Chapter LXIX: The Ticking of the Clock

And so it was…

…the last day of the festivities came upon them. That final day of Midsummer, one that was to be fraught with the bustling aura of an apiary swarming before winter. The full day of scheduling laid out from dawn to dusk: the feasts, the games, the dancing, the endless frivolity of a people whose skills lay in all manner of outdoor escape. The last century having long since drawn the upper-class tenants of his horde from duels and wrestling into pastimes such as cricket, tennis, and rowing matches.

The night set to culminate in a dazzling spectacle. A vision from the last of the blood-seers. That priceless commodity, her gift of speaking in tongues, to be paraded before his guests. The investors of his war. All of them silent and waiting, wearing the masks of the ball, save for the ones whose forms were swathed in the black robes of the council, their wooden faces covered in scars…

…and their emperor leaning against the wall. A stranger to her. Cruel and callous, holding his reserve when she drank the three drops and keeping his distance when she fell forward. The words gushing forth like poison, each syllable built on murk and ambiguity. The masque, that of a bird circled by beasts, ready to gorge themselves on the tide she saw in blood. In such a moment, forcing her to confront how far above her he stood.

Or so it would have been…

…if not for a glass.

The moment passing yet vivid in the memory of all despite having started so innocently. Breakfast occurring at seven, early but without incident, followed by foot races and light refreshment. A small minority choosing then to play lawn bowls, while the majority of guests headed for the orangery, their faces basking in sunlight as they dealt cards, surrounded by glass windows, citrus trees and pomegranates.

The annual lycan whist tournament providing just enough balance that one could pretend for a moment that they were nothing less than the height of gentility. Twelve tables and a further six for those who wished to watch. Tie matches to be played off, but a mantlepiece clock—brought down from the main house and placed at the far end of the room—providing a visual reminder for those who needed more than just etiquette to encourage timely play.

Naturally, talk was meant to be kept to a minimum; but there was a general consensus that for most, it was a chance to gossip over the past few years, if not decades and once one table started, the rest might as well follow suit.

Unfortunately for Lady Forsythe, this meant her partner, the wife of Colonel Arlington, and the other two ladies at the table had a great deal upon which to catch up. The hand requiring an obligatory moment before she again had to notify Lady Corbyn that it was her turn to deal. Hard to hear oneself think through all the noise.

Seventy-two voices talking at once, while the Colonel's wife prattled on and on without a care in the world. Regaling them with her good fortune as though a gold mine had fallen into her lap. The prestige of moving into a former home of the lycan-master evident without her having to parade it in front of their faces. Blithely unaware that for some of them—Lord and Lady Forsythe in particular—the last few years had been an exercise in downsizing. Their lives now closeted in a house that was filled with white sheets and dust. Blood, if they could all just focus on the game…

"Windows everywhere," said the Colonel's wife who could barely contain herself. "…and the library."

Lady Corbyn finally started dealing. "Do the books come with the house?"

"Indeed," the woman said, taking her cards up. "…though it'll be a trial getting things in order without the old housekeeper. Mark my words, Rosemary, the house will be in chaos by the time we get back…"

"Oh that is a shame," said Lady Corbyn.

"Yes—it was all very sudden," the woman said. "One minute coughing and the next…" She waved her hand as though she could not fathom it.

The other woman pursed her lips. "Well, they never last long, do they?"

"No." The Colonel's wife sighed. She started rearranging her cards. "Like holding a butterfly."

A glass broke.

Shattered really. The sound out of place, yet inconsequential at first. Swallowed by the cacophony of sound, the six dozen people talking at the same time. Only for the catalyst to ripple. The change in scenery occurring so quickly that, within the space of a minute, the surrounding players had begun to notice it as well. All those who could not mask their scents to the degree of their elders suddenly in a position where their fear had been woven into the fabric of the room. All the games grinding to a halt and the conversations stuttering to silence. People at first confused. Turning in their chairs, looking over their shoulders, to see what had occurred…

…and at first sight, it seemed as though an insult had happened. The table at the centre of the orangery having become a scene of statues. Baroness Herrmann and the Lady Cavendish seated with their backs straight. Hands frozen. Their eyes on the floor. Petrified. The two of them caught between what seemed to be a war of…

…elders.

All of them ignorant of the cause, the slight that might have occurred, yet none so foolish as to miss the danger. For there was blood on the table. The remnants of the lycan-master's drink, his wine mixed with blood, now dripping from the edge. His flesh already healing, and now the only sound that of the clock ticking as broken glass fell from his palm onto the tiled floor.

The Lady Allegra had gone white.

A lady whose business it was to know all, yet seemed in that moment to have missed a vital trick in the game. And for years after, all would discuss the offence she must have caused. They would dream and gossip and swear that it had happened just as they saw it. Yet if the room had been able to smell beyond her mask, they would have known that she alone did not smell of fear.

Only sorrow.

"Oh Aleksey," she said. Her voice so quiet. So gentle in its tone as she reached out. Her hand stopping just short of where a card had fallen. "…Aleksey, I am so sorry."

And through all of it…

…all that could be heard was the clock ticking.

The quiet starting to lengthen as the seconds passed.

Until he put his remaining cards down…

…and he left.

o…o…o

The effect of his absence immediate.

So that when Reinette came down from her quarters, she found the house silent. The merriment ended and the carriages pulling away. Her first thought one of confusion as she wandered the halls. Relief as she found the abandoned glasses, the masks and stray feathers, the frayed moulting of clothes packed in haste. Everyone gone. Banished as though a pallor had fallen over the grounds. The servants quickly removing all trace of the festivities, the Midsummer pole lowered, and the guards refusing to speak.

The evening prompting some curiosity when she found his chair to be empty. Determining then that he must be sleeping off the debauchery, yet still watching the clock to some degree. Turning at every sound, expecting him to seat himself down before passing a terse comment regarding her behaviour the previous evening. The second and third evenings filling her with doubt as she realised his horse was missing from the stables. Frustration as days turned into weeks. His study deserted. His quarters empty. The hallways cold.

Even Rena had no answers. The two of them venturing into the underground briefly to seek Singe in his laboratory, only to find the space locked. No sound or light beneath the door. Like the final nail in her coffin, this realisation that he had gone somewhere…without a word. Taking his drug, his tinctures of opium, and leaving her. Leaving them all behind, the house and the gardens filled with servants and guards, yet none of them able to explain…to tell where he had gone.

The two weeks of Sabine's punishment over and the girl professing to care little if she saw him again. Yet the month calling her out as a liar. Her behaviour growing more sullen with each passing day until even the Baroness lost her patience. The house losing the last of its trimmings as her stately carriage faded into the distance.

And for a half year, it was so.

They lived in the house, but it felt as though the fires had gone out. The summer ending, the leaves changing, and the air growing colder as fall turned to winter. Every day filled with the ticking of the clock. The endless waiting until they began to wonder if he would ever come back. Until one day, he was just…

…there.

Travel boxes in the hallway, gifts in their quarters, the sound of music filling the house again as Sabine danced beside a gramophone. Nearly losing herself in it. The books, the wine, the furs, the extravagant boxes that promised more. Even Rena was distracted, her dull eyes starting to gleam as she inspected the metal…thing…the automobile sitting in the snow-covered carriage house.

All of it like salt in a wound. Meaningless as she searched for him. Furious that he had left them, that he was back…that she could be feeling so…hurt by his absence. Betrayed. Each step drawing her further into a righteous anger, the bitterness of knowing she had no reason for it. Knowing she had no right to his explanations; yet still wanting him to turn, to look her in the eye, to say something.

He was in the study when she found him. Dressed for dinner, but seeming to have lost himself in staring out the window. The moon set in its path and he, standing in the dark as though he'd forgotten to light the candles. Glancing over his shoulder as she entered, a silhouette in his doorway. Eight years of experience providing him with enough fodder that he could nearly appease her simply by being there. Knowing she would be angry…yet meticulous in his knowledge, a master now at dealing with her indignation.

Her choice to stand on his right prompting the familiar smile, that of a man whose occupation was leisure, before he made to speak. Already primed for his atonement, two of his fingers, pale in the moonlight, veering towards the stables, the magnificent stallion being brought out in the distance for her appraisal—sleek and powerful, a creature that begged for her attention.

Only for his breath to come up short.

His hand perfectly still, poised before the glass, but his tongue dry. One whose words were so often prepared. His silence, the words that refused to come, holding him in its grip until he had no choice but to look at her. The effect potent, as though they were in the tunnels again, that moment of hopelessness that she had felt. Their eyes meeting in the dark and he seeing her for what she was and she him. For he had lost something since she saw him last.

Or perhaps gained it. His ability to lie to her stripped raw. His mask, the cavalier nature that she so often saw, starting to disintegrate. The smile losing its depth and he continuing to stand there. Empty. Bereft. Unable to hide his losses, but the lack of sound no longer seeming to surprise him. Like a minstrel whose strings had gone rotten, trying to make it work before he again was forced to let the song go. A hollow laugh the most he could conjure before even that faded…

…and in the minutes that followed, the time that they stood there, listening to the ticking of the clock, she knew. The mystery of where he had gone suddenly plain as the skin on his neck. Pale. The moonlight present, but the pupil in his left eye fully dilated. The hair so recently trimmed. All of her anger and bitterness ebbing away as she saw through the farce. In the same moment, knowing what he required of her but still wishing she could reach out. Wishing she could take his hand yet knowing the chasm was too wide. All that he was not saying left in its coffin as she turned, once again leaving him in the dark.

The door shut quietly behind her and the path taking her back to the lights, the music, the movement in the foyer. Caught in a dance with Sabine before giving into the urge to seat herself at the dining-room table, studying the box with her name on it. Unwilling as yet to touch the precious instrument inside, the folding box camera, for fear of breaking it in its first hour, but for the rest, allowing herself to play her part. Admiring the collection of books, the portable writing case, and the golden chatelaine, delicate but useful for her walks. Knowing as she did that all was a ruse, a means of diverting their attention from the question of his absence. The bleakness of the house merely a reflection of its master.

For he had been there the entire time. The man…the beast, as he must have been, lingering in the dark. Locked in the depths of Singe's laboratory. Sweating and aching and hallucinating beneath the ground, his skin torn over…and over…until he slipped. And started again. Over and over…

…until he no longer needed it.

Opium.

Laudanum. Morphine. Even the heroin they started giving him in the last year. Its presence so ubiquitous that she'd seen it as conventional. The concoctions that Singe made him. The doses available at every corner of the house in case he missed one. The six hour schedule. The few times when his rage, his lack of control, had caused him to withdraw into the Change Quarters. And now after so many years, his drug, the cornerstone of his routine …

…gone from the house.

Gone from his blood. And a vacancy taking its place. She could see it in the listlessness that came around midnight. The few times he was there. The board gathering dust as he stared off into the distance. Sabine still refusing to speak to him. Her vague memories of that night, the fight that must have occurred between them, failing to give any context. Only that her dreams had been filled with snow, dancing, and roses for some reason. Neither of them willing to talk about it. Sabine too stubborn and Lucian…

…utterly incapable.

Far worse than she'd ever seen him, his ability to even rise from his bed something that ailed him through the winter. Days when he forgot to bathe or eat. As though the loss of his drug had torn something open. The depth of his depression colouring every interaction for he seemed to no longer care for her company—or that of anyone. The house safe for the most part, but the mornings darker for he did not sleep well. Her door locked, but the hoarse restlessness of his nightmares soon becoming a common sound after the sun rose.

It was miserable. Singe ever present, Allegra and Raze appearing frequently, and she unable to see into his past, the events that must have transpired to make him as he was. All she could do was wait. And for a year, she left him to it. She left him to his wanderings, his walks, the weeks when he would not speak. Another year passing before he seemed to breathe or laugh without the sound being forced. Their games slowly starting again. His ability to vanquish her troops unchanged and the likelihood of an evening ride starting to increase.

His interest in his surroundings once again piqued, this time by the box camera he had given her. Eventually, after that first year, following her on one of her excursions through the forest, helping her scent out the plants she was documenting. The evening proving fruitful for once they returned with her findings, he allowed her to take at least one photograph of his hand. The image eventually sent off for processing and the man even being so good as to admire it greatly before he had it destroyed. Until eventually, the house began to return to its routine.

Like clockwork, the dinners, the drinks, the evening pleasantries as the people of his society began to venture to his household once more. The den filling with life again. Music. Philosophy. Politics. His bed still empty, thank the bloods, though she suspected it was only a matter of time before the advice of the day allowed such things again.

Of course, the Northern den did not waste time in sending Freyja to pay her respects. The lady seeming to meld so easily to the world that he lived in, the hunting parties, the falconry. All the dignified conversations she was not privy to, but which occurred whether she liked them or not. The girl's ability to speak Latin setting her apart, leading to more than one moment of amusement, the sight of him appreciating something she had said just before the ladies retreated to their parlours and drawing rooms.

And Reinette watching from the wings as he found his stride again. His mask back in place, his ability to meld with the masses invigorated and his world largely unaware that every smile, every laugh was like a hole that had been boarded up. That he could not sleep for more than three hours at a time. That there were nights when he did not rise. Their household no longer as easy as it once was for the child was still not speaking to him. Eighteen years old, her hair up and her reputation starting to grow as a pleasure-seeker. But in the midst of all his melancholy, whether he was willing to admit the fact or not, she knew he had done something remarkable.

The final act occurring nearly three years after that fateful Midsummer night. A moment when in the midst of a summer evening, she saw him in his study, carefully disposing of all the jars that had once contained laudanum. His schedule providing little time for trapping beetles, but the deliveries over the next few weeks suggesting his interests had changed. Each of the display cases now filled with a multitude of butterflies and moths. The catalyst for his decision to abandon his drug one that he never explained…

…but one that he always seemed to ponder.

Alone in his study, surrounded by wings frozen in time.

A/N #2: Dear Guest, your review was very much appreciated! So glad this fanfic has helped. And you are right, it was not very clear which house the wife of Colonel Arlington was talking about so I've added a line to the chapter. If there is any further confusion I will give a hint that it has to do with Bess a.k.a Mrs. Fulligan.

A/N: I am so eager to get this story written that I've been skipping out on these small end of chapter notes, BUT I'm going to try and throw one up every now and then. This is definitely one of the quieter chapters, but I hope you enjoy before it all gets going again.

Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading, favouriting, or giving reviews! Ella, your moodboard and review were so lovely to receive! Books-n-Harleys, Wynter Phoenix, The Shy Scorpio, and all the guest comments, each of your reviews has really helped me keep writing (there comes a point when I start thinking, "is anyone still reading...I don't know!" And then a review will come in and make my day. So on that note, please as always, feel free to read and review (even if it's just to let me know you're out there and reading. ;D)

On that note, onto the next chapter!