Chapter LXXVI: A Veil of Familiarity

Forty-eight hours later.

She wanted to break his Ming Dynasty tea bowl. The clocks in his study. That ridiculous bone folder with its forty-five degree angles. Replaying the destruction in her mind. Imagining his words. His reaction. So that he might actually have a reason for the utter…disdain…with which he'd looked at her. As though she'd corrupted his household with her proclivities.

And yet she was a creature of habit…and as that creature of habit, she did not typically break porcelain. In fact, it seemed reasonable to assume that—once back in her quarters—if she simply removed the offending article, her dress that is, it might somehow transport her back in time. Help her remember why she cared. Why she followed his rules.

How to explain it.

The reason she was spending six months in confinement in a house where she had no free will, thanks to a society that detested her species. At first angry…and then as the first twelve hours had gone by…tired. The truth holding her hostage more than the walls.

She had nowhere else to go.

No idea who she was anymore. A bright young thing flittering in the dark…or an old seer beneath a veil of familiarity. Perhaps a killer. No idea what her hands would do if someone gave her a weapon and a reason to use it.

Why else had the weight dropped when he'd walked in? As though she truly had no recourse, despite being older than him. Possibly even stronger than him. Enough that she'd signed her own restriction papers, dutifully following the rules of a world that did not turn without his say-so.

And perhaps…

…if he'd left her to her own devices, she might have lasted longer than two days. She might have brought out the veil. Found the old mourning dress. Restricted herself to the path he wished her to follow. But it was not in his nature to let things lie when he could simply smother them.

It started with the boxes.

She woke to find them in her sitting room. Not just the chaise lounge, but all her things from Oppenheim. Things she'd not seen in years, assuming he'd destroyed everything. Of course, he'd kept them. Not for their friendship, but for tempting her back in her cage. The oaken frames filled with flowers and herbs. The pressings, the photographs. All of it behind glass…and her reflection refusing to match with what she'd once been.

The discontent growing in spades. Remembering the curious surprise on Weylan's face as he read the wording on her restriction papers. The moment of signing her restriction papers while two clerks gawked at her leaving something to be desired, but the subsequent headache telling her to deal with the feeling later.

Like waking from a dream, her veil back in order, her life back on track, only the strict reality she'd once craved had become a nightmare. She could feel it building inside her. A chasm between her past and present. The walls of her quarters, the lock on her door, the monotony of her evening ritual failing to calm her as it once did. All those nights of frivolity leaving her with a strange hunger.

Her memories suddenly wary that in twenty-three years, the longest imprisonment Sabine had received in her history of debauchery had been six weeks. Not months. Until, staring into her reflection, naked as the day she was born, she realised it: This was not about the docks.

It was the dress…

…and come nightfall, she was literally going to break his Ming Dynasty tea bowl.

o…o…o

Eighteen hours later.

Lucian was in the first floor dining hall, seated across from a wall of mounted stag heads, staring grimly at his breakfast. It was like the cook hated him. Every single tureen filled with…porridge. Not lamb dripping in beef. Fucking porridge. His already tenuous mood turning into something foul when Weylan entered the hall, bowed once and then explained that three guards had been found unconscious. Also the door to Reinette's quarters had been removed from its hinges. The news causing him to fold his already folded paper in half. Tapping a rapidly growing set of nails against the table before picking up a butter knife and proceeding to put it down again.

"When?"

"Twenty minutes ago, sir."

He thumbed his forehead. "And how long until Rena gets here?"

"A week."

Fuck.

o…o…o

Three miles from the house…

She could hear him behind her. Alone, yet on the cusp of being out of breath, a sure sign that he'd not come directly from the breakfast table, but rather had sprinted to the barracks first to stop whatever contingent they were sending after her, so he could take a first crack at the situation. Mostly without breaking a sweat. Her old riding habit—the only thing suitable for her venture—likely carrying enough scent that he could still track her in his sleep. That and he had to know where she'd be walking.

He never came out here. She knew his routine. Every ride. Every walk. But for some reason, never to this beach. His choice to take one of the many shortcuts he must have known, causing him to disappear for a length of time and very abruptly step out twenty paces in front of her. A shadow in the night wearing a herringbone coat. His hair under a corduroy cap, but his beard stubbornly holding onto the previously decade. And yet, it looked perfectly groomed as though he'd meant to come out to a freezing cold beach in a three piece suit with a pocket square worth more than her entire wardrobe.

His hands up.

"Reinette." His boots had to be wet by now. At least that was some consolation. He'd left too quickly to change into the right footwear for their surroundings. "Wait."

"Fuck…you."

"Can we at least talk about this?"

She furiously kept walking. "No."

"How is this constructive," he called after her. Waiting for a reply that did not come. Of course it did not stop him.

"You know, for the record, we are once again in the middle of fucking nowhere," he reflected. "...so if you're planning to leave…"

"I am not leaving—I am going for a walk," she yelled behind her. And then gestured at the rocks. "I am walking."

"Reinette, you're not supposed to be…" He was trying to keep up. "…can you fucking stop?"

"What are you going to do…shoot me?"

"That was one time."

She was halfway down the dunes now, determined to make it to the water. She was going to throw it off the cliff. His stupid Ming Dynasty tea bowl. Twenty-three years of watching him have an affair with a fucking piece of porcelain. It took him about the same stretch of sand to notice what she was carrying. His expression suddenly on guard as though he were finally seeing a problem worthy of his notice.

"Is that my tea bowl?"

Oh, you fucker.

She turned. "It was the dress," she said, pointing viciously at his face. Wishing she could choke him with the veil she was wearing.

And it was like she'd hit him with a stone. The accusation landing squarely on its target, forcing him to step back. Think on his feet. Even swathed in shadow, she could see him chewing on it. Whether to lie. How to lie. His hand going to his jaw, scrubbing it…as though he'd been forced to eat something rancid. Looking away…

…and then daring to say it.

"Yes."

With a growl, she shoved him back with a hand. "Hypocrite!"

He stumbled back. "Reinette, wait…"

"How dare you judge me!"

Rather than back away, he caught himself, raising his hands again. "It was…look, I just was not…ready…"

"You have been treating me like a stranger. Ever since all of…" She gestured angrily at herself. "…this happened."

"I know."

"Blaming me for it," she said in disgust.

"I am not blaming you…"

"All because it was Kolya who healed me." She was yelling at him. Shoving him back again. "Not you—and now the moment I show a modicum…" She hit him. "…of enjoyment, even the possibility…" She was practically kicking the beach. "…of a life not controlled by your rules, you shut me out!"

For a man who made it a rule to know everything, he looked astounded by her accusation. Catching her wrist at the last blow, stopping it from landing. His eyes starting to reflect.

"Shut you out?" As though he could possibly be questioning his place on the wrong side of their history. "Reinette, you have been getting more and more distant with each passing year…"

"You sold me to another den," she spat. His fingers warm on her wrist, so incredibly warm. "… and you're wondering why I'm distant?"

"I had…no…choice."

Neither did she.

She wrenched her wrist out of his hand. Hissing at him once beneath the veil before she turned her back on him. Once again, seeking out the cliff. The bowl still held in her arms, the grace that youth afforded letting her spew hatred upon another while balancing porcelain between her fingertips. His steps still behind her.

Always behind her.

"You know, I saw the sky three times during the war," he called after her. Using his thumb to wipe the scratch she'd left on his arm. "And as soon as I could, I came for you in the North." He was taking his coat off. His boots. "Every year, I came for you, Reinette…and what did you do?" She could see his shadow. The man raising his arms, resting his case in the pool of acid that was his voice. "You picked Denmark."

She started the climb, the bowl secured in one of the inummerable pockets Allegra had sewn into her clothes. "It was easier."

"It was fucking Denmark," he snapped from below. Matching her path, only four feet to her right. "And then you stopped talking to me for three years…"

She felt her spine stiffen more than usual. "I still talked to you."

"Oh, you mean the sixteen words you managed to muster, between hellos and goodbyes."

"Tell me you were not counting."

"Of course I was counting," he grunted, pausing mid-climb to stare at her as though he could beseech her to see the insanity. "We'd sit there…and you'd fuck around with the fire for eighteen minutes and then read."

It needed stoking, she thought stubbornly. Continuing the climb without stopping. But it was like the fire had gone out. Both of them climbing up the side of the cliff. Her fingers knowing their way, as though the vertical rock was simply another hill to be mounted.

Until they reached the top.

She first…and then him.

The man pulling himself onto the flat, his shirt no longer pristine. Bits of sand caught in his hair. Forced to pause and catch his breath before he rolled off his back, looking out on the horizon "You know, the last time I was up here…" He touched the rock. "…you were dead. And I was…so angry with you."

"I was not dead," she muttered practically, brushing off her skirt. Now searching for the perfect point from which to throw his bowl. For she was still going to throw it.

"You were dead," he said again. Eyes intent on the water, but his hand still on the rock. Like it was an altar. "For two hours and twenty-six minutes, you were dead, Reinette." Every word seeming to sap him, like he'd been holding them in for so long, they'd become a part of his blood. "…and after you were…back…" He was trying to find a word for it. "…I felt like you…like I…had lost something."

She nearly scoffed.

She knew what he was doing. It was a play. But kind words from a wolf would not stop her from hurling a porcelain bowl into the water from sixty feet above. And yet in the dark, with neither of them turning around, it was easier to hear his words. Easier for them to live in the shadows. Enough that she found herself answering his call. "For bloods' sake, I am still here, Lyosha."

"I know you are," he said. Refusing to look at her. Focusing on the horizon, the sand, the dunes, anything but her face. And then so abruptly, they were there. The grey eyes of the storm finding their harbour…

…and a truth coming out. The two of them alone and for once, the great lycan-master able to say his peace without the world listening. "Do you remember when I told you there was an arrangement?"

Blood, he was going to prolong this, she realised. The man using every trick up his sleeve to save his precious bowl. But again, how easy it was to go along with it. Seating herself across from him with the tea bowl nestled on her skirt.

"I do."

"At the time, a majority of my Council was refusing to evacuate Exiles' Quarter," he said. "…and we knew the war was coming."

Refusing…

How easy it was to mask the proposed slaughter of those who could not be left behind nor taken. She could easily imagine what would have happened. How many lives would have been lost in the sun that day.

"But you got them out."

"I did—but the North wanted collateral before they would open the pass to exiles."

She was not understanding. "Collateral?"

He nodded.

And she feared.

"What did they want?"

"You among other things."

Permanently.

She felt sick. "And what was your answer?"

"No, of course." He was staring at the stars above them now. "But I signed over everything else."

"Meaning?"

"The funds for my war." It was the tone of a man who was dead sober. "As long as Freyja remains in the picture, I receive all funds, plus interest and the entirety of her substantial dowry in thirty years…but if I do not stick to the terms of the arrangement, it stays in the North."

Foolish man.

Always another gamble.

She stood up, taking the bowl with her. Looking out on the water as well now. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about how much it would be worth in thirty years," he said. He made no mention of the exiles. The lives he'd saved. "A fortune to end the war."

"So marry her."

"I'm going to."

"Good."

His voice had gone unnaturally soft. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do."

The girl was a good fit for him, she decided. Wrapping the thought and her arms around her own waist. Until it became a scent holding her like a lover.

"Because sometimes I can't tell."

"Are you saying I'm hard to read?"

"Always."

He'd said it with a scoff. Sitting forward to swipe one of the rushes and tap it against the rock. "In any case, everyone thinks I'm going to fuck this up."

"Why?"

"Because they all think we're fucking."

"We're not fucking."

"I know." He scuffed his boot on the rocks. "They gave me a list of people I can fuck over the next thirty years…and you are definitely not on it."

"A list?"

He nodded grandiosely. "I have a list."

Blood stop her from asking…

…or not.

The veil keeping her expression somewhat masked as she idly dropped the words. "Who's on the list?"

"I feel like that's private information," he said with a lazy scoff. "Although if you're planning to apply, I can put in a good word with the North if you like."

"Oh for bloods' sake, Lyosha," she said sensibly. As though he were being foolish. And he was. Sabine was right—she'd had enough of throwing herself after the whims of someone so wrapped in his own affairs. "I doubt anyone wishes to be on your list. I simply wish to know precisely whom I'll be sitting across from over the coming years." Because of course, she was not jealous, she decided. The thought causing her to glance over her shoulder at him. "Assuming I get to sit at your table again?"

He laughed. "Yes," he said. "You are back at the table, Reinette." He was still eyeing the bowl. Wary that she had yet to relinquish it. His next words meant to act as a salve. "Look, I may have…pushed things too far for the sake of appearances. I just thought it would make it simpler if I kept my distance."

"By locking me up for six months?"

"I'm sorry."

"For wearing a dress?"

"Yes," he grimaced, scrubbing his eyes. "I locked you up for six months for wearing a dress." His tone seemed to question whether she was happy now. "It was wrong. The docks stay closed, everyone involved will face consequences …but I will change your restriction to twelve weeks."

"Six."

"Ten."

She nodded begrudgingly.

"Are we good?"

"Yes."

He breathed out.

And then glanced up. "May I have my tea bowl back please?"

She handed it back.

Fucker.

And then she took her seat again, her place beside him restored, but the chasm between them as far as it had ever been. No longer sure now if she could remove it. The veil. The shadow that put him at ease in her company. Taking the opportunity before she lost it again.

"Lyosha?"

"Reinette."

"Who is Sabine?"

He put the bowl between them and leaned back, looking out on the view. "My grand-daughter."

"Her parents?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry."

"I never knew her."

Her.

His daughter.

He said nothing after that. Not moving either…which meant they still had time. And so they sat for the last hour before they had to return. Like they used to in the days of Oppenheim. Only she could hear the difference now. The way his lungs were fighting against the night air. So much worse since the war like he'd breathed in sickness while he was away from her…

…until he got up and she reached out to touch his hand. "Lyosha, are you using again?"

He stilled. "Using what?"

Laudanum.

Opium. Heroin.

All the drugs starting to work through his blood. Straining his lungs and heart, making him less than the man he would have been without them. The silent stare from beneath the veil finally prompting him to answer.

"No."

It was enough.

She let go, wrapping her hand once again in the veil. Already missing the feel of his skin, the warmth that came with it. He picked up the bowl…and then looked at her. "Meet you back at the house?"

She nodded…

…and leaned her head on her knees. Wishing it was his shoulder. Watching him go.

He was lying.

And they both knew it.

But it was nice to sit there and think it was true.

o…o…o

Eight weeks later.

Everything was back to normal. Reinette in her quarters. Sabine under guard, ready to be sent to Vienna after the Christmas season. He had everything under control. Allegra and Raze had arrived that morning and, based on the single, shocked comment he'd received from Allegra about his hair, it appeared his strategy of distracting people with his appearance was working. Singe was on a research stint after being granted leave to travel for a conference. And the rest of the household was preparing for the onslaught.

Only his fingers kept slipping.

"Where's your tea bowl?"

"What?"

Allegra pointed at the glass side-cabinet. "Your Ming Dynasty tea bowl. Where is it?"

"The smithy."

"What's it doing in the smithy?"

"I moved it there."

Allegra was never put off by prey. "You moved a priceless Ming Dynasty artefact, gifted to you by an emperor's courtesan, into your smithy?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Change of scenery."

She pursed her lips, seemingly unsatisfied by his answer. "You know, it's technically not a tea bowl."

"Yes, but I call it a tea bowl," he said, brushing the right side of his coat down. He was practically living in his study now. "…therefore it is a tea bowl."

"It's too big for a tea bowl."

"And you can now refer to my previous answer," he said, finishing the last button.

But Allegra had already moved on. Her nail tapping the glass once in delight as she called his attention to the window. The way it framed the next twenty years of his future. "They're here," she said.

The convoy.

Typically just Freyja. But this time...bigger.

Six weeks. Forty-six guests, not including servants. Five elders. A convoy of at least twenty cars. The possibility of a ball. A hundred and eleven cases of wine, sixty-four pieces of game and a fountain filled with blood-alcohol, only to be brought out on the lower levels of the den. Not to mention he'd have to approve a menu at some point. Straightening his collar, he scrubbed the back of his shorn head and strode out the door to meet them.

Fucking Christmas, he thought.

A/N: I know...it's been a long time. I am so sorry it took me this long.

Huge thank you to LovingBitch, Hannah-Brieton65, MermaidVampire, Wynter Phoenix, Love-in-Halsey, Codenameyikes, Maria, Aurora, Barbara Dias, QuaxitNe, Eserechia (so many beautiful reviews! :heart:), O pior, DoctorGiggelstheMouse, CherryBlossomTrinity, mmlr, ChariotTower, Cselecsaj, The Shy Scorpio, NightStalkers and various Guests for all the lovely reviews. I read every word and though I may not be able to answer all the questions immediately, I'm hoping I will be able to get through some of backlog as time permits.

As always, feel free to read and review.

Onwards!