Chapter LXX: A Flicker of Doubt

Yet time continued to pass, the fall of 1910 marking the first year in eleven that Reinette had not thought of what could have been. The first hour of every day spent working on her scent with Rena. That tell-tale whisper of desire, that which could not be felt, now buried beneath the weight of austerity and perception. All of those around her so certain now of her nature that they no longer delved beneath the grey surface of her exterior.

As though the veil had melded with her skin, the notion that she could be anything other than dispassionate leading her down a road no longer marked by self-pity. Her gift requiring a vision every fortnight, but her time otherwise unoccupied; and as a consequence, her rooms now graced with the fruits of her labour.

The walls of her private sitting room covered not in the wings of butterflies, but the bountiful flora of the earth. Oaken frames filled with flowers and herbs from the surrounding forest. Each pressing numbered and catalogued in leather-bound journals that spanned nearly a half decade. All of them lined up like soldiers before battle. Witnesses of a war she could not remember, hidden behind glass, tucked away in sketches and scratches. The cramped handwriting of one with too much time on her hands…

…every book allotted to a different subject. Refusing to let her mind be idle. Voraciously devouring every volume she could find on the war. Weaponry. Battle formations. The gathering of forces. The last battle before all would become dust in a single night of flame and retribution. Her research taking her as far back as the late fifteenth century before the volumes of the Corpus Scriptorum Historiae petered out. But her mind now filled with dozens of whispers. Their faces hidden, their tongues silenced, as they fled.

Scattering to the wind.

The great lie.

And through all of it, there was an absence. His name present for a measure of three decades before it faded into a song of martyrdom. Dead to his enemies. Dead to his people. Their debates able to sustain battles, victories, and losses, but his history proving itself a dance that neither of them knew. He avoiding her eye while she watched from afar. Dinner passing in a flurry of guests. Her place so ubiquitous at his table now that only the reckless would comment about the tsar and his veiled firebird.

Until in time, the guests would depart, the floor would creak and he would seek her out. He would find her in the monotony of her unchanging days. No longer lit by candlelight but electric currents. Like a language she could not speak, the furniture moving, the wallpaper changing, the modernity leaving her in dust as the den moved forward. But the walk always drawing out a word. A thought.

Every book one that he had studied. Every page one that he had turned. Both of them caught in the past, she in body and mind, and he forcing her to walk before she fell too far behind. The mystery of his age falling to the wayside when it occurred to her that she no longer cared. Her search for meaning now taking her through all that she might have missed or could not remember. Every conversation leading down a new passageway. History, geography, language, poetry, mathematics, art, music…

The only sound coming from the fire, the scratching of her pen, and his breath, constant and quiet, moving in time with the clock. Buried in his chair, now asleep in the minutes before dawn. The few nights when an hour of reading The Anatomy of Melancholy accomplished its purpose.

And so they lived.

o…o…o

The story familiar, but framed in a different light as the Lady Allegra stood in a cloistered window of the Oppenheim guest quarters, watching the sun go down. Listening for the tell-tale creak upon the stairs, the sound of one too indifferent to mask his footsteps. So that rather than admiring the famed views of the surrounding valley, the clock struck the hour and for the third year in three, Allegra found herself pondering if she'd made a mistake in leaving the lycan-master to his affairs for so long. The sight of him walking the grounds with a veiled lady familiar to her now, but still prompting more than one glance from a visiting dignitary or a new member of staff.

Like putting out a wildfire, the servants able to do their jobs, but incapable of being perfect, so that in the years that followed that fateful Midsummer, the stories began to circulate. All the names they were calling her, the lady whose face they rarely saw. The words at best insulting and at worst carnal, suggesting everything from an aged love affair to a wraith holding him in thrall.

Something Raze ought to have nipped in its bud, but that first year made all the more difficult by their schedules. Raze taking up the reins from London, while she worked to keep the Council off their backs in Vienna. Both of them tirelessly waiting for Singe to send his report—to tell them when it was done, when the master had conquered his demons—but the instructions strange when he finally sent them.

A long list of expenses, each with a description, and all to be delivered at a date and time of his choosing. The level of detail in each gift starting to taper off the farther down the page they went, and neither she nor Raze choosing to say anything about the name at the top. Their instincts instead leading them to meet in Oppenheim for all their engagements, anniversaries included, until Singe gave them a dressing down, suggesting that perhaps a measure of space would have a better effect, given all of their history together.

A bitter pill to swallow.

Especially for Raze. Unable to fix that which had been broken and now relegated to a distance. Their desire to assist, to help when help was required, causing them to have more than one argument on the matter.

But like all of them, they left him to it.

The only communication coming from Singe after the first year. Days without sleep, while the sentries walked the halls, tampering with the hooks and the latches. Removing all the blades and locking up the firearms. All the measures they took unnecessary, yet all of them taken nonetheless. And all the while, the master went through the motions of his day, forcing himself to rise when they were visiting, but otherwise, lacking in his purpose.

His ability to function out of sync with the rest of the world until the second year when they saw him laugh again. Inexplicably, for the first time in so long, the conversation too far for them to hear, but its subject-matter having something to do with the garden. The man himself attempting to walk it, and therefore, in the same setting as the infamous creature who haunted it.

She was consistent if anything.

Every day at the same hour, the lady would take her turn…and for the past week, he had done the same. The one keeping to his path, while the other lingered closer to ground, sketching every plant, flower and weed in the small journal she kept in hand. Neither of them speaking, but the walk becoming part of their daily routines. The one focused on her task, and the other lost in his oblivion. So that in all her ignorance, when others would flee, she dared to be curious. Her eyes on the surrounding valley and the question off her tongue before he could turn.

Latin, she suspected. Always Latin between them, and the question causing a look of confusion on his face. An openness as though he'd forgotten what it was like for someone to speak to him so. All of them tiptoeing around his past and his temper, and the lady seeming not to care a whit for either. The confusion resulting in a short answer, one that was not to her liking, a fact that she made known by saying something equally short before leaving the garden…

…and him.

Apparently on her way to the valley now, stepping across the borders, and his response then to laugh as she did so, the sound raw but true, before calling her back. Already continuing his walk, expecting her to come as though she were a favoured hound. Only to realise the lady was neither coming nor waiting for him. Her back rapidly disappearing into the night and he left standing alone on the path, looking more disoriented than ever. A creature of the wild surrounded by pergolas and hedges.

It was the moment when she first felt it. A flicker of doubt in her chest. The scene far different in the drawing room from where they were watching. Raze's scent one of buried annoyance at this thing the lycan-master had brought into their world. Her husband ever patient, ever present, but even with such virtue, unable to stand by and watch his oldest friend play the part of a fool; instead choosing to leave the window rather than bear witness to the final indignity.

That it would be her.

That of all those around him, when his closest circle could not, it would be her to whom he gravitated. Like a weather-vane following after the wind, unable to point south when she had gone north. Their friendship refusing to fit the boundaries of society, and Lucian refusing to discuss the matter when it came up.

And in her heart, she could not fault them. For though Raze would not see it, they were alike, the two of them. Two souls constantly in mourning, constantly seeking all they had once had or been. And so she turned from the window, leaving it with a sigh for its view was a mirror of that first night. A mirror of all their nights. The garden empty now and the two of them…

…gone.

o…o…o

Each night taking them farther into the valley. The forest. The cliffs and the river. He knew them so well, as though he'd spent a lifetime exploring them. Small mysteries in every moment. His eye always on the moon, able to tell her to the minute how long before they needed to go back. Wary of her hunger, so that he'd caught a hare before she could confess to it. His blade darting so quickly that she could drink without a mark on her hands. An ease in his voice. More often when they were alone. When he lost himself in explaining something, whether a concept or a passage from the books they now both shared.

And she would listen.

She would wrap herself in a cocoon of emotion and just listen, unable to feel what she wanted. Unable to even dream it. Her scent something she guarded, even with the advantage of being a vampire. A fact she had not known for some years until Rena had started teaching her to mask herself. The scent of a vampire not always as clear in its emotions as that of another lycan. Not a finely-tuned science, as he had told her once. She often wondered if therein lay the intrigue. But whether a vampire or lycan, a scent was still a scent…

…so she would break the spell before she could feel it. She would say something curt. Or cold. Her remarks, the briskness in her tone, always a saving grace for he could no longer see past them. As though she were an ancient creature tied to his wrist, still wild, but no longer capable of taking an eye if he made a wrong move. Arrogant in his belief that eleven years had made the difference when she'd already lost herself in that cave all those years ago. A memory of a dream within a dream now.

And every night making it worse for how well they knew each other. Worse for what she had become to him... Reinette of the rock. Not enticing. Not intriguing.

Reliable.

He could trust that she would take no offence if he tracked dirt on her carpets or commandeered half of her sitting room floor for two weeks while they re-wired his study.

In the years since Midsummer, he could rely on receiving at the very least a 'yes' or a 'no' from Reinette in response to any message sent to Sabine, provided he was willing to go through the process of dropping a note on her desk, a designated neutral zone in the on-going war. The pile on the right holding his messages and the pile on the left, Sabine's responses, most of which had been ripped up and in some cases, burnt with a cigarette.

She never commented on his fourth brandy, and on the rare occasion that he'd been up since dawn, he could expect her to answer such enigmatic questions as 'lanterns or wreaths' with little more than a three second pause to make her choice. If questioned about why she made said choice, she would explain with little expression that he'd chosen wreaths the last time, therefore it made sense to keep the playing field balanced.

But it was a careful world in which they lived. Every hour of every day filled with a specific task designed to keep him from…whatever it was that caused his melancholy. Breakfast after sundown. A long walk at ten, usually ending by half past eleven. The most dangerous hour occurring at midnight, a time he typically spent working in his forge or study, depending upon his mood. This followed by supper, after which his choice to lounge in her private sitting room for twenty minutes, fidgeting with the placement of her furniture and eyeing the windows, usually prompted her to put her riding habit on. Dinner at four and once she managed to shift him out of her quarters before sunrise, a few hours reading in privacy.

The first thing to rock their quiet complacency occurring in the fall of 1911. The question of his earthly origin one that she had long-since given up on, but which inadvertently dropped into her lap just over twelve years from the day that she met him. It was the fourth night in a row when he'd gone to his forge right after breakfast, the years since he'd last worked on his…weapon contraption or whatever he was willing to call it…proving itself too exhilarating to warrant interruption.

And to be clear, she had not intended to find out. Certainly not on purpose. But one could not live in a household for eleven years without having a certain advantage. For example, if an hour of every evening was spent in the same library for said number of years, according to common knowledge—or at the very least, Rena whose skill for exaggeration was severely lacking—one's scent began to coalesce with the room.

Therefore, if one wanted to avoid the notice of certain parties, typically of the female persuasion, it paid to take a turn about the room daily to re-establish the scent, after which she could choose any one of the eight curtained recesses of the upstairs landing and fail to be noticed.

It was for this reason that on the twelfth of October, at a quarter past ten, Reinette found herself seated in the farthest of the upstairs recesses of the Oppenheim library. In addition to its proximity to a window—one that thankfully had never been broken—it placed her directly above the east-facing doors, therefore giving her enough warning when guests decided to wander the house.

The sound of said doors opening six metres below her seat causing her to shift her legs up and out of the way with a practiced motion. No longer keen to be seen, but quite capable of seeing intruders (or guests as they were commonly known) crossing the parquet floors. Her mind immediately on its guard for though her skills in scent-masking were increasing, she still needed to take special care when it came to certain parties.

Like swans gliding across water, Freyja and her bevy of married chaperones seeking the catalogue in the centre of the room. Each silhouette soft, yet pallid in comparison to the fire that led them. Beautiful Freyja whose neck could be a shrine for all the times men had laid ivory at her feet. Her knowledge of lycan culture having finally solved the mystery of why Jacqueline had been so furious about Lucian's comb so many years ago.

Such a foolish thing.

The mystery of why he had not wanted it back holding a further touch of foolishness, for to return the token freely would have been a sign of acceptance. As though their culture had been formed in a time when food was scarce and a she-wolf with a hidden cache of ivory was considered a fine catch for the discerning lycan.

The eighteenth century adding a layer of gentility upon the whole affair, so that post-enlightenment, it became a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of good ivory would rather be drawn and quartered than wear it publicly without a husband. A famed etiquette book from the next century—procured by Sabine and occasionally read to both her and Rena on long winter nights to much amusement—providing further insight into the practice of mourning knives, as well as the degree of shunning any social pariah ought to receive, depending upon age and rank.

Her desire to drive an ivory blade through Freyja's skull having grown muted in recent years, but the sentiment remaining nonetheless. For it would be Freyja, she realised, watching in silence from her perch. Some day. Whether he knew it or not. The girl was patient, observant, and wise beyond her years. The golden queen they all had been waiting for. And however much he might ignore her presence, every hour spent in Allegra's company was a mark in her favour. Every season spent studying Latin and chess and blood-forsaken needlepoint on horseback for all she knew.

Lucian refusing to read the writing on the wall and by virtue of his denial, opting to treat the girl with a polite callousness that only served to set her apart. The lady he would not insult. The lady he would not bed. The last three months of Allegra visiting with said lady as her guest having given her enough reason to avoid the girl without further encouragement.

The recess growing warm as she waited for them to leave. Keen to turn a page, but wary of lycan ears. Finer than her own so that even her breath was timed to the clock. Unaware that in the course of six minutes, she would find herself in possession of knowledge, which if she was honest with herself, she would prefer not to have had. Knowledge that she could have gone another decade without knowing.

And in the moment, one would expect the secret to out itself in such a setting. And perhaps if it had been Jacqueline, the moment would have occurred as it ought to have—with a circle of foolish ladies prattling in the only place where they could gather, confident in the knowledge that only dead people entered libraries.

But Freyja did not gossip.

She thought before she spoke. She laughed easily, but without malice. And the only reason she had entered the library was because she needed a book. The young lady's choice to continue her studies long past the age when many of her upper-class peers were wed suggesting more than a little intelligence.

And so it was that Freyja found her book. Nodding her thanks in grace to the four women who had taken it in turns to help her find the tome—a book that she could have found with her eyes closed. Gracious enough to allow their company, and like the good queen that she was, patient enough to listen as they professed to have little knowledge of the topic she was studying. And goodness me, Danish, they exclaimed. Are you not already fluent, my dear…

The words were received with a graceful incline of the head. I am, Lady Cavendish, but the Lady Allegra has asked me to choose a new selection for the lycan-master.

Oh yes, of course—he's learning Danish, is he not? the one lady asked. I expect quickly, the other mused. Nothing like a merge to quicken the tongue, another laughed.

All of their innuendoes seeming to glance off her dignity. Like a marble statue whose breath betrayed it for life. Wise enough to appreciate when her elders spoke, but not so foolish as to join in with their laughter. The practice of lycan society leaving any unmarried woman under sixty with very little room for social dominance, regardless of who her father was. But all of them wary of the coming days and therefore cooing like doves alighting upon a chosen deity.

Before one by one, they swept out the door. The exchange expected to some degree, but frustrating nonetheless. Enough that it took another minute before Reinette could safely reveal herself. Practiced now in the art of banishing all feeling; so that soon, with her feet firmly on the ground and her book on her knees, she found herself once again able to focus on that which she could control.

The Principles of Mathematics by Bertrand Russell, published in 1903. Recently acquired from the Oppenheim Library and providing a cover for her to read The War of the Worlds for the fourth time. A night with enough blood-wine having finally led to Lucian affirming, with no apology, that no, she was not paranoid, and that yes, the past eleven years of her life in Oppenheim had been documented by one or more of the sentries. It could be any of them…or all of them…but whoever it was, they reported to the Council. Not that it changed anything. Life was life—if they cared so much about how she conducted herself, they could climb a tree and watch her in the bath.

She turned a page.

Granted his decision to start learning Danish galled her to no end, but in the words of common sense, it was none of her affair. She was indifferent. Unmoved. Perfectly willing to stick her head in the sand so she could suffocate rather than drown under the Northern tide sweeping towards him. The one capable of seeing that Freyja had visited eight times in the past year alone, that Allegra had accompanied her on the last six, and that—perhaps worst of all—Lucian no longer seemed averse to being in a room with the woman.

She mentally scratched out a line. Girl, she decided grimly. Again focusing her thoughts on the present. Breathing the pages of her book and using it to find her inner calm. Refusing to think about the flood that was threatening to unleash itself.

Freyja with her perfect Latin. Freyja who never touched a drop of alcohol. Freyja who was such a 'peaceful influence' on the lycan-master. The chessboard no longer sacrosanct. The library no longer a retreat. Freyja whose thesis had been on 'the diplomatic relations necessary to sustain peace between exiled vampires and the lycans who shelter them.'

Oh, he had liked that one.

Freyja who wished to know her thoughts on 'the plight of vampire women in exile.' Her monosyllabic answers eventually drab enough that even Lucian had rustled his newspaper and suggested she 'make an effort' after the girl had retired for the evening. Freyja who spoke so softly, yet so kindly to all those around her. Wise enough to realise—after spending three years under Allegra's wing—that at least for the time being, the lycan-master did not come without his carpet…

…the thought nearly resulting in a scream if not for the sudden sound of footfalls from the doorway below. Enough warning that she could again throw herself back behind her curtain, holding her breath and pushing herself close towards the wall again. Unaware that she would have been better served by announcing her presence. For in the end, it was not the ladies who revealed the secret.

It was Singe.

Directly below her recess. The door opening and two voices moving swiftly through the area, the speed suggesting they were late for some meeting or another.

"Well, there is only so much I can do, old friend." Their backs were to her, but she could hear the sound of one stacking his books together. "Frankly, it is a waste of my time."

"And where would your time be now if he had not helped you?" It was the gravelly voice of Raze. Perpetually grimacing at the world at large.

"Rotting in Salzburg, no doubt." It was a simple fact according to his tone. The small man seeming to have no patience for guilt when such an emotion precluded logic. "Unfortunately, the timeliness of his rescue has no bearing on his prognosis."

"He's just distracted."

"Distracted?" Singe sniffed, taking his spectacles off briefly for the sake of a rigorous cleaning. "Raze, the man was tied to an execution floor and made to watch his wife burn alive, after which he spent twelve hours conversing with her carcass. I think the word you are looking for is 'psychosis'…"

Raze made a grating sound. "Singe."

"What…" The scientist looked around, using his glasses to address the walls before muttering his displeasure. "…everyone knows."

"So help him."

"Raze, I cannot help someone who does not want to be helped." The spectacles went back on. "In any case, he has given me leave to continue with my experiments, so until he says otherwise, I will do so—"

The rest was lost to her.

Like watching Goliath track his nemesis, the one steadfast in his beliefs and the other following after, his scowl indicating the conversation was far from over as the doors swung shut behind them. And for a moment, she wondered if she'd imagined it all.

Opening the curtain by a crack. Another minute going by as she stared at the wall. At which point, she shook her head, breathed and then shifted sideways, so she could read with the book propped on her knees. Trying to focus on the words. Gripping the sides of the book now. Determined to finish the chapter without any further distraction. Except she no longer had any notion of what page she was on…

She shut the book.

A walk.

That was all she needed. A straight-forward walk. Or a ride even. The thought failing to soothe the knot that had formed in her stomach. Her hands were shaking. A ridiculous reaction, she decided. Picking up the books so she could quickly descend the circular staircase and leave the library to its secrets. Her desire to be back in her room quickening her steps so that before she knew it, she'd opened the library doors and walked directly into...

Raze.

The books tumbled out of her hands.

She looked down and then up. Her heart beating. A flush rising in her cheeks, but the veil masking it. Blood, he had lingered in the corridor. Pride forcing her to meet his eyes. Eyes that had not expected to see her emerging from a room that he thought to be empty. A scowl growing on his face, the polar opposite of Allegra, like a great Oberon about to smite her into the ground for being in the wrong place at the wrong time…

…and suddenly she was back on the ship. Kneeling on a floor, her hands filthy as she scrubbed a dingy rag across the wood. She could smell her own vomit. She could feel the floor starting to creak, the sea heaving back and forth as she watched a monster in his madness. And through all of it, she could hear it. That song—that terrible song—whispering in the back of her head. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning… Raped the daughter, burned her bones.

Covered her flesh with brine.

She left the books.

A/N: Sorry this took so long! The past few months have been very odd. Thank you so much to all who've been reading and reviewing! There have been some lovely comments and questions. I thought about writing answers here, but I worry it'll give too many spoilers... so instead I'll do my best to weave some answers into the upcoming chapters. For now, I'm going to throw myself into editing the next chapter (mostly written) so I can get it posted in a reasonable amount of time. Stay safe everyone!