed to shake the foundations of the earth—followed by footfalls. Darkness. A blanket wrapping itself around her. Her last experience one of agony as she felt herself being laid out in the bath, feeling the water…cool running water like silk on her back. Hearing them talk above her…Rena, Singe, and Lucian. His voice close to her, urging her to drink something…drink it all. Every drop. The sweet taste of Bikaver down her throat…followed by the back of her dress, her magnificent riding habit now smelling of ash, being removed in one go. All the skin of her back and right shoulder coming off.
Apparently, she passed out.
Soon waking in pain for the most Singe could give her was paltry amounts of morphine before her system would reject the concoction. Her body forced to stay in bed, facedown, her back covered in bandages for the next three weeks and her mood one of dolefulness…
…and then utter misery. The descent in her ill humour prompted by Lucian on one of his visits. He'd been following his natural habit of flippantly re-arranging her cushions in a never-ending effort for more symmetry, only to pause at the stack of books hidden behind one of her side-tables. His reaction one of perplexed laughter as he read one of the titles in German. Picking up her dictionary, frowning in thought, and then asking what the devil had possessed her to read the blood-forsaken Scarlet Letter…
Her response one of frustration.
The question causing her stomach to sink, her panic to rise. For she knew why she had chosen it. Her initial intention to burn them, but an aversion to burning beautiful books with golden spines getting in the way of her good sense. Knowing that if she did not burn them, she would be forced eventually to go through the motions. Forced to live out every one of her dreams…
…only without youth.
Without desire. Without love.
The feeling of sorrow now threatening to overwhelm her. And to his credit, though he failed to understand its cause, he sensed that she was not in a mood for mockery. Her scent no doubt speaking of some dreadful melancholy, and he, for perhaps the second time in their acquaintance, seeking some manner of alleviating it. Staring at her as though he could still not fully comprehend what he was smelling, but then seeming to shrug it off as though it were all the same to him.
Shaking his head before leaning back into his chair with the book nestled in one hand. The past sweeping forward into the present, and her heart weeping as fate became fact. Dry like the pages of an old book. His voice deep as he read the words in Latin, translating each sentence before he spoke it out loud. The first chapter. The second. For an hour he read to her, turning the pages one by one...
…and then abruptly closing the book. Rising to his feet with a stretch and counselling her to either heal faster or die, for he had neither the time nor the patience to read Hawthorne. The declaration expected. Her reaction known. And yet, even with her foresight, knowing what was to come, she still found herself giving in.
The urge to laugh too great in the face of his audacity…until she soon found herself coughing, first in pain, then in anger at his ability to console her. The feeling still at odds with the sorrow in her heart. The regret she felt. Wishing she had burned the entire collection of Hawthorne's works instead of stockpiling them in her rooms.
It was a strange year after that.
Her back and shoulder soon healed and a second riding habit promptly sent from Allegra as soon as she heard of the accident. Her desire to resume riding something that took a full year to accomplish, for having been the one to break the glass in the first place, Lucian, still feeling penitent, seemed to think it was his duty to keep her in good stead. When she did go riding, he would accompany her, his watch ever present. His refusal to go beyond an hour to the west or east always resulting in them returning to the house before the clock struck midnight. The rest of their evening then spent in chess or some other diversion that did not require more than three hours.
The difficulty came in the fourth year. The end of his house arrest soon providing ample opportunity for him to reconnect with the trappings of his society. The limp healing and the white glaze receding from his eye, enough that he could once again venture into a city without calling needless attention to himself. The network of servants and guards soon extended to outings…then guests…and then mistresses. Her stomach souring as it happened. Watching from afar as he seduced them. Knowing it was not to be her lot and therefore finding herself absent of any bitterness.
She was not jealous.
She did not imagine torturing these women, stripping them of their skin and throwing their remains in the garden pond to be feasted upon by insects. She simply saw them as decoration. Like a beast wearing a sprig of lavender after she suggested his beard might be unevenly trimmed. Their spats always resolving themselves, for she had learned to bury all that she was…and to accept all that she would be. Not a mistress. Not a lover.
Simply a friend.
She therefore found herself able to sit through the countless dinners that came over the course of the next three years, tedious though they might be; able to amuse herself when she knew where he was; and able to find purpose in being…
…a different kind of decoration. Not a sprig of lavender or a silken cravat. More like a favoured pocket-watch.
Or a pen.
o…o…o
"Nette?"
She glanced up.
The barest trace of warmth.
Her place by the window something that always occurred at the end of their games, as though she needed to check that the world was still there. And he couldn't help but smile in return. Tapping the crystal again to call her attention to it. He had long since put away the chess-pieces. But by the look on her face, she was elsewhere. Only registering the wine he'd been trying to hand her after an additional ten seconds. Eleven if he really thought about it.
She took the glass. "Why do you insist on putting two people who despise each other at the same table?"
"Danielle doesn't despise you."
The words were spoken under her breath. "Rena says she does."
"Well, Rena is exaggerating," he shrugged. Two more dinners, he decided. Turning to the door suddenly and barking "Come" before she could hear the footsteps of the caller. A servant opening the door, bowing his head and bringing an ebony tray with three missives resting in the centre.
Atypical.
Taking a swig of his glass, he used his nail, tearing the edge of the first open. Scanning its contents before signalling behind him for the man to leave. Considering as he had done so many years before if his actions were cruel…
…and then handing her the missive.
Regretting it, yet knowing it was necessary. His decision to show her a lycan communique…any form of lycan communique…coming as a surprise. Her initial expression one of amusement as she took it, perhaps expecting another A-shaped hole in his pocketbook until her eyes saw the words.
Her scent swiftly rising in shock…and then turmoil, each breath turning into a rolling sea of fear and anguish. Terrified to her core, yet she simply nodded. Folding it carefully and handing it back without a word.
The missive held to the coals. Curling in his fingers as he watched it burn. "It might not be him."
She said nothing. Looking into the fire. The words going unsaid. The years she had been running. Long enough that even a rumour of a one-handed vampire on the coast of Dover could disquiet her.
He put his glass down. Knowing what he was smelling, but still reaching out. "Dinner?"
She shook her head.
He nodded.
His nail tearing open the second and third missives. Reading them quickly. Understanding now why Allegra had chosen to send them when she did. And yet again—to tell or not to tell. The second sounding like a request, and the third…
…well, the third was a demand.
"What?"
Trouble always comes in threes. He tapped the paper against his palm. "My Council wants to have a look at you."
"So soon," she said with a bleak smile, unable to muster more than the necessary hint of sarcasm to indicate she was still in a sparring mood. They'd been sending blood every fortnight for the last year. Always three samples with a request for three drops, as though they wished to milk her of every opportunity. The plural on her tongue before she could remember he was partially to blame for it. "Do we have to travel?"
"No, they are…" He squinted, reading through the code. "…coming here."
"When?"
"Midsummer."
As expected, it was a word to shake mountains. The concept of lycan summer solstice causing her to softly curse before retreating into her chair again with a more pronounced groaning sound. Like a cat forced to walk through water. Her reaction prompting him to crumple the second missive into a ball before raising the question. "Dare I ask?"
She grimaced, starting to pick through the books on his mahogany tray table. No doubt looking for something thick to read. "I would like to be excused from the festivities this year."
"Why?"
The words had become a dark mutter as she began flipping through Anna Karenina. "Because it's an orgy."
"It's not an orgy," he retorted. Burning the second missive now. "…merely a celebration of life and love without inhibitions–" He started raking the coals over the paper. "…and as far as I'm concerned, Reinette, that is worth celebrating."
"Good," she said with a roll of her eyes. "…let me know when the term 'love without inhibitions' no longer means 'orgy.'"
He resumed his seat, tucking the third missive into his coat pocket. "You're coming."
"No—I am not," she said. Her scent having dropped from turmoil into the kind of righteous, stubborn morality she'd been carrying since Budapest. "…and I still fail to see why you insist on me being there. The custom is entirely inappropriate for bloods."
"Only because you're rubbish at enjoying yourselves."
She looked up sharply. "I am not rubbish at it."
"Then explain to me…" He had picked up one of his pens. "…why you still spend Christmas in a hole, feeling sorry for yourself while Rena watches?"
"My room is not a hole."
"It might as well be."
Her book opened again. She spoke without looking up this time. "Aren't you going to dinner?"
"Yes." He chucked the pen at her and got up. "I am going to dinner," he said with a tired exhale. Vaguely understanding now what it was like to be staring at the back of his own newspaper.
As usual.
o…o…o
Five hours later.
She had moved to the upstairs parlour, eschewing Anna Karenina in favour of Bleak House. Her ability to read English improved enough that Lucian had sent for additional fodder in the last year. Rena brought her dinner, leaving the tray by her side. Scenting her mood. The woman's hand resting light on her shoulder, a brief goodnight that said it would be well, before the door closed behind her.
By the time the clock struck one, Lucian had wandered in, taking his preferred seat and now meditating on his last missive. Not in open, certainly. Instead he was pressing his thumbs together and staring into the fire. One of his journals open on his knee and a pen hovering above the page…
…a knock suggesting they were going to be further entertained by more messages. Of course, it was the knock that gave it away—that and his is inability to bark, yell or growl at the young creature who opened the door, sweeping between their chairs and settling down by the fire.
Sabine.
Like a sinuous cat lounging on the carpet. Pulling a book to her side and idly flipping through the pages. Still a child, and yet no longer. No longer content to trap beetles. No longer content to sit by a fire when she could get to her feet, idling over to the nearest reflective surface to play at putting her hair up.
She resembled him in some ways. The grey eyes identical, but the red hair…vibrant. The firelight glinting softly off the hooks of one ear as she adjusted the long tendrils. It was the third prosthetic in as many years and the first that managed to have some resemblance to her skin colour—necessary to avoid people remembering her face in public. Her appearance starting to turn heads and Lucian growing more and more uncomfortable with the fact over each passing day.
Her voice still pleasing to the ear at times, still reminding her of a river flowing down the mountain. "Is it true the Northern dens will be here for summer solstice?"
Lucian glanced up. "Where'd you hear that?"
Sabine shrugged. "The Line Rumour," she said, leaving the window and seating herself by the secretaire. "Matthias says they use runestones to choose their wives—is that true?"
As usual, any mention of the Line Rumour had caused his eyes to turn to slits. "I couldn't say."
"If they come for the season, does that mean their debutantes will be presented at Midsummer Ball?"
"I doubt it."
"Hannah says when she attends the ball, she'll have at least ten suitors and they'll have to fight each other for her hand in marriage."
He underlined a sentence. "That would be ill-advised as there is no fighting allowed in the hall."
"So the suitors just discuss the matter quietly if they want to marry the same woman?"
Lucian gave a terse exhale and then resumed his writing. "Correct."
"And if a commoner marries her, does he get her title?"
"He does."
"Do I have a title?"
"No."
Sabine got up, idly twining her finger in a ringlet. "So why does Hannah wait for me to walk through doors before she will?"
He scratched out a section of his journal. "The same reason her father waits for me to breathe before he does."
"So if you got married, would that woman get your title?"
His responses were getting shorter. "No."
"Can I have your title?"
"Possibly."
Sabine was now lying on one of the settees. "So according to the rules of etiquette, if Hannah is a lady and I am your heir, does that mean they have to present me first at this year's Midsummer Ball?"
There was a long breath this time…and for approximately twenty seconds, Lucian did not respond. He had started what had to be the third section of his journal entry for what must have been the fourth time since Sabine had entered the room. The man continuing to dot his i's and j's before finally allowing his attention to descend to her level. "Who said you were attending Midsummer?"
"The Line Rumour."
"Ah." His smile was pleasant, if not for the slight glaze of silver crossing his eyes. "…and if the Line Rumour…" He made it sound like a detested malodour. "…says that you are going, and I say that you are not, which one of us do you think would win that wager?"
"What?" The young woman sat up. Her mouth had dropped open. Clearly, she had not expected this. She looked between them and then with a harrumph, she crossed her arms. "But I already told Hannah that I was going."
Without a word, he drew a line under one of his dates.
Reinette merely waited. Something she had grown used to…the dynamics of a lycan den where social politics were often dictated by smell rather than speech.
"Lyosha, I am old enough to be there," Sabine said, fiercely switching to German, the anger apparent, but the silver remaining absent from her pupils. She could not control it yet. But her voice had become more wilful in recent years. Low-pitched, almost perpetually aggressive in its tone. In short, she had become quite the little fire-cracker; and yet capable of becoming sweet as sugar when the opportunity presented itself.
Reinette looked from her book to Lucian.
By the look of it, the opportunity was not presenting itself.
And though defiant in her airs, Sabine was eventually forced to stand up, mutter something about the rights of youth, the domination of elders, and the status quo being unfair…before finally stalking to the door and slamming it shut behind her as she left.
As usual, it was the leave-taking that had the desired effect, not the yelling. He put the pen down, all pretence of formality dropping as he looked at the door. "What the fuck was that about?"
Reinette sighed, crossing her legs. "She's sixteen."
"That's five in lycan years," he retorted. "She's spoilt, that's what."
Reinette nodded, turning to the next page of her book. He was daring her to argue. Years ago, she might have taken the bait. She might have mentioned Jacqueline. Or hypocrisy. But patience became a virtue when one had to deal with a narcissistic creature who suffered from the occasional bout of good conscience. Though even now, he refused to tell her precisely how they were related. His daughter. His grand-daughter. His niece. Seven years later and she still did not know.
And yet, even if she was curious, she had lost that hunger. That need to know every secret, to leap on every fragment he happened to throw in her direction. She was past that, she decided. Tapping her fingers on the spine of her book…
…and then putting it down. "Alright, what was the third problem?"
"How do you mean?"
"You said trouble comes in threes."
"Did I?"
"Yes," she said with a grimace. "You muttered it under your breath this evening. You then told me two of the first problems, but you've been trying not to handle the third since it arrived—which means it's important, but instead of doing it in your study, you do it in front of me—which suggests you're trying to decide whether or not to tell me. So…" She snapped her book shut. "…what is it?"
He grinned with a lazy scoff, more focused on biting his nail than speaking. "Blood if I'm telling you."
She sighed.
And then resumed reading her book. His ability to rile her providing just enough distraction that she could almost forget the fear still trying to leap out of her throat.
A rumour.
That was all it was. Just a rumour—which meant the worse thing to be wary of was the Council coming. Seven years since they had surrounded her like wolves snapping at her heels, and all he could say was they would like to 'have a look at her.'
Blood, it was going to be a horrible Midsummer, she realised. But he was here. And despite all her fears, she felt it…
Safe.