Chapter LXXVII: A Pair of Squealing Tires

Meanwhile.

For the second time in her thirty-four years, Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish felt as though she had…yet again…arrived. She was seated in the passenger seat of a silver Rolls Royce, a thick scarf around her wispy curls and a frigid wind cruising across her face.

Erling had insisted upon putting the top down. Everyone hated it. But he was gorgeous, so instead of saying anything, they all pretended it was magnificent, racing along the Scottish coastline in late November. In the back, Adelaide and Marigold kept laughing hysterically every time the automobile slid through mud. They probably meant it to be endearing, but there was a shrill edge to the sound.

Like a pair of squealing tires. Or in the words of her grandfather, too much adrenaline and no grip. That was the problem with being born into the upper-class. None of them knew what it meant to be hungry. Or hunted. They knew it in theory. Keep to the shadows, survive the war and all that. Their parents talking about all the sacrifices they'd made and the ever-present danger of bloods. But they'd grown up in the green zone. They rarely saw vampires, they revelled in immortality and laughed away their cares in being rich.

They might as well be human.

And yet here they were again. Hannah, Marigold and Adelaide once again entering society after being so cruelly ripped from its door. Really, they ought to have been matched, married and living in their own households by now. But their lives had changed. Sixteen years ago, caught out of line, foolishly thinking they could walk away unscathed from their encounter with the Elder. The ever-present tinkle of laughter that controlled their movements now. The masked lady behind the peacock feathers.

Not just any Elder.

Morrigan.

A lady whose face was rarely shown, thanks to the axe that cleaved it in two pieces. Or at least that was the tale everyone told. None of them had ever seen her face.

She conscripted them shortly after that dreadful party where they'd whispered behind the parlour palm. Three girls from good families. Loyal to a fault. Their whispers leaving them with a choice. Work for her at the Line Rumour or she'd start by sharing their insults with the Baroness and end by ruining their lives.

Only Marigold had been foolish enough to refuse, thereby causing her family's status to fall so hard, they were still cleaning cellars by the end of the Great War, as the humans were calling it. Eventually the poor dear had come round. Her family reinstated and the three of them eager now to please a woman who was old enough to have seen the death of Charles II.

And really…

…all Morrigan wanted were the whispers. The delicious rumours percolating around the most interesting match ever to grace the Line Rumour: Freyja and the lycan-master.

Like all long engagements, it started with the usual things. A desire to make amends as the new century dawned. The North offering half their soldiers in exchange for access to the Line, while the South congratulated themselves on the unity that would come from it. The push for more ties as Gottfrid brought his daughter south to strengthen his bloodline. The man eventually offering the coveted Northern Pass, thinking to tempt the lycan-master into his household with a promise of unhindered access.

Unfortunately, nothing came of it.

Seven…years…of nothing until as luck would have it, the war happened. Otherwise known as a "cacophony of circumstances," as described by her father, the esteemed Lord Cavendish, whose sole talent lay in his ability to comment on matters outside his purview. After all, he had trained as a barrister in the 1860s, therefore according to her mother, Lady Cavendish, he ought to know what he was talking about, whether he kept up with the times or not.

Both would have been surprised to learn how thin the walls had become since the 1860s. The quiet timbre of their voices in perpetual contrast to the bombshells they were dropping. The planned evacuation of all souls in light of a coming war, followed by a prompt refusal from first, the Lycan Merchant's Bank, and then the Lycan Council to pay for exiles. Weeks of negotiation. Threats. A general consensus that while the lycan-master might be the captain of a sinking ship, he might be pushing things too far by demanding everyone have a place on the lifeboat.

The tipping point occurring in the form of an anonymous memorandum written to all concerned parties, including Lord and Lady Cavendish, in the winter of 1913. Its tone suggesting the time had come for society to put aside the sentiment of exiles. For if they could not be evacuated and they could not be abandoned, then perhaps they could simply be…

…eradicated.

At which point, as Rumour had it, a most precarious situation developed. Despite being advised several times of the financial losses that might occur, the lycan-master removed a majority of his personal shares, the funds for his war, from the bank that had held them for nearly four hundred years. Every penny. Every pound sent North to be held in trust. All to be paid back in full, subject to the rules of an unspecified arrangement. The bank on unsteady feet for the first time in centuries. The debt setting his supporters on edge, wary now of financing a war whose primary investor had just thrown the bulk of his fortune on a gamble.

One could only guess what he paid for…

…but in the weeks that followed, he was seen travelling North, Raze and Allegra in tow. His supporters, both Liberal and Conservative, starting to suspect that he might have taken the decision out of their hands. Some calling it revolutionary and others questioning his commitment to lycan ideals. Regardless of their opinion, upon his return, all souls were sent North, including exiles. And precisely two years later, a joyous occasion was announced. The only sign of discord lying in a small footnote, in which a twenty year engagement had become thirty.

Naturally, the Line Rumour had made its own mockery of the event. Their suggestion small but sordid in its effect. A small illustration showing a priest collecting bets. Eight to five, Two to one. The boredom of the upper class leading them to throw their own gambles in light of the opportunity. Scores of those with money starting to put their coin on the simpler things. The dress. The year. The weather. Even more titillating…

…the outcome.

An ill-advised portion of them deciding it was a sure bet in the initial days. An actual investment, albeit over thirty years. For how could he possibly renege when most of his money was now tied in a Northern trust, effectively marrying his finances to a wedding. One that—thanks to the foolishness of those with money to burn and a poor understanding of investments—could now throw the Southern territories into financial ruin if he reneged.

Only time would tell, but as her grandfather liked to say, Either the horse finished the race or not, but someone was still getting paid. All their whispers eaten up by anyone senseless enough to read a gossip rag like it was a quarterly bank statement.

But that was their mission.

Listen…and whisper.

For example, Erling had been talking non-stop about one thing since they'd left Edinburgh.

His father.

The "years" that his father had been in power. The "armies" his father had commanded. And now the "honour" his father had bestowed on him by sending him south to meet with the lycan-master. Little did he know that this portion of the conversation would be right up their alley. Or parlour palm if they were being nostalgic.

"You know, my father…"

Not again, thought Hannah.

"…says he never comes out in daylight," Erling was saying now. "That's why they put him in these abandoned places."

Behind them, Marigold giggled as they swerved around a bend. "Will you protect us?"

"Of course." Erling ran a hand through his hair, glancing with ease over his shoulder—not looking at the road, but who needed eyes when he had looks. "If he even so much as talks to you, I'll pounce on him."

And with that, the most unfortunate words piped up from the seat behind her. "Hannah's already met him."

The stream of Erling's consciousness dried up, instead replaced by a piercing interest. Something that was explicitly against Morrigan's instructions. Oh, if she could have killed Adelaide with a look, she'd have popped out of her seat and fallen screaming off the cliff they were driving along.

But too late.

Erling was already turning her way. Taller than his sister. The blond hair gliding through the wind, practically licking the pair of tinted glasses shading his eyes. They must have been frightfully expensive. The kind of thing you'd see on a film star.

"You?"

"Only the once."

"How?"

Best not to mention Sabine by name. Not only was the lycan-master's unofficial heir no longer allowed in public, she'd notoriously just entered her third stint 'volunteering' with the Lycan Women's Temperance Society. For a time, there'd been talk of matchmaking between Erling and Sabine, but nothing ever came of it.

Hannah tried to sound indifferent. "My brother and I were visiting Oppenheim several years ago. He was on his way out. Going to some engagement or another."

It seemed a century ago. Candlelight gleaming in the mirrors. That wondrous staircase…and of course…the other reason they were here. The swift pitter-patter of feet and the brief sight of a hooded woman hurrying out the door. Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche. Reinette of the Rock. Or Nette, as they'd heard him call her so easily.

As though the memory had seeped into her pen, marking her fingers with a stain. Her brother Matthias going on with his life as though nothing strange had occurred in that sitting room. And as a sixteen year old, how could one tell what was odd when the lord of their existence made it his business to eschew all that was expected…

…but even then, she'd seen it.

Though it had taken her years to grasp what it meant. The housekeeper crossing herself as she made her choice over where to lead them. The Baroness unavailable and the presence of children warranting some form of chaperone while they attempted to put the drawing room back into order. Such was their introduction to the strange world that lived behind the doors of the lycan-master's household.

The elegant sitting room. The chess-game. The matching newspapers. Her memories filling with detail as she got older. As she learned to pause in the middle of the moment…and see…

…the way the chairs were arranged beyond their circle. Always two facing each other. By the window. By the fireplace. The books lying open. Closed. Stacked. All carrying thread-markers, a simple system of red or black, between the pages, as though one could not finish a book before the other began to read it. Two glasses left on the mantlepiece. The matching mahogany tables, one with a utilitarian row of pens beside its book stack, and the other overburdened with a hand atlas, a weathered box of watercolours and a magnifying glass.

At the time, she'd assumed it was his sitting room. But after years of reflection, she saw it. A line in the wallpaper outlining a door to another room…and on the opposite side, a second outline. Realising only then that it was not…his…sitting room.

It was theirs.

Her friendship with Sabine allowing her to still visit the house on occasion after that fateful Midsummer. Making her realise why Morrigan had recruited them, not for the friendship, but for her ability to look out a window. The lycan-master no longer seen in public, but he and the veiled lady at his side constantly watched in private by every maid, woodsman or gardener willing to tell a tale or two. All those walks. And gracious, how old she was. For years now, the rumours had been swirling. Sordid rumours, the kind of thing one had to make up and then feel cruel about later.

And Hannah did feel cruel.

Petty.

Fortunately no one had time for rumours during the war. All of them hiding in the neutral countries, save for the few of their number who fought. Those of them willing to die for mortals. But all good things had to come to an end. And so it was that she, Adelaide and Marigold found themselves in a room ten months ago, the three of them leaning in as Morrigan offered them a choice. The usual one, of course. Work for her or she'd ruin their lives.

But for once, the assignment came with perks. They'd be included in Freyja's entourage, but by no small chance, Erling wanted them in his posse. Everything they saw was to be reported directly back to Morrigan, particularly on the subject of a certain Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche. It was to be the climax of the season. The one subject that no one was allowed to talk about…

…and as a natural and expected consequence, everyone wanted to read about it. For now that the lady was young again…oh, how the whispers had flowed.

Their readership soared.

Everyone was reading the Line Rumour now. Even her father, the esteemed Lord Cavendish. Not just an amusement for the ladies now, but a dangerous liability to every purse-string in the lycan upper-class. Anyone whose investments were tied up in that merge, whether by choice or because, like their fathers before them, they'd blissfully tied all their money to the Lycan Merchant's Bank without paying attention to where most of the gold came from.

But in this area—the one pertaining to she who could not be talked about—for once, the lycan-master actually did what was expected of him. The first time in history when the Line Rumour may have had an impact on a man who stubbornly refuted its existence. The few sources they had in his household suggesting that he'd begun to distance himself from the sordid rumours.

And really…

…compared to Freyja, who could wonder at it. Like an uncrowned queen accompanied by an army of attendants. Ladies dressed in the rich shades of the winter season with the brightest colour at their centre. All of them looking excessively smart in their coats and furs.

While if sources could be trusted, the vampire was still wearing her veil. Still wearing clothes from the last decade. The lady seeming to have as little interest in her youth as she did in walking away when people were talking to her. A fact candidly shared with them by a kitchen-maid who saw her twice a week being accused of having 'idle hands' by the cook.

Still, there were enough ruffled feathers in the North that they were willing to increase their visits. Twice a year, she came. Freyja and her father. A convoy of Northerners and Southerners arriving…

…and finally, Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish was part of it. Not just hiding behind a parlour palm, but speeding recklessly next to Erling, the heir of Gottfrid. The notion of being surrounded by feminine wiles something that easily had won them their tickets.

His sister smiled graciously as they overtook her covered Bentley. Always riding in the back, always surrounded by guards. As gorgeous as her brother, but the similarities stopping there. Their ability to spin rumours limited by Morrigan's insistence that they say nothing disparaging about her. All their rumours stopping short of suggesting she was anything but chaste.

Romance was the talk of the day. A thirty year engagement. The man free to do as he wished, provided he stuck to the rules of engagement, and the lady content to wait upon her lord. As it was, she was typically chaperoned by her father. Only this time, certain duties were being passed to the next generation. Hence the reason, Erling the heir was coming along. And one could only dream what he might be getting up to…

"And you talked to him?"

Despite the tone of disbelief, Erling's voice drew her back into the Rolls Royce. He'd been raised in Denmark, but he and his sister both spoke English the way they did everything. Beautifully. And the way his eyes gleamed behind the tinted frames. They were blue…almost violet.

She could feel her tongue getting away from her. "He called us fascinating."

"Why?"

"Twins."

He laughed at that. Such a glorious sound, like a golden harp reaching down from heaven. "Everyone used to think Freyja and I were twins."

"Are you not?"

She loved playing the sycophant. Hearing that wonderful laugh again as he winked at her and turned back to the road. "Only in looks."

Adelaide piped up again. "Didn't you say it was twice that you met him?"

Oh Adelaide, be quiet, you fool.

Morrigan had told them to keep their heads down. But Erling was giving her an appraising look. Like she was actually worth something.

"It was just a chess game," Hannah said quickly as if she'd played it herself.

"I hear he's good."

Adelaide was starting to sulk under her hat. "Better than good."

Erling squealed the Rolls Royce around a corner, the first to be heading for the trees, sparse on the horizon. Violent red, orange and yellow leaves, crackling in the breeze, like the sky was on fire. "Makes you wonder if he still knows how to win this war."

Even Marigold looked up at that. The poor dear had been quiet through the whole trip, but there was a treasonous ring to those words. All three of them looked at each other…and decided with the look that, as usual, it would be best if Hannah took the lead. After all, she was almost thirty-five.

Hannah kept smiling as though she didn't know any better. "Why'd you say that?"

"Because it's more than just a game," said Erling. Shouting over the wind as though it served him. "Sometimes you have to leave the shadows and fight the war."

He changed gears, abruptly swerving to a halt at the edge of the hill so they could see it. The distant sea. The beach. And above it all, the only house for miles around, bleak and forbidding, crouching before the dunes as though it were warning them not to come closer.

Ghastly.

o…o…o

A moment later, they pulled up to the place. Four stories high. White-washed walls. It had a wild look about it, as though even the gardens were in danger of being washed away by the sea. The entire cavalcade of automobiles lined up before a giant staircase. Attendants leaping into action, opening doors and getting bags.

After all the talk of shadows, they'd been expecting an attendant at the front of the house. Possibly a high-ranking official. But Erling could not have been more wrong.

For there he was.

The lycan-master standing at the top of the steps, waiting for them. Like his house, bleak and forbidding, as he stared out at the dunes. Still bearded after all these years, but the hair cut ruthlessly short, as though he'd received advice from a well-meaning barber and then done precisely the opposite. The silk-lined morning coat far too light for the weather, but seeming to have no effect on his comfort. An aimless burgundy ascot had fallen to the bottom of the staircase. No one picked it up, leaving them with no doubt as to whom it belonged.

It was a sight to behold.

Freyja climbing the stairs to take his hand, perhaps familiar with what seemed an inability of her lord to follow the rules of pomp and circumstance. He did not smile. And when she dipped in a graceful curtsy, he did not bow his head. But he took her hand and together, they passed through the doors. Ten years of waiting for each other. Another twenty before she could rule at his side. One could almost feel sorry for her if they weren't all consumed with envy.

How romantic.

A/N: Oh Hannah, how I've missed you. (See the chapter "Trouble in Threes" if you've forgotten who Hannah is.) Many thanks to O pior, Books-n-Harleys, BigSisMonkey, Gamedar081 and Guest for the reviews and favourites. As always feel free to read and review! Next chapter is already written, so hopefully things will move along at a slightly quicker pace now. (I hoooooope.)