UPDATE: 4 Sep 2021 - Sorry for the delay! I realise it's been almost a year since I've updated, but fear not...the story is not abandoned. I had a baby in December 2020 and moved houses (what...a...mess...boxes everywhere). So...if you are about to read this chapter and then are wondering "Where's the rest?"...it's on my computer. I am working on it.
Chapter LXXV: Pearls on a Lark
Two hours later.
"No."
"Yes."
She stabbed the scissors into the carpet. "I will…not."
Sabine was completely ignoring her threats. "Reinette, you're wearing it," she said. Still standing in front of her dresser, still putting on red lipstick as though it was far more important than the possibility of being stabbed with scissors. "And before you ask—no, for the last time, it is not 'completely see-through'…"
Liar.
Also to be clear, that was not her question, but for some reason, Sabine was taking her less seriously now that she was lying on a carpet with a bottle in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other.
She'd been happy in her bed. Or at least in control, she thought miserably. Turning onto her side, so she could avoid seeing the dress. Maybe she could make a break for it. Take the veil, cover her hair, and just…stay in her quarters until it grew back.
Or she died.
Sabine capped the lipstick. "Oh for goodness' sake, Reinette, it was a joke."
I am not laughing, she thought, eying the girl with vicious intent. Trying to understand how to she'd gone from having sense to giving Sabine free rein over her appearance. Her inability to remember why sharp objects were not allowed in her quarters causing her to realise just how problematic a situation it would be if they were caught sneaking out of the den.
That same sense of self-preservation prompting her to suggest that perhaps, if they wanted to survive the wrath of a man whose presence in a hallway habitually made servants walk in the other direction, they should just abandon the entire venture. A suggestion which was promptly met by Sabine scoffing in her face and asking if they should also spend the evening immuring themselves behind a wall of self-denial.
Which still would have been safer, she felt like muttering at the child. But Sabine had no concept of safety anymore. Or halting. Rather, it took her less than fifteen minutes to come up with an alternative plan, again forcing her out of bed, sneaking them hallway by hallway to her quarters, sitting her down on a stool…
…and cutting it.
All of it.
Her beautiful…long…dark hair lying on the ground in a chopped-off braid. The sight causing her neck to stiffen, while every silent bone in her body started shrieking.
It was a nightmare.
Or at least a partial nightmare given that she had yet to look in a mirror. Instead, shutting her eyes. Determined to just…bear it. She was a thousand years old…and she'd been bald…and decrepit…
…and it was just hair. Which was an excessively mature way of saying she now felt like a child weeping after her first haircut. And for all the wrong reasons.
No one wore their hair that short. Certainly not since Jacqueline had fallen out of favour. And thanks to twenty-three years of being a fly on the wall, watching the social graces of his den, she could already imagine the consequences of revealing it. The eyes staring at her in judgment. Like they were still living in Victorian times, all the ladies of the den trying to mimic Freyja with her hair…and her dignity…and her 'traditional qualities.'
The thought keeping her eyes shut. Ignoring every snip and slice for twenty minutes. Only knowing it was done when Sabine again kissed her on the top of the head, clapping her hands together as though a masterpiece had been created. Thereby giving her permission to stumble off the stool, go to Sabine's side-table and do what she did best.
Denial…
…and drinking.
Hence the reason Sabine was almost ready, while she was still lying on a carpet, drinking more than enough to sink a ship. And it would have been one thing if they'd been raiding Lyosha's drinks cabinet like in the good old days—but no. This was cheap liquor. Straight from the rat's tail, as he liked to say. That meant she was going to be sick tomorrow.
Sick…
…and naked, she decided grimly, taking another swig from the bottle. Best to make her stand now. She could wipe off the makeup. Cover the hair. And she was not wearing that dress.
Not ever.
"Reinette, we've talked about this." Sabine gently pried the scissors from her hand, replacing it with a golden watch around her wrist. Synchronising the times in case they got separated. It felt odd wearing something on her wrist. Typically, she had her pendant watch—the third now in the long line of pendants he'd given her—but as of three years ago, that officially lived in her undergarments drawer…next to the photograph…and the Count of Monte Cristo…
…and that stupid puzzle.
"Perfect." Completely oblivious to the world she was shaking, Sabine reached behind her, picked up the hanger and held it out. "We leave in fifteen minutes."
She nearly scoffed.
Rena would never have let this happen. The girl's description of climbing out a window, up a drain-pipe, along the turrets, over to an attic window, down a laundry shaft and into the tunnels doing very little to convince her that this…youth…knew what she was talking about when she said an 'enjoyable evening without repercussions.'
The tunnels an obvious source of danger, except according to Sabine, they could thank Lyosha for giving them a free pass. Apparently, after he banned tobacco on the upper floors, everyone—including the guards—started using the same access tunnel for smoking. It was well-ventilated, close to the back of the house, and regularly used for waste removal…
…and because 'everyone who was anyone' knew about it, they ended up changing guards every time someone wanted a smoke. Which meant less time for each guard to scent out their surroundings since they were so busy lighting their cigarettes.
Hence…
…and this was spoken with Sabine clapping her hands again, 'no one would notice her scent.' Then it was just two more levels and they could catch a ride with the next lorry shipment to the docks. But only if they made it there before midnight.
Oh yes.
Sabine had a 'plan.'
Sabine shook the hanger. "You have to trust me, Reinette," she said. Her voice had become exceedingly practical. "See how it makes you feel, and if you're really uncomfortable, we can find something else."
From where exactly, thought Reinette, stubbornly refusing to take it. All the other options were in a heap on the bed, discarded for a medley of reasons that she now understood after twenty-three years of judging the child for being too picky. Too many feathers. Too much colour. Not enough fabric…
…at least the others had looked like dresses, she thought bitterly. This one looked like an undergarment. The kind of thing a 'coven-walker' would wear. Or a reckless juvenile. The nausea starting to build as she heard her own thoughts. Sabine was right: she was starting to sound like him.
Before she could take another swig from the bottle, Sabine abruptly wrestled it out of her hands, took her by the shoulders and forced her to sit up. "Now come on, Reinette," she said. Her next words officially setting fire to any doubts she might have about the girl being related to him. "Shoulders back and eyes front. We either leave in ten minutes or you can spend the rest of your life on this carpet."
No.
She shook her head.
Not a carpet, she thought…
…and then with a groan, she rolled off the floor, snatched the dress and headed for the bathroom. Not a carpet, she told herself again, viciously shutting the door behind her. Effectively trapping herself inside a rubbish dump of old makeup and discarded hair accessories. Starting to unbutton everything. She looked like a matron. Buttons up to her neck, buttons down to her waist. Everything was hidden…
…and thick.
Her woollen stockings rolled down and kicked off, replaced by a pair of knickers, the silk stockings, and the garters Sabine had put on the hanger. Now searching unsuccessfully for something sensibly thick to wear under the top half of the dress.
There was nothing.
She held up the dress in disdain…and then turned to look at the mirror with the garment pressed against her front. Ready to pass judgment, prepared to throw her hands up and explain to Sabine that it was a disaster…
…only to stop.
The mirror.
Blood.
She looked quite…
…naked. Not that she'd been avoiding the sight, but it certainly appeared…different from her usual attire. Allegra's annual shipment of clothing having become inexplicably thicker—and surprisingly dowdy—over the past three years, possibly for the sake of Scottish weather.
And then she cringed.
So used to dressing herself quickly that she could often go months without thinking about it. But it was still there. The H on her side. Open to the world, though Sabine had assured her it would be covered by the side-panels of the dress.
And no way to know without checking, she thought, bleakly holding the dress up again. Biting the bullet and finally slipping the garment on. Her first instinct to adjust everything before she looked. Aligning the shoulder straps. Smoothing the drop-waist down, and only then, daring to look again in the mirror. The urge to giggle suddenly rampant in her throat.
It was shocking.
The beads getting thinner as they moved up, as though she'd been doused in black pearls. The tip of each breast almost visible in the light…and the back completely missing above the curve of her waist. No wonder they'd skipped the upper half. She leaned forward…and then went a step further, touching her hair.
Sabine had been merciless with the cut. The ends just above her chin, framing a face that was as unfamiliar to her as the dress. Her lashes seemed...longer…and her lips were red. The same shade Sabine was wearing. Something Allegra had habitually worn for decades whenever she visited, regardless of public opinion; yet she could not…connect herself with the face staring back at her.
It felt like another mask…
…another veil for that creature hiding beneath her exterior. The whole experience making her feel unsure of herself. No longer able to tell who she was. Like she was standing on that precipice again.
She heard the door open. Sabine as usual having no sense of space or modesty. But there was an air of pride in the girl's expression as she held back for a moment and then smiled. A smile that reminded her of early days. Reaching for her shoulders. Holding onto her as they looked into the mirror together.
"I knew you'd be a lark," the girl said. Turning her to the side and digging in one of the drawers for a final touch. "We just need a small reminder to your voyeurs that you have more than two reasons for them to look down when they should be looking up."
Pearls.
They were cold on her neck. Long enough to reach her waist, but arranged in a simple knot, therefore drawing the eye down to her…
Oh.
They looked a lot smaller now that she was standing next to Sabine, she realised, surveying her chest with some misgiving. Two decades of listening to Sabine and Allegra go on about bust-shaping having given her the general sense that regardless of one's natural assets, it was only proper to spend time disapproving of them. Not to mention the number of breasts she'd seen sketched on the back of Horde paperwork…
…which in theory might be a vote in her favour considering the assortment. For despite having little sense of the quantity of breasts a single woman could carry, he did tend to have a rather open view of all the types of breasts worth sketching. The unfortunate suggestion being that he'd seen them all.
She shook her head.
Enough.
Sabine was right. She was spending far too much time worrying about what he thought. It was her body, her hair, and these were her breasts, regardless of their size. And she no longer gave a rat's tail whether he approved of them or not.
Sabine held out the shoes.
"Ready?"
It was that same look. The grey eyes offering her a gift that she was likely going to regret. But it was full of that which she craved.
Youth.
She took them. "Yes."
o…o...o
But she was not ready.
The evening passing like a whirlwind. The night filled with catcalls and whistles after they arrived at the docks. Sabine leading her to a steel door at the side of one of the warehouses. A couple of gargantuan men playing cards, barely glancing up as everyone waited to be let in the door. Both of them giving Sabine a nod, allowing them to pass with no questions as though she was one of them. A regular. Known to them all by name or sight.
It was her world.
The door giving way to a raucous tableau. A jazz band playing loud blaring music on a red-lit stage surrounded by dancers. Drunken creatures looking for more than just a good time, while she stood frozen by the sight. Shocked. Dazzled…until a hand suddenly moved up her dress. Her instincts quick enough that the assailant's jaw was severely regretting having touched her before it could go any further.
It was the first clue that her evening might not be as she'd imagined it. The second, the sound of Sabine laughing as though it were all part of a grand adventure. The child quickly drawing her over to the bar before it could escalate, fixing them drinks…and then leading her over to where the other exiles were. Nameless creatures of her own kind sizing her up…
…and mingling.
Lycans and exiled vampires in the same underground bar. No one seeming to care who she was or where she'd come from. Only a few of their number asking questions about why they'd never seen her before until the others chided them for being too forward. The rule of thumb being drinks and dancing.
The drinks flowing faster until the night was starting to stretch. Until she realised most of the exiles had gone and Sabine was passed out on a table. The sun about to rise in three hours. The realisation that come morning, she would be stuck in an abandoned warehouse with no idea how to get back. Her stockings torn and her dress starting to feel like a very poor decision now that both their coats had been stolen.
In the end, she had help.
"You're who?"
She leaned up again, this time hissing her name in his ear. She'd spotted him smoking by the bar. McNally. One of the older lycans who used to guard her in the library. He seemed to be a regular in Lucian's den…although for some reason, he habitually seemed to be in the cross-hairs of the lycan-master's wrath. Or irritation. Or whatever it was that made his jaw tighten every time the lycan delivered a message to the upper-levels of the den. Blood knew what he was doing there, but at least he would recognise her…
…though it took him a very long time to do so. How drunk he had to be she had no idea, but in the end, he stepped back, looked her up and down and then started to laugh. With the dim-witted manner of an aurochs, he prodded her shoulder as though checking if she was real. "You're lying…"
"No," she said. "I am not."
And neither was she in the mood to spend her morning in an ash-tray. Her next tactic to quietly ask him what he thought a certain someone would do if he were to find out any of them had been near the docks, let alone that close to sunrise.
That stopped him laughing. His nose good enough to find them a lorry ride back to the den, but his drunken legs only able to take them so fast once they got there. The tunnels starting to get warmer by the time he left them close to the upper levels. Years of watching the guards giving her enough sense of when to walk…and when to hold back.
But her skin threatening to smoke by the time they reached the right corridor. Adrenaline giving her enough speed to leave Sabine in her bedroom and then sprint to her own quarters. Slamming the door shut behind her before anyone could see. Only then sinking to the carpet. Exhausted, overwhelmed, and full…of…far…too much…liquor. Crawling into her bed…
…and finally allowing the laughter to take her as she fell asleep. The den starting to wake and all of them assuming she was precisely where she was supposed to be.
On her carpet.
Except she was a lark…
…and no one was the wiser.
o…o...o
Fourteen hours later.
She'd thrown up twice in bed…and though the nausea was by-and-large gone, her need to eat now outweighed her need to die. The unfortunate nature of Rena's transfer meaning that she could no longer expect a lovely breakfast tray in bed. So after scrubbing the majority of the foul off her face and splashing some cold water on her armpits, she shrugged on one of the old mourning dresses and managed to stumble to the dining hall in time for the evening buffet.
Ignoring at least two gasps and at least one lady whose hand had pressed itself against her chest in shock, she idled past them, aiming for the sideboard. Determined now to explore whether she could pour a glass of blood without spilling.
A few seconds of trying different techniques finally prompting the senior valet to step forward. Langley or whatever his name was. The young man carefully secured a new glass from the sideboard, poured out her breakfast…and then very carefully handed her the glass again, ducking his head once before stepping back. "Ma'am."
Success.
She took her seat.
"Evening," she managed.
Lyosha had stopped reading his newspaper. Point of fact, not only had he stopped, but he was making no bones about staring at her over his plate. He said nothing, but she could feel not just his, but the eyes of several people boring into her back.
A full thirty seconds passing before he spoke, his words barely audible as he leaned forward with an expression that was rapidly becoming dangerous. "What happened there?"
She took a gulp of blood and then wiped her arm against her chin. She had spilled some of it on the front of her dress. "Where?"
Without relinquishing his newspaper, he raised one of his fingers and made an incredibly subtle slicing motion through the air. The pounding in her head giving her very little to go on until she caught sight of herself in the window pane behind him.
Oh.
Her veil was missing.
And…
….oh.
Sabine had cut her hair. And no, there was no styling this time. No perfectly placed part. No pins or charming waves pressed by a hot comb. No, the locks were short…and they were very unruly. The newspaper had not moved. The man waiting for his answer, while the rest of him eyed her like a wolf chewing on something putrid.
Fine.
"I tripped on a pair of shears," she said, putting her glass down. Some of the blood slopped onto the tablecloth.
Usually she would have tried to wipe that.
Not today.
"Shears," he repeated. His tone was ominous. The whole dining room was silent.
She nodded. Picking up her glass again, downing it for lack of anything better to do while an entire breakfast table eyed her as if she were Lady Godiva's mount. All the while continuing to meet his stare. And really…after twenty-three years, she could meet that stare all day, she decided. Long hair or short…
…a carpet was always reliable.
He abruptly resumed reading his newspaper. "We have a guest arriving at one—at least two drops. I expect you to be there."
"Then I suppose I'll be there," she said, sitting back and raising her empty glass.
He did not reply.
o…o…o
1:21 a.m.
She was not there.
One of the upstairs servants quietly delivering the bad news, after which he made excuses for twenty minutes, sharing drinks and laughing with a Council envoy, while inside, he wanted to kill something. They'd agreed to meet the following evening—bloods being bloods, and all that. The prospect of having her vision far too enticing for the man to leave without his prize, and the business of numbers to be dealt with as soon as the lady in question was feeling 'tip-top' again.
All the guests gone to bed. The door to his study finally shut and his pen abruptly hurled at the wallpaper, managing to strike one of the horses between the eyes. Reinette was apparently lying on her carpet, passed out without a stitch of clothing on. Normally, he'd have sent someone to force her…
…but Rena was on transfer.
And what the hell had gotten into her, he thought. Cutting her hair like that. Like dealing with a blood-forsaken juvenile. Sabine showing up at the same table twenty minutes later and simply shrugging into her tea when he asked if she knew what the devil was going on with the woman.
He stepped forward, wrenched the pen out of the wall and chucked it on his desk. Sitting back to reflect on whether the smell of cigarettes had been there before or after Reinette had left.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come."
It was Weylan.
Excellent.
He'd managed to get both him and Langley on the roster in the last year. So far, it was a temporary arrangement, but provided there were no issues, it might end up being permanent. Although granted, Sabine was on the wrong side of furious when she found out—apparently, she'd managed to put two and two together over the past decade and realised that Weylan was primarily the reason she'd been banned from every Midsummer celebration since 1907.
"Can we…" He laid things out with a hand. "…put Reinette on a training roster?"
Weylan clasped his hands behind his back and practically clicked his heels together. "No, sir."
Alright…
"Is there…" He considered his wording. "…any chance of giving her something…useful…to occupy her time?"
"Useful, sir?"
"Yes."
Weylan had the look of someone probing an abandoned mine. "Did you have something in mind, sir?"
"No."
"And may I ask what prompted this, sir?"
"Well, the thing is…" He reached forward for his pen, inspecting the point and starting to straighten it again, as he leaned back in his chair. "…a few times a month, we have guests…or envoys…or investors…and she does the visions. And the rest of the time, she just…" He waved the nib aimlessly at the ceiling.
"Does nothing, sir?"
He scratched his neck with the back of the pen.
Not exactly.
As far as he was aware, she still woke shortly after sundown, broke her fast with a teaspoon of marrow on the side, delivered a message twice a week from the downstairs kitchen to his desk, went for a walk until half past eleven, dined on the terrace by herself, read for four hours in the library, and went to bed thirty minutes before sunrise. Although upon reflection, he was having difficulty putting all that into words…
"Struggles, sir?"
"Precisely." He chucked the pen on the table again. The boy had hit the nail on the head. "The lady is 'struggling' with a lack of purpose, particularly of late."
"I see…" Weylan looked towards the ceiling. "…although I must confess to some confusion, sir. The lady always seems occupied whenever I have the pleasure of seeing her. In fact, one could almost say she's in a position now to give me a dose of 'cultural edification' in the library…"
Lucian scratched his forehead…
…and then smiled tightly. "Hence the reason I called you," he murmured, starting to shuffle papers on his desk. Trying not to imagine what that would look like.
"Well, to that end…" As usual, Weylan was able to sense that perhaps he ought to get on with things. "If I may suggest, sir, Miss Jeanne Antoinette has…on occasion…been allowed to deliver various documents that are deemed…trivial. Society dinner menus, upper house rules, daily cleaning schedules, and the like…"
"I am aware."
The boy coughed, quickly moving faster in his explanation. "Uhm…given the terms of the upcoming merge, every month we have a number of guests visiting from the North, sir. And though we do our best to accommodate any differences in language, typically we only have the English version of such documents—"
Not bad.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, turning his pen in an idle circle. "You're suggesting she translate, we get the information down to the printers, and suddenly, the next time someone picks up a menu, we look as if we give a damn about these Northern visits…"
The boy was beaming. "Exactly, sir."
"And how's your Danish?"
"Excellent, sir." The boy had the look of someone about to baste himself in his own sauce. "According to Miss Jeanne Antoinette, I could have been speaking it since birth."
Well, good for fucking you, thought Lucian, writing the directive out. Forcing himself to end the conversation on a high note before he accidentally broke something. "Make it so," he said, handing over the paper. "She can report to you directly—I expect every word to be reviewed by your eye before it gets printed. Anything requiring approval, you can bring by my study."
"Very good, sir."
"Dismissed."
The door shut with a satisfactory click. Excellent. He picked up the pen and placed it in line with all the others. Every one in line, he thought. Tapping the pen with his finger. Determined to keep it precisely where it was…because everything had a place…
…and a purpose. Even Reinette. And then he sat back, watching the pen roll off his desk. Turning to look out the window at the empty grounds, already preparing himself for the onslaught. Blood, but she was going to hate him for this.
o…o…o
Two weeks later.
He was wrong.
Reinette had yet to burst into his study, yet to complain about Weylan, and yet to give him any indication that she was seething. In fact, not only was she not seething, he had the distinct impression that she barely noticed his absence from her schedule. The twice weekly visits to his study no longer occurring, but any sight of her in the hallways suggesting that she'd taken to her new task without complaint and he could go fuck himself if he thought she was slacking.
Weylan had glowing reviews. On time to his office. Excellent documentation. No scent of alcohol on her breath. Hair still short as a stableboy, but it was hardly noticeable now that she'd started wearing her veil again.
In short, she was back on track. And everything—including his peace of mind—was exactly as it should be.
Sublime.
o…o…o
Four months later.
Little did he know that once a week, after dropping off her translations at Weylan's desk, Reinette was now habitually making her way to Sabine's quarters, after which they picked dresses, smoked, drank blood-alcohol, and made their way directly—out a window, up a drain-pipe, along the turrets, over to an attic window, down a laundry shaft, into the tunnels, onto a lorry—to the docks.
All of which would have continued had Sabine not decided, after a particularly drunken night out, that she was going to look herself up in his files. The timing problematic, but the girl convinced that she knew precisely what she was doing, particularly now that the Line meetings were being held on the fourth level instead of the upstairs library…and of course, they both knew how committed he was to his Line meetings.
He'd be gone for 'hours.'
So it was that Reinette found herself pouring a glass of the 'good stuff' from his drinks cabinet, while Sabine giggled over a pile of documents, all of which had been earmarked with her name. Like watching one of her old plays again, only instead of dolls and tin soldiers, there were stable masters and tutors. The girl had an uncanny knack for mocking their voices, all of the countless instructors who'd left their opinion on paper. Language, mathematics, chemistry, cooking, sewing, riding, archery, marksmanship, social graces…
He'd put her through everything…
…and after all that, the overall consensus was that she was a lost cause. Every word, every opinion, suggesting that if his lordship truly wanted his ward to succeed, the lady must be disciplined and removed from this wanton path of self-destruction that would eventually lead to that 'sub-standard lifestyle' most associated with 'degenerates, provocateurs, and reckless individuals.'
They were both giggling by the end of it. The giggles blending with the sound of the door opening, thereby doing very little to warn them of impending danger, despite the both of them…admittedly…being on the far side of tipsy. Reinette turning towards the door and expecting…no, wishing…that if she could turn back time, she'd have locked it, so they could at least have a moment's notice to throw themselves out the window.
Naturally, it was worse than she expected.
Lucian was standing frozen in the doorway. Given the company behind him, it was likely he'd forgotten his papers from the previous Line meeting. A few of them still in hand, but the rest fallen to the ground. He made no move to pick them up. From behind, she could see two of the horde ministers peering past his shoulders. One of them coughing suddenly, while the other diverted his gaze. And behind them all…Raze. Stoic Raze who typically had no reaction to her presence, other than to despise it…but who was now holding a hand to his jaw, massaging it downward, as though even he needed to take a step back from this one.
Sabine had turned to look over her shoulder. Her neck inclining back and in the same instance emitting a throaty laugh that ended with a hiccup. Rather than cringe beneath his gaze, she raised her arms drunkenly and gave a graceful bow to Lucian, letting her coat fall to the ground. At the sight of what was beneath the coat, the glaze across one of his eyes started to twitch. His stare was vicious. The force of that stare soon fastening not on Sabine, but the figure standing behind her. What a coincidence.
Reinette gulped, putting her glass down. "Lyosha, we just…"
He raised two fingers.
She felt her throat dry up. It occurred to her that she was the one holding the bottle. The temptation to look down was overwhelming. She knew what she was wearing. It was worse than the first one. An iridescent, beaded number with less fabric to its name than a scarf. The thought of how little she was wearing starting to haunt her. Sabine's words seeming frightfully childish now. It was the 'twenties.' Everyone dressed like this.
Only…
…not everyone.
Her desire to stand up for the rights of women to walk naked down a hallway starting to quail beneath the weight of possible consequences. From behind, she saw the horde-ministers filing away as Raze began to do what he did best. Stepping past Lucian and bending to the floor to pick up the coat, he wrapped it around Sabine and picked her up. The girl already starting to pass out. Her cigarette quickly doused and the coat and its wearer carried through the doorway and off to the right. Likely towards Sabine's quarters…
…and then directly to a nunnery.
The door shut.
As usual, it was her leave-taking that prompted a reaction rather than her presence.
He turned on her. "Reinette, what the hell has gotten into you?"
Oh perfect.
"You think this is my fault?"
He was whispering. "I think she was wearing clothes the last time I saw her."
She started pouring herself another drink. "A dress is an item of clothing, Lyosha."
He gave a mirthless laugh. "That was not a dress, Reinette…" He was shaking his head. Confident in his appraisal of the word as he bent down, picking up the papers and shuffling them into a stack. "…that was a…a thread wishing it was an undergarment."
She sighed, putting the bottle down. "I thought lycans were comfortable walking around in the nude."
His voice turned from a whisper into a hiss. "Within reason."
"The girl is thirty…three…"
"…and when she's sixty, she'll get a vote."
"Not nineteen?"
"Oh, that is a low blow," he muttered, as though she were failing on account of a poor insult. Stalking around her to his desk. Flipping through the scattered pages, cursing beneath his breath and then finding his point again. Thwacking the folder against his palm. "You helped her break into my files?"
"No, she helped herself, thank you very much."
He was still refusing to engage with the topic; instead starting to organise his desk again, as though papers could help him avoid strangling her. "Reinette, you had no right."
"After two decades?" It was the first proper conversation they'd had in years, and he was haranguing her for knowing more about his ward than he did. "Lyosha, she is a grown woman…and you're still treating her like she's a blood-forsaken Ming Dynasty tea bowl."
He opened his mouth…and then shut it, narrowing an eye at her before finding his voice. "Why are you bringing my tea bowl into this?"
Oh for blood's sake, yes, I know about your tea bowl, she thought with a roll of the eyes. Too wise to push the matter, so instead, pointing at the pages he was holding. "Have you even read any of those files?"
He was now scowling at his side-cabinet. "Of course I've read them."
"None of them seem to have any idea what's she been through…" She raised her hands. "…and yes, I am aware that it was my fault. And I regret that my actions put her in that position, but there comes a point when someone has to pick up the pieces, for bloods' sake…"
"Look, we have…" He was struggling to come up with the word. "…specialists for that kind of thing…"
Specialists?
She could feel her mouth falling open. "Do you know how many times she used to ask me if I'd mind peeling the red apples in the garden because they reminded her so much of faces?"
He stabbed a finger against the desk. "Reinette, this is none of your affair."
"Then whose affair is it?" She'd been drinking enough that she no longer gave a damn if he was telling her to be quiet. "You barely talk to her."
"She stopped talking to me."
"Then fix it."
"How," he snapped. Not quite looking at her as he abruptly sat down and dropped the folder back where he'd found it. Brooding at the pile as though every report on Sabine was another sign of his failure. Like he was on the point of just…
…giving up.
The lack of retort pushing her off-balance. She'd been expecting sarcasm. Excuses. But he had failed. He knew it…and she knew it. However it had happened…whatever he'd said or done, he'd lost her…and he had no idea how to get her back. To the point that she was now…feeling…ever so slightly like she'd been throwing rocks at a drowning horse. Not the position she'd expected to be in at the end of the night. The guilt causing her to glance behind her at the door handle. Raze was probably going to kick her out at any moment…
…but she gave into the urge. Taking a seat in her old chair. Her veil missing, but her comfort restored for perhaps the first time in three years. As though he was seeing her as he used to. Not the youthful exterior that seemed to rub him the wrong way, but…someone to be trusted. And blood, after twenty-three years, the least she could do was ask. The thought finally prompting her to say it…
"Lyosha, who is she to you?"
He scoffed lightly, glancing up at her as though he was surprised to hear the question. Possibly even remembering something that was far more amusing to him than it was to her. "I told you already," he said, picking up his pen again and starting to fiddle with it.
What, she thought.
Confused…
…and then she squinted. "When?"
Rather than chucking, he placed the pen on his desk. "Sixteen years ago."
"Sixteen?"
He nodded. "Years."
Really, she thought. Sitting back, trying to remember exactly what happened sixteen years ago. It was like wading through a fog of immortality—all their days vastly alike now that they were both atrophying into the unchanging walls of a domestic household.
Unless he meant…
"Midsummer?"
He made an uncharacteristic sound of approval. Already looking for other things to fiddle with, but willing to give her that much of his opinion, as though her ability to wade through the fog was impressive even to him.
"Was that the year when…"
"Yes."
Oh.
"You told me then?"
"I did."
"Why?"
He exhaled. "In my defence, I'd just finished a drinking stint with Weylan, so I thought you were coherent," he said, meeting her eye pointedly…and then reaching for the pen again, starting to roll it between his thumbs.
It was all starting to sound familiar, but it was like…hearsay. "Did I say anything?"
"Oh yes," he said, nodding slowly as though an entire book could have been written on the details of that night, but as usual, refusing to give more than the bare minimum in his answers.
She frowned. "What did I say?"
He eyed her with some reluctance, obviously keen to avoid giving her any sense that he might be in a forgiving mood. But then he let go, actually taking a moment to think back before pointing his pen at the light fixture. "As I recall," he said. "…you wanted me to leave so you could spend more time with your ceiling rose."
Her ceiling rose.
She'd forgotten about that.
The idea of it making her wistful, feeling some of the nostalgia coming back to her. "I loved that ceiling rose."
"I know you did," he said, his tone suggesting he'd long since accepted that she'd likely have saved the ceiling rose before him in the event of a fire. And yet reflecting on the knowledge with a rueful smile. Blood, but it had been ages since he'd done that, she realised. Wishing they could go back to it, those lovely years in Oppenheim.
"What if you tell me again?"
He shrugged, looking over at the window now. "I'll think on it."
"That could take years."
"Or decades."
She sighed.
He was not going to tell her.
Not twice.
"You could always ask her, you know." He'd turned back from the view, leaning his head back on his hands. "…she'd probably tell you."
"I suppose," she said. Picking up her glass again. "…but it never seems the right time to bring it up."
He snorted. "You certainly had no trouble bringing it up with me."
"Your skin is thicker."
"Is it?" He'd found his stride again. The sarcasm starting to bleed from the edges. "Maybe that's the problem—maybe my skin is so thick that anyone who tries to get close to me ends up being suffocated…"
She sat back. "I wasn't saying that."
"There's no need to say it, Reinette—I've spent several hundred years thinking it," he said carelessly. The pen got chucked back onto the desk…again. "And to be clear…" His eye hardened. "…this conversation changes nothing about the next six months of your life."
Oh…
….fuck.
She felt a weight drop.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a blank sheet and started writing. "Due to this incident, Rena is being called back early from her transfer. When she arrives, you can explain to her why she is no longer on leave…and how regretful you are that you spent this evening signing your own restriction papers. Is that understood?"
"Because of a dress?"
"No—not because of a dress." He sounded simultaneously disappointed and elated to be the bearer of bad news. "Honestly, if you are so keen to live in a modern world, Reinette, far be it from me to stop you."
He pulled out an envelope.
"No, the reason for your confinement—that is, the reason that you are going to be in your quarters under guard for the next six months—is your scent." And then he smiled. Far too warmly. "Suffice it to say, you smell like the docks. Which on any other occasion, I might have deemed impossible considering the distance you'd have to travel in order to get there."
She swallowed.
He knew.
He leaned forward. "And believe me, Reinette—I will find out how you got there." The smile had evaporated. He was sounding extremely precise about his logic. "You see every scent-marker…has a source…and eventually, someone is going to explain to me why you have engine oil on your fingers, why you reek of cheap liquor, and why your dress smells like…" And at this, he sniffed the air as though dissecting it and then sat back, staring at her with mild disgust. "…William…McNally, I'd venture to say. "
Shit.
McNally.
They were fucked, she realised. For though the lycan had become a regular on their jaunts, he could officially be categorised as a boot-licker…and she'd worn his coat back on the lorry…which meant they could trace all of them back to the lorry, she realised. In short, everyone in that underground paradise was about to be shut down harder than nails on an Elder's coffin. And by the sound of it, he'd probably get the entire thing done before the next evening.
He placed the missive in the envelope. "You can deliver this to Weylan now," he said, holding it out.
It was far worse than staring at him across a breakfast table. For the first time, giving her some sense of what it was like to be on the receiving end of every telling off Sabine had received in his study. A sense that told her to leave his study…now…before he changed his mind and made things more difficult for her…
…and he was not joking, she realised. Putting her glass down, she stared at the envelope, weighed it against her dignity…and then snatched it quickly, leaving the study faster than she would have liked. Tempted to head off to her quarters and burn the stupid thing…and then resigning herself to the facts of life as she turned left. Off to literally go and sign her own restriction papers in the office of Weylan Jones.
So much for being a lark, she thought grimly.
o…o…o
Two hours later.
The sun was rising…
Despite popular opinion, he was still in his study. The presence of heat on his back causing him to reflect on what the hell he was still doing there. Eventually forced to concede that he might have accidentally started the morning shift when the clock struck the hour and the door opened, revealing the shadow of Raze across his desk. The man staying true to form, merely raising an eye at the fact that he was still awake…
…and then taking a seat beside the one Reinette had just vacated. Looking at it and contemplating. The sensation of being so clearly scented out causing him to speak before Raze could get further than the initial scent-markers.
"Sabine?"
"Sleeping it off."
He nodded.
Good, he thought. Continuing to write and determining to keep the upper hand over the next twenty minutes. It was not unusual for him to be there once in a while. In fact, for all Raze knew, he was thinking about Line missives. Neither of them quite in a position to deal with Sabine at that moment, hence the reason he continued working, while Raze began drafting a letter to Allegra so they could discuss precisely what the next steps would be for handling her punishment. The problem being that they were running out of ideas.
Still...
...no way but forward.
The docks something he would deal with during the next Line meeting, provided he had time to catch up with the previous minutes. So it was that they sat like that. Raze taking the higher ground of silence, while he ignored his audience. Organising the remaining pages that he'd left on the floor. Reading another missive. Passing some pages over to Raze so he could sign them. Filling out some more paperwork. The issue being that twenty minutes was really all that Raze needed.
"Your scent needs work."
"Thank you, Raze—I am aware of that," he said, picking up another missive and starting to read it without looking up. Trust Raze to deliver a message in four words when Allegra would have used twenty, he thought.
And that was it.
There was nothing else to be said. He had two months until the next official bi-annual visit from Freyja, Gottfrid, and a host of diplomats, the only time of year when someone over the age of six hundred would be present in his household for an extended period of time, and therefore two months, to get his scent in order. Simple. The other point going unspoken…because there was absolutely…nothing…to say about it.
The silence continuing until he heard the lycan get up and close the door behind him again. While he continued to work, determined now to finish the damned morning shift. It was exactly what was expected of a lycan-master. And that was precisely what he was...
...a lycan-master.
Not some random foot soldier who could just throw caution to the wind and start living in Exile's Quarter. He carried weight…and power…and regardless of his thoughts on the diplomatic expectations of his Council, he was doing the right thing, keeping his distance, and not thinking about it.
Six hundred years of getting his Horde to favour exiles, and the last thing he wanted to do was fuck with his political climate, he decided. Refusing to think about the thing that was not an option. Not politically, not historically…not even metaphorically. Instead, switching from reading Line missives to organising the household accounts because why the fuck not…
…until it became clear that he was now drawing on the back of his weekly schedule. Realising the error of his ways and abruptly crumpling the pages before throwing them into the fire. Not an option, he thought again. Stalking to his side-cabinet to retrieve his Ming Dynasty tea bowl.
He plunked it down in the centre of his desk, put his chin on his hands…and began to meditate. He'd spent years practicing during the war…and therein lay the power of the bowl.
He knew that now.
Counting, meditation, and the occasional shot of heroin that he'd started hoarding in various places that were as yet undiscovered by his keepers. It was the reason he was in control of everything. It kept his scent level, his sleep dreamless, and his hands from shaking. Because at any point, he could just…calm himself with one of the three options. Focusing on the surface. Memorising the pattern. The blues. The whites. The seeds. The flowers. Within moments, he had the power to make himself one with the surface…
…except he was still seeing it. Pearls down her cleavage. Beads over her thighs. Beads along her neck. The dress managing to cling to every curve. Every nuance. He shut his eyes, massaging his forehead. This was not the right idea. The tea bowl. Focus on the tea bowl. Take away the dress…and she was just…plain…
Reinette.
Fuck.
Now he was picturing her naked. If he could just…remember…what she looked like old. Focus on the old…naked…form of Reinette. Because that was…not appealing. Especially now that she was young…and supple…and firm…
…no.
He nearly threw the thing at the wall. Resisting the urge, instead closing his eyes for a count of twelve, taking a breath and focusing on the pattern again. One with the bowl, he thought. The blues. The whites. The seeds. The flowers. Another fifteen minutes of staring at seeds forcing him to confront the simple fact of the matter. The whole thing looked like beads now, he realised. Sitting back in his chair, staring bleakly at his tea bowl, and then shaking his head in disgust before he turned away from it.
It was ruined.
She'd ruined his Ming Dynasty tea bowl.
A/N: Onwards! Many thanks to Codenameyikes (lol poor Rena), CherryBlossomTrinity (Hope all went well with your baby! I'm almost 39 weeks now so I can definitely commiserate. :)), LovingBitch, Books-n-Harleys, Hannah-Brieton65, Wynter Phoenix, Barbara Dias, Maria (I hope your eyes feel better _), DoctorGiggelstheMouse, Sand dan Glokta, Katestarlight25, Tihiroro, and laurencejb974 for the reviews, favourites, follows, and song suggestions! Much appreciated, liked the songs, and thank you to everyone for the baby congratulations and well wishes!
A couple quick answers to some of the questions…
- As to how smutty these scenes will get, all I can say is "we'll seeeee" ;D
- Also Freyja and Lucian are not currently married, however there is an arrangement in place (a.k.a. an engagement) whereby in exchange for the Northeners providing sanctuary for both lycans and exiles during the war, the marriage is set to occur 30 years after the time of signing. (Originally twenty years when Allegra first made the suggestion, but Lucian negotiated it up to thirty because he's difficult.)