Chapter LXVIII: A Chord in B Minor
Meanwhile…
Sixty feet below the surface of the Oppenheim Den, the second feast of Midsummer Eve was packed to the brim with nearly a hundred souls. Illustrious tapestries on the walls. Twelve grand tables covered in candles and wreaths, lighting the faces of revellers on their way out, while the hungry and the weary came to eat. Every inch of the stone room filled with the smell of mead, ale, blood and the lavish remains of eleven courses that were still being eaten down to the sauce.
The twelfth—or ninth course as it had originally been dubbed—lay untouched as Gustav was refusing to start it. The stag at every table now likely to rot in its juices for if Gustav would not taste it, then no one would. The stag momentarily forgotten as the boar's head from the morning hunt was carried over shoulders and heads into the centre of the feasting hall. Tusks pointing at the head table, its skin glazed to a crisp finish, and a red apple stuck between its jaws. It felt like it was stalking him through the crowd.
More so when Freyja rose to her feet, offering it as a gift to the lord of the feast. The traditional response forcing him to stand, raising his glass to her honour before in turn, offering the kill to his people. All of them responding in turn, accepting his gift…before once again, every eye was on Freyja.
She had pulled out all the stops. Choosing to wear the traditional rural clothing of her people rather than the modern evening gowns of the other women. The bodice and skirt simple, but the colours—red, gold and white—causing her to stand out. The Midsummer garland making her seem like a queen from another age.
The sudden appearance of the rest of the boar, the twelve portions of meat divided on platters, prompting another dirge of activity as Gustav raised a glass, offering a toast to the hunter of the day. It turned out to be the first of four. First Gustav. Then Borya. Then Dante. Then Goar. Like clockwork, one after the other they spoke of her speed, her bravery, her beauty, her accuracy. His role as lord of the feast forcing him to honour the hunter in the same way she had honoured him. So he stood with the rest of the crowd, raised his glass, said something about honour…and drank. Plunked his glass down and sat. Conscious of every eye following his movements. The barest trace of interest in Danielle's scent.
Not jealousy, thank the bloods. Like everyone, she had to have some sense of what was going on in the hall. The number of looks going back and forth between the different tables. Everyone keen to have first rights to the Northern Pass, and Gottfrid likely having made the same offer for Freyja's hand to at least four other pack-leaders. The politics meant to be kept under wraps during the feasting days, but the practice in their blood so much that a simple toast could mean an alliance.
Still…
…he'd made his choice, so there was no sense thinking on the matter until it stabbed him in the back. Even if Allegra kept eying him with some frustration as though she could will him into enjoying himself. For the past forty-eight minutes, she'd been prowling the room, socialising with the other tables. Celebrating with those who were joyful. Commiserating with those who had lost. She was like a salve upon the wounded, her voice, her prowess in the court helping them to forget for a moment why his entire council was refusing to eat stag. A good many of them starting to see Gustav's point of view.
All of them still frustrated by the events of seven years past. His house arrest representing the least of their worries while they dealt with the ramifications of an explosion in the middle of a mortal world. Covers. Transfers. Bribes. A number of them forced to give into the demands of Kraven's death-dealers for the sake of secrecy, while the entire Horde locked itself down into a state of curfew and safety. The tension between exiles and lycans starting to build as the movement of exiles ground to a halt.
For two years, his council lived in that state. Keeping their dens in the shadows and surviving the war. Refusing his missives. Refusing to move forward with the death of Amelia. The dynamite stored and Imre returned to his pack, alive and well, waiting until the next opportunity might come. Her move to the Americas leading him to wonder if they would ever again have such a golden opportunity. The balance kept, for it was only by chance that Kraven managed to succeed in gaining Viktor's favour. Anything else and he might have had a coup on his hands.
The thought doing little to stop the hairs rising on the back of his neck. His left eye training on Magnus. The man was whispering something to Raze and pointing at him with a gleam in his eye. Looking as though he was about to toast Freyja's arse just so he would be forced to raise his glass a sixth time. His sense of self-preservation causing him to shove his chair back with more force than he planned, standing just before Magnus could pick up his glass. The act immediately causing a liegeman at his side to call for all to rise in honour of the alpha.
Everyone got up.
The music stopping, the revellers pausing and the entire room grounding to a halt. Like being surrounded by an army of automatons, all of them waiting on his orders. And though he was used to the occurrence, it could not stop him from feeling the chasm between them all. His first instinct to give his regrets, but his realisation that he was surrounded by more strangers than acquaintances causing him to bury it.
As you were, he thought, making the signal with a wave of a hand. The music resuming as he leaned forward, grunting a quiet word of gratitude to the guests as his table, general in nature, for beyond the distinct orange-blossom in Danielle's perfume on his right, he had no idea who these people were, only that each had performed some duty or other in an exemplary fashion during the past year. All of them too afraid to strike up a conversation with him and he too weary to go through the motions anymore.
From there, making his way down from the head table. Giving a nod to each of his council-members, masked or otherwise and providing no excuses for none dared to ask why he might be leaving. The crowd parting for him as he took the stairs, two at a time. Passing through the lower quadrant into the upper house.
His schedule still requiring him to give some service to the lord of his drug. Returning to his study for the time it took Singe to administer his evening concoction. Like clock-work, the dose given away from prying eyes, his physician thanked and the door shut on him so he could ride his paltry wave of euphoria in comfort for the few minutes he'd have before the effects wore off.
The euphoria soon followed by a solitary smoke on his balcony. For a few minutes watching the bonfire on the hill. Bone, wood, and fire. The dancers foolishly leaping over the flames as though they could find marriage and luck simply by being foolhardy. Realising as he watched that he felt as much pain staring at that bonfire as he did stubbing a cigar out. Like staring into a burnt hole. The emotions refusing to come. His venture into the underground seven years past the closest he'd come to falling into it again.
His continual need to move onto the next thing eventually drawing him back down the main staircase. Vaguely wondering if Reinette might be up for a game, but knowing he might have pushed it by eating the better half of her breakfast earlier. Passing several couples who had no business doing what they were doing on this side of the upper house, but chalking it up to poor sense and a lack of manners. Not because it was an orgy, he decided. Taking a good minute to scent out the smoking room before he entered it. No sign of Diggory. The bar calling his attention…
…but a familiar scent halting him in his path. Ink. Silver-nitrate. A trace amount of self-awareness. He squinted in thought and then turned on his heel. The trail causing him to turn several corners through the house, past the drawing room, making his way past…again…a few couples—those trying to avoid both feast and bonfire—before he found it. Two steps into an empty parlour, a young lightweight standing serenely beside a pianoforte, appearing to have no idea what to do with himself in such an off-duty setting.
Weylan Jones, he thought with some relish. Staring through the glass doors. Putting his hands in his pockets and taking a moment to survey the scene before he ventured forward. For the last time he'd seen Weylan Jones, the young man had been fast asleep, slumped against a wall in the Tilbury infirmary.
At the time, his concern had been getting Sabine out of the country, but he'd found out some years later that Weylan Jones had spent nearly three days sleeping rough outside her sickroom. Guarding it until Allegra shooed him off. The banishment causing him to join the underground search party until they were found; after which he again, returned to the sickroom, the move eventually prompting enough sympathy from Allegra that she magnanimously allowed him to sleep on a concrete floor.
The boy, like Rena, managing to keep his position by the skin of his teeth, but the transfer resulting in him being placed under Raze's jurisdiction rather than his own…
…and yet here he was.
Impeccably dressed, his appearance suggesting more than one turn in front of a mirror, while his scent spoke of the opposite. The scotch in his hand likely having much to do with his state of mind for he smelled like someone whose head had wandered off into the clouds. As though he were brimming with too many emotions for one conversation. And the boy…or man, he should say…as usual failing to hold his liquor but still forcing himself to drink as though it could somehow change his abilities.
The idea of it causing Lucian to laugh softly to himself, stepping through the doors and masking his scent. Blood, it was good to see the young man. Seven years and barely a postcard.
o…o…o
Whereas on the other side of the conversation, Weylan Jones had failed to notice he had company. The vague smell of cigar smoke paired with laughter something that melded with the other sounds of the house for more than one couple had already attempted to enter the parlour and then giggled upon realising it was already occupied.
It was true he was just a little bit tipsy. He was now on his second scotch, the drink hardly his favourite, but the alcoholic content making it the most likely drink to provide the desired level of intoxication. Knowing that someday his inability to hold alcohol would backfire on him. The possibility of being held by death dealers always on his conscience, for he was quite sure that even if they did wish to torture him for information, all they'd really need to do was mix him a cocktail. Therefore it was imperative to put in practice.
A hand suddenly clapped him on the back, the force nearly causing him to spill his drink a little. "Weylan."
Weylan turned…and then with an outpouring of exuberance, the most that he could express, he stood up straight and bent his neck in greeting. Master, go on, and I will follow thee, he thought. Nearly quoting the line aloud for the man standing before him was as familiar to him as the works of Shakespeare.
"Sir," he said.
Unable to hide his gusto nor the relief in his scent. And to some degree, he had hoped to run into the lycan-master, for having written his apologies several times, he had found that after seven years of writing and subsequently burning them, ink could not express what could only be spoken aloud.
His apology failing in its first line, for he'd expected the master of his existence to be both blind and limping, when in fact, he was looking particularly well. The formal tail coat and white tie balanced with his usual devil-may-care attitude towards buttons. Still holding onto the beard of the past decade, though he seemed to have trimmed it to mark the occasion of having guests. Granted, he smelled of cigar smoke…and stag blood…and laudanum…and liquor…
"How've you been?"
"Excellent, sir." And then before he could lose his nerve, he again bowed. "I w-wanted to thank you, sir, for putting such a good word in for me in…in light of the uhm…" He was stammering. "…charges. However I…erhm…that is, Master Raze is refusing to…r-remove me from the roster, sir. Therefore I wish to now offer my…" He swallowed. "…my resignation for f-failing in the line of duty, sir."
There.
He had said it.
Unfortunately, the master of his existence did not seem to notice. Instead plucking the scotch bottle from the pianoforte and reading the label. Stalking to one of the side cabinets and finding a glass. "Weylan, have you ever known me to accept needless apologies?"
Oh thank the bloods.
Weylan gulped his drink. He loved his work. The answer causing him to nearly cry out in relief for he was quite certain that he knew this one. "No, sir."
"Then it's water under the bridge." Appearing barely affected by the smell of what had to be four other liquor varieties swilling in his blood, the lycan-master removed the cork. Pouring himself two fingers of the scotch. "We both lived. Sabine is well. So let us drink to our good health and speak no more of it."
He could feel himself beaming. "Thank you, sir." It was so much more than he could possibly have hoped for. His mouth now struggling to fill the gap after having spent so many hours rehearsing his words. "And…" He started rotating his glass in hand. "…how is Miss Jeanne Antoinette?"
The answer was a careless shrug. "Still stubborn."
"Is she not attending?"
"Not today."
"Well, please do give her my best, sir." He was not such a fool as to hope she would still remember him, but he knew for certain, he would remember her. "I must say, I was very impressed with her during the last venture."
"Really," said the lycan-master. He had been ambling around the room, but he had stopped now, his finger tracing a line of dust on one of the chairs.
The ensuing silence daring him to speak freely. And the scotch causing it be so, for he could still remember those months. Only four months to prepare for a lycan council meeting, and for once, a student who truly committed herself to her studies.
He gestured with his glass. "You know, sir…" For he was certain the lycan-master would be intrigued by this tidbit. "…about a month after you first introduced us, I once even read her a verse from one of the great lycan poets. We were on the subject of cultural edification and she seemed…" He laughed softly, smiling at the memory. "…she seemed, sir, to have an almost preternatural grasp for metrical composition."
Lucian was leaning on the pianoforte now. Watching him. The silence suggesting he might have told too long a story. But the moment saved for the man deigned to make a response. Savouring his drink before putting it down again. "Well it's an open viewing tomorrow," he said. "You're welcome to come."
"Thank you, sir." It was truly superb to be in the presence of the lycan-master again. Although strange not to be sitting across from a desk with a folio. And then he touched his forehead. "Speaking of poetry, sir, I found the writer."
The man squinted. "The writer…"
"Tilbury, sir." Weylan swallowed another thimbleful. He could feel his head brimming with this new desire to spill all of his secrets. The joy of the reunion only mildly dampened by the memory of claws on his neck. "At the time, you asked me for the writer of Tilbury, sir."
"Indeed."
The eagerness in the man's response causing Weylan to feel pride in himself once again, that tone for which he had always strived. The fresh sound of interest in a desert of polite apathy. The man so keen as to lean forward. "What was the name?"
"Corvin Sandor, sir."
The interest dried up. The man giving a mild laugh again before sitting down at the pianoforte. He played a note. "It's a pseudonym."
He could not mask his confusion. "Sir?"
"Corvin Sándor," the man said again. The same name, only with a slightly…different pronunciation, the primary stress on the first syllable. The singular 's' turning into a 'sh' sound. The subject of his thesis once again revealing more depth for it was rare to hear him speak his first language. "It's the Hungarian equivalent of Alexander Corvinus." The lycan-master reached for the scotch and poured himself another round. "You know the legend?"
"No, sir."
The man looked up at the ceiling, playing a chord in B minor. "The sons of the Corvinus clan. One bitten by bat, one by wolf... one to walk the lonely road of mortality as a human." His words suggesting that he too had a preternatural grasp for reading poetry. He gestured with the bottle. "It's a legend that indicates that we…all of us, vampires and lycans, come from the same source."
The sound of it was familiar. And yet Weylan prided himself on walking the road of fact, the majority of his writing having been sourced from the archives rather than folklore. "And…" He could not mask his interest for it was rare for the lycan-master to speak of anything from the past. "…Alexander Corvinus is that source?"
"Indeed." The lycan-master grimaced into his scotch. "Except he died over a millennium ago. Therefore, it stands to reason…" He plunked the bottle on the keys. "…that whoever wrote the poem Tilbury was using a pseudonym."
"Oh." Weylan felt his shoulders fall. "Bad luck, sir."
"Always," the man said. He'd abandoned the keys. Staring at the bottle on his right side. The path seeming unclear as though he could not see his way through. And then he smiled bleakly. "Shall we do that toast?"
"Of course, sir." Keen to cheer the man up, Weylan raised his glass, trying to remember what they had started with. The words coming easily for he was starting to truly feel one with the glass in his hand. "To your good health, sir."
"And yours," the man replied. Downing his scotch and pouring himself another drink. Gesturing for Weylan to put his glass down on the keys so he could fill it again. The young Mr. Weylan Jones obeying with some misgiving. Starting to wish he'd kept his mouth shut for he knew Master Raze would probably have his hide for participating in such behaviour. The man was a stickler when it came to drink.
But he was nothing if not quick on his feet. Three glasses in and he knew precisely what he was doing. So before the mood could sour any further, Weylan Jones again made an attempt to again steer the man towards something more positive. The next toast providing ample fodder, but the alcohol somehow changing it from a subtle nod to beauty into a brash statement of literally what was in his head.
"To something positive," he said grandly.
"Positive," the lycan-master agreed. Savouring the word as he sat back, squinting at Weylan as though he were seeing him for the first time. And then he nodded his head. Picking up the word like it was precisely the thing he needed in that moment. "To something positive."
They clinked glasses.
Weylan forced to follow suit when the lycan-master downed his drink. The man already tipping the scotch towards the glass and holding it up. "To sticking to our guns," he said. The voice seeming to scrape the barrel with its tone.
"To our guns," said Weylan happily.
And so it went.
They toasted the den, the horde, the charity of Lady Allegra, the abstinence of Master Raze…
…and finally…
Finally a quieter toast. A toast of goodwill and happiness. True joy. One he'd been thinking on for the past two hours. The words spoken as a pleasant sigh for he himself had been surprised by the warmth he had felt. "To the virtue of Miss Sabine," he said softly.
The lycan-master plunked his glass down. "Hear, hear," the man said. The bottle nearly empty and the hand again gesturing for him to put his glass down. The thought making Weylan sigh again for he had never thought to be in this position. Drinking with the subject of his thesis. All of them able to relax in safety…
…even her.
Miss Sabine.
For the sight of her this evening had just…taken his breath away. "You know, sir…" And he prided himself on his ability to read a situation. "…seven years ago, I truly feared for her recovery, but to your credit, sir, the young lady is looking very well."
"Yes, she has been…" And for a moment, the lycan-master stopped pouring. The smile so warm as to suggest he'd not just emptied the last dregs of scotch into the glass of a lightweight. "…you saw her recently, I take it?"
"Indeed, sir."
"Where?"
Weylan pointed. "At the bonfire, sir."
The lycan-master laughed briefly. Very briefly. Like a wash of alcohol before it was set on fire. "You know, she told me she would be there," he said. Handing over the glass. "…and you are quite certain it was her?"
"Without question, sir." Weylan could feel the dazed expression on his face, but after finishing a bottle of scotch, he was more than a little tipsy now. "She was very kind. I was sitting on a log, and she came to thank me for the assistance I gave her during the incident. She told me she'd never forgotten."
There was a glaze on the man's eye. "Oh that is very touching."
Weylan nodded into his drink. "I just couldn't believe how much she'd grown."
"Yes, it is astounding, isn't it?" The man was staring at one of the chairs in the room now. His eyes lingering for a fraction of a second too long before recovering with an aimless shake of the head. "One minute she's playing with dolls and the next, she's dancing at an orgy—remind me again what mask she chose."
Weylan rubbed his ear.
He must have heard wrong.
"Fox," he said.
"Of course." The lycan-master put the scotch bottle down. "Weylan, you'll have to excuse me. I have a matter to attend to."
"Certainly, sir."
Weylan bowed his head again. Taking another sip of his drink as he watched the lycan-master leave. Blood it had been good to see the man. Toasts, forgiveness, good fortune, he thought. Sitting down at the pianoforte. Could the night get any better?
o…o…o
Twelve minutes later.
Reinette was sitting in her chair. The botany book was on the floor. But she had not been reading it in quite some time. Rather, she had been counting the number of indentations in the plaster ceiling rose above her head. It had originally started with the swirls, but then she realised there were also leaves…
…and dots.
She could count dots. And it just went from there. There was an entire world in her ceiling rose. Like she was dancing in the ceiling rose. Every swirl and leaf drawing her that much closer to the end of Midsummer. Eighty-four swirls, sixty leaves, thirty-six dots…
There was a frantic knocking at the door.
She sat up.
"Come."
Sabine tore into her room, still wearing her fox mask. She looked hunted. Quickly locking the door behind her and sweeping forward to kneel at her feet. "Did you tell him?"
"What?"
She literally could not understand the girl. She was barely out of her ceiling rose. The girl speaking too fast. German. English. What…language…were they speaking…
"Did…you…tell him," the girl asked again. This time slower. In Russian. Her accent now much improved since her childhood.
Reinette blinked…and then shut her mouth. "No," she said dimly. Confused by all that was happening. Everything was happening a little too quickly.
Sabine got up. "I don't understand it—he never goes to the bonfire," she said. She was pacing. Like the hunted mouse she once had been, her path taking her from the bathroom to the wardrobe to the bed. "Why would he have gone?"
It was all still moving too fast. Reinette was still trying to process the words. Hearing them. Understanding them…
…and then lurching forward with a haggard breath. "Did he see you?"
"Yes," the young girl said. As though she expected the world to now move for her troubles. She was now standing by the window. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, actually appearing to wonder if she should break her way out, the shutters be damned. "…and he's coming," she hissed. "He's coming now."
That made an impact.
Reinette got up, frantically swiping the remains of Sabine's previous escapades up from the carpet. Discarded clothing. Rouge. Compact mirror. Shoes. All the items stuffed into her wardrobe while she desperately looked around the room. The bedside table. She needed to move her bedside table.
And she started to walk towards it…
Truly trying to walk, only finding herself stuck in the centre of her carpet again. Her eyes veering up to her ceiling rose. Suddenly unsure of what she was doing. Forced once again to deal with reality as Sabine took up her hand. Holding it tight as though they were damsels in distress, helplessly fleeing an army. The actual attack much quieter when it came.
A single knock before he tried the door.
Locked.
"Reinette, is Sabine in there with you?"
The girl shook her head. Do not say anything, she mouthed.
Yes, but he knows, she responded practically in her head. Giving the girl a look which she hoped could communicate the obviousness of what she was thinking. Remembering the counsel of Rena and in that moment realising that the situation she now faced was far worse than standing between him and Allegra.
In any case, it did not matter.
The lock broken in the same time he'd taken to try the handle. The door open and the man pocketing the tool he'd used, a small knife, as though it were common to keep it in the same pocket that he kept his toothpick. He had a book under his arm. Using it to push the door shut behind him.
Sabine made a high-pitched noise. Like a mouse. The girl making her choice in the next moment. Drawing herself up and then stepping firmly behind Reinette. As though a high-necked velvet gown could act as some sort of barricade. Her first instinct to crumble. For his words were ominous.
Very ominous.
"Which part…" He ran a finger along her wall. "…of not going to Midsummer did you fail to comprehend during our conversation four months ago?"
Sabine took a step back. "You never explicitly forbade it," the girl said in German. "You simply asked which of us would win the wager…" Then she bravely took a step forward. Her voice refusing to shake. "…and I think the Line Rumour just won."
His eyes had gone silver. "You knew you were to stay in your quarters."
"For three days?"
He exhaled, putting his hands behind his back. "I once spent two weeks…"
The young lady raised her fists, groaning at the ceiling. "In a space between walls," she yelled, mimicking his tone with a wave of her arm. "Yes," she said pointedly, her eyes starting to reflect. "We all know."
His mouth was still open…
…and now shut.
Oh no, thought Reinette in a vague sort of wonder. They all had thought it. But the girl had actually said it. She slowly backed away. No, this was not going to end well. Starting to drift towards her bed. For she was truly trying not to be part of the conversation. Taking the time to drift closer to the small box on her bedside table, praying to the fates that he would not notice it. Shutting the cover very quietly. Of course, the timing could not have been better for he was very preoccupied in that moment.
He was seething.
Tapping the book against his palm, just a page short of destroying her rooms. And still. Still he could not bring himself to yell at her. The decision quickly made. The man thumbing his beard, turning to walk along the wall and pointing at the door. "You are going to spend the next two weeks in your quarters. Do you understand me?"
"Good," said Sabine. She held her head high. Still wearing her mask. Only the faintest sound of hesitation as she stalked past him. "It will be just like when you left me at the lycan carehouse."
He turned. "You don't even remember that day."
"Of course I remember."
"You were six."
Sabine flung her mask on the ground. "I remember everything," she yelled. "I remember her bringing me to that filthy doorstep, trying to tell them who I was before she died." She took a step forward. "I remember them taking her things and selling them, even though I begged them to let me keep her necklace."
The tears starting to fall as the girl sobbed. "I remember you coming that day…" And then she pointed at him. "…looking at me with such…contempt…" The word was spat. "…and even though they s-said you were going to take me with you, y-you just…w-walked away."
He looked shocked. Genuinely taken aback by the words coming out of her mouth. Trying to say something, but for once on the wrong foot, unable to come up with the right words, unable to defend himself when the storm was too powerful.
"Sabine, I couldn't…"
She cut him off. "You know what I remember most about that day," she asked suddenly. "I remember thinking how g-glad I was…" Daring to look him in the eye. Refusing to give him an inch. Vicious in her tone, the tears drying up as she seethed at him. "…glad that she never met you before she died."
He flinched.
Raising a hand to his neck, a sound in the back of his throat trying to come out, but the girl shaking her head, storming from the room. Her words cutting as she called back over her shoulder. "And don't follow me, Lyosha—I've already seen what happens at Midsummer, so what's the point in going anymore?"
The door slammed shut behind her.
And for Reinette…
…if she had been able to think about it, she might have realised that this was truly the most awkward silence she'd ever heard from him. So that all she could hear was the ticking of the clock. The man staring at the closed door. His mouth open as though he was still trying to come up with an answer for a question that had come and gone. Only able to speak now that the storm had passed.
His words sounding muted when they finally came. "Did you know she was going?"
Reinette tried to say something. But in the end, she could only make a noncommittal sound. Like a sigh. Lying back on her bed. Her eyes drifting back into her ceiling rose. Swirling in the white. Her silence perhaps seeming more profound than it actually was for he seemed to take it as an invitation for further conversation.
The man having made his way to her fireplace. Sitting in one of her chairs, staring into the empty grate. Unable to deal with the one situation. Latching then upon his next target, his face turning into a scowl as he realised his nails had gouged a set of holes into the book he was carrying.
"And since when does Rena read this kind of filth?" He held up the book. "She was reading this. On the staircase outside Sabine's quarters…" He flipped through the pages and then dropped the book beside her botany reader. "I mean she's over two centuries old. She can read it, but I just…" He squinted. "…I don't see why she had to drop it so suddenly and walk…you can't just leave things lying in a corridor…"
No, thought Reinette. Getting up from her bed and wandering to the chair across from him. Allowing her head to drift slowly from side to the side. For when she moved, it felt as though the dots were drifting like snow across a horizon.
"I probably should have yelled more…" But then he sighed. Grimacing to himself. Shaking his head. The words finally sweeping out like coal that had been lingering in the top of a chimney for too long. "You…" He glanced over to her chair. "…you may know this already, but Sabine is my grand-daughter."
Beautiful, she thought serenely. Still staring at her ceiling rose. It had become a mosaic now. The dots starting to become small squares. Each of them slotting into place on the ceiling, starting to shimmer with colour. Like the shimmering lights in the sky, the ones from her youth.
His voice intruding on her lights. "Reinette, did you hear what I just said?"
Her eyes drifted from the aurora, the greens and blues sweeping above her head. Realising only too late that her answers were failing to pass muster. For his expression was dumbfounded. Which meant he would stay. He was going to stay in her chair and talk to her instead of leaving her to her lights. But she could do this. She could get him moving.
So she focused on him.
Deeply. Affirming. Keeping her eyes on his face. Focusing all her attention on his face and not the ashtray sitting upon her windowsill. She was not looking at that ashtray. She was looking at him. And she was acting in a manner that was perfectly respectable. She even added a word for good measure.
"Yes," she said.
Drawing the word out in a breathless whisper. For she was certain now that if she simply responded to all of his questions with clear and concise syllables, then eventually, he would go away and she would be able to go back to her ceiling rose.
He was now sitting forward in his chair. Looking from her chair to the ashtray she had been staring at for thirty-nine seconds. And then he pointed. "Is that my stash?"
She opened her mouth…and promptly changed her mind about what she was going to say. Instead shaking her head with a grand movement. Twice. Even adding a second word for good measure. For she was a lady of the blood. And ladies of blood could answer questions without appearing…in any…way…
…suspicious.
"No," she said in the same whisper.
"Oh for blood, Reinette." He made a groaning sound, scrubbing his face, as though he could see the white dots that were starting to cascade around his head. "Of all the fucking nights…"
She tried to appear as though she was listening. But her eyes kept drifting up…and then down. It was taking all of her will not to look at her ceiling rose. Her beautiful…wondrous…ceiling rose. Its lights swirling like stars above her head. She knew they were calling to her. She knew it would feel like dancing…
Snap.
"Nette."
She opened her eyes.
He was kneeling in front of her. Snapping his fingers in front of her face. The world behind him seeming to be coated in white. It all started to drift again. She was no longer in the chair. Or on the carpet. She was lying in the snow and he was still there. She could see the sky beyond his head. "Look at me, Nette," he said. His voice was so loud. "…how much have you had?"
Oh she knew this one. She could feel the answer inside her. All of it wrapped up in warmth like a blanket. Trying to stretch herself out on the floor so she could really dig for it, even though he kept trying to pull her up into a slouch. His eyes looking down at her, looking so troubled. Those beautiful grey eyes. She gazed into them…
…and then smiled the words, curling deeper into her blanket. "More—than half a gram," she said.
A lot more.
He did not see the humour. Instead cursing at her beloved ceiling rose. Going to the side of her bed, opening the small box beside it and starting to tally what was left in his stash. The one he usually kept in the upstairs library behind the works of Charles Darwin. "You realise you're supposed to be in front of my council tomorrow evening?"
"It will end before tomorrow," she said drowsily, trying to wave him away. He was always so…concerned about everyone. Always trying to protect everyone. Her eyes starting to close…
…and her world transported again.
That feeling.
That wonderful feeling of rising up into the air. Like resting on a whisper, his arms picking her up off the floor, blanket and all, carrying her back to her bed. Leaving her there to walk aimlessly about her room. The fox mask in his hand for a measure too long before he let it fall to the floor again. Putting the chair back on its right side. Returning her books to her bedside and starting to shift the small table back into place.
Only to pause.
Pausing in the midst of his troubles, though she would not remember it the following evening. His eye staring through the cobwebs and dust. Reaching into the hiding place behind her bed. All the treasures she had been hoarding. The grey eye of the storm staring bleakly into the face of her past before he shut it all away again. The old photograph returned to its hiding place, and his voice drifting across her dreams.
"Did Magnus give you something yesterday?"
She stirred in her sleep. "Who's Magnus?"
"The tall fellow."
She sighed, letting herself curl into her pillow. "He gave me my rune back," she whispered.
Causing him to smile dimly. And then she fell asleep. Lost in the haze as he quietly shut the door of her bedroom. Dreaming of fire and ash. All of their sorrow leading her to wonder why she felt the burn of their presence. Like a glacier upon a fiery volcano, the ice turning to air, drifting away for she could not bear it when they fought…
…the both of them so alike.