Chapter LXXVIII: The Arrival
Twenty minutes later.
The front hall was packed. Guests milling about the giant stag in the centre, its glazed eyes fixed on the rifle that had shot it down. From above, it looked like a tableau of death surrounded by life. A line of hardened creatures kissing the hand of Allegra. The solemnity of that older generation being washed aside by the cheerfulness of youth. Like they truly were mortal instead of playing a pantomime for the sake of sanctuary.
Dozens of them divesting themselves of hats, coats and bags, hugging and vigorously shaking hands, while trying to find what rooms they'd all be staying in. Two were attempting to find if the tennis courts were already closed for the season. Another was asking if there was an indoor swimming pool, and if so, was it heated. All questions that thankfully Weylan had to answer, rather than himself.
Lucian stood at the banister, watching grimly from the second level. His scent-mask in order. His face impassive. He liked to think the stag had been ignorant of its impending doom, but more and more, he realised that not only did the stag know, it had allowed itself to be shot just so it would be dead in time for Christmas.
Turning his back on the throng, he led Freyja and her brother Erling down the second floor hall to his study. Already feeling off his game after having missed several cues from Allegra to say something polite while greeting Freyja. Normally this whole thing would be a routine affair, but today he was getting a bad scent from the air. Namely from the shit walking behind him.
"Can we see her?"
"Who?"
Erling was starting to walk in front of him, seeming eager to explore. "The blood-seer."
Not an entirely unexpected question. Other than pack-leaders, Northern dignitaries and Freyja, it was the first time they'd opened the house to so many since Reinette's fall four years. Certainly the first time Erling had been south since the war, and only the second time they'd crossed paths. And yet he'd hoped the boy would show a little more presence of mind before asking such a loaded question.
"Afraid not." Lucian glanced at Freyja who got his meaning. "Restricted to quarters."
Erling did not get his meaning. "Why," he said languidly. Daring to linger at the landing, the one leading up to the restricted floors, appraising all of its trappings as though considering whether to buy the place. "Been a bad girl, has she?"
And…
…there we have it, thought Lucian, turning to regard the boy with as much apathy as he could muster. Knowing precisely the scent he'd been smelling earlier but still impressed by how quickly it had revealed itself. He knew the boy would say something irritating. One could say he'd been waiting for it. Ever since Magnus took him aside during an unforgettable bout of ice-fishing seven years ago, pointed at the lanky youth trailing Gottfrid and literally said, 'That boy is a shit.'
It could easily be described as one of the shortest and most illuminating conversations of his life. Enough that when Gottfrid had informed him a week ago that Erling would be arriving in his stead, he was both elated that he'd have one less elder to worry about…
…and increasingly wary of how tedious the Northern visit would be. One where he'd have to…hold things in. Avoid hurting things. Tiptoe around the fact that he wanted to hurt things. The boy even looked like his father. Like the fucking piece of excrement who left him and his men to rot on a hillside three hundred years ago. But of late, as part of his therapy with Singe, rather than hurting someone, he was meant to imagine what he'd like to do to them…
…and then…not…do it.
The boy oblivious to the change in his demeanor, but Freyja's scent suggesting she was more than a little cognisant of what he was thinking. She quickly stepped into the conversation. "Erling, shall we do drinks after you sign?"
Erling ignored the prompt. Instead taking off the sunglasses he'd been wearing since they entered the house. He looked like every painting of Theseus about to confront the Minotaur. Now taking a step over the threshold, peering up into the space beyond the banister. "Is it true she held a gun to your head?"
Oh, they were going there, were they?
Alright.
He could play.
"A momentary relapse," he said, turning his back and starting towards the study again. Still feeling a strong urge to cuff the boy across the head for being too predictable. "But you have nothing to fear," he added. "Her current state of restriction is a temporary thing—and as much for her welfare as it is yours."
Erling was refusing to leave the landing. His voice condescending. "But as a rule, you let her walk the halls?"
"I do."
"And you can guarantee the safety of my sister with her in the house?"
"I can."
"Then why restrict her?"
"Brother..." It was Freyja who interjected. The slump in her shoulders suggesting it was all becoming too much for her. "Can we not discuss this later?"
And there it was again. The world waiting on the pleasure of this entitled youth who seemed to have forgotten that his sister was older than him. A toss-up whether the boy would listen to her. His scent betraying his colours, oscillating between impulse, arrogance and resentment…
…before he caved.
"Forgive me, sister." Suddenly awash with concern, the boy abandoned the staircase, sweeping forward to take up her hand. "My curiosity got the better of me. Of course, you must be tired."
"Very."
Lucian nearly gave a snort of derision. For a woman who could shoot a boar between the eyes after three days of hunting, he highly doubted that.
But whatever got them through the door, he thought, unlocking the study door and watching the two of them pass. They looked like twins. It was slightly disturbing, but needs must. The papers already prepared by Weylan, so all the boy had to do was stand, read and sign without getting into too much trouble. Except of course…
…instead of signing, Erling walked deeper into the study, circled the mahogany desk and immediately went straight for the stained-glass window behind it. His scent filled with an insatiable thirst for all that he was seeing.
"Magnificent," he said. Raising his hands up as though he could not even begin to take it all in. And despite knowing the boy was a shit, Lucian began to wonder now if he'd misjudged. If perhaps Magnus might have been too hard on someone who, like his sister, was expected to play the role of an heir in a world where rulers were immortal. The kind of life that could skew your sense of morality.
Like Kraven.
And yet Freyja seemed to take her brother at his word, laughing as she joined him at the window, even joyful in the face of his wonder. "I told you, Erling. It's beautiful here." And then she turned to look over her shoulder. "Is it not, milord?"
There was an unspoken question in her eyes, reflected by the setting sun. Wondering why after ten years, he rarely touched her. Why he'd kept her at arms-length since the engagement. Why he was fighting it so hard. The marriage contract. The money.
After ten years, he'd found his routine—and never once had Freyja questioned it. Why would she when the truth of his choices existed in a ninety-page marriage contract. If he wed her now, two-thirds of the money would be in her father's name. Though unnamed as his heir, Sabine would lose all inheritance rights and he'd be renouncing his claim on the Northern Pass.
Whereas if he waited the full thirty years, the terms of the marriage contract would be complete. He'd receive the bulk of his investments—including her dowry—with interest, and the only difference in his life would exist in the presence of a marital bed.
But to answer her question…
Yes.
She was beautiful.
Enough that for the first time in years, he found himself admiring not only Freyja of the golden hair…but her effect on his surroundings. His study graced with the fresh scent of elderflowers. Even with winter upon them, he could see it—the sun-washed paradise of salt and sea that made up his Scottish home. Sun coming from every direction in the summer months. Nothing for miles but rocks, dunes, and water. Four years since they'd come here and he'd not even enjoyed the grounds properly. At least not since…
…that night.
"Yes," he said, attempting to keep his tone from going too close to curt. Ushering them all again to the business at hand. The insult of what they were doing, though she never showed her discomfort. Allegra often bemoaning the state of women's liberation in the dens of Gottfrid and Thore. The kind of world where a fifty-six year old woman needed her father, brother or future husband to sign for her arrival.
As though she were a commodity. And the insult made worse by Erling passing a suggestive glance to his sister before he left the room, apparently ignorant of the need to bow. Or chaperone. The door shutting behind him, leaving Freyja to once again apply a salve. Beautiful Freyja who was so clearly being used as a pawn by her father.
"Forgive me, milord." Turning from the door, she was halfway into a court curtsey, her scent one of absolute deference. "My father made the change in the last minute."
"It's no trouble."
It was trouble.
He ignored the curtsy, walking around his desk and continuing with his evening. He knew it. Magnus knew it. And he could only assume the Council knew it—or they wouldn't be sending Magnus to sort out Horde shipping revenues at the same time Erling happened to be doing his southern tour.
But there was no need to tell her that.
Although extensively versed in diplomacy, she'd been made powerless in her father's affairs. And it had taken years to stop her trying to seduce him. Half the last war if he really thought about it. Then around 1918, she inexplicably came to the correct conclusion that 'less was more' in trying to secure his attention…and now he supposed they were making progress. Might even be a good fit for him in twenty years, he thought, staring at the place where his Ming Dynasty tea bowl used to rest…
…and then abruptly seating himself down at his desk, quickly pulling a missive from one of the boxes. Only to notice after a spell of twelve seconds that he had once again underestimated the capacity of those under the age of three hundred to linger beyond their welcome.
"Is there something else," he said, not quite looking up from the page. She had not moved a muscle. The suggestion being that she could hold that position all day…and all night if he required it of her.
"May I sit, milord?"
He indicated a chair, attempting to make it sound like a pleasure. "Please."
"Have you thought on my proposal?"
This again.
"I have."
"And?"
"You'd be a fool for pursuing it," he said. Women were not the only ones who could play coy. "The profit margins are poor, the case for occupancy is terrible, and the land—most unfortunately—falls outside lycan territory."
"It is not the land I wish to pursue, milord." Having trained as a barrister, if not admitted to their society, Freyja knew property law better than he did. "It is the mine beneath. If we were to purchase under both our names, it would give you a foothold for a permanent Exiles Quarter in the North."
"I thought your father was still against the idea."
She inclined her head in graceful acknowledgment. "Indeed, milord—but should you expand, my father would be compelled to recognise your sovereignty in the matter."
His answer was blunt. "He didn't recognise it three hundred years ago."
"And he has spent the last fifty-six years thinking of ways to make amends," she said, letting the pause rest on her tongue. "As have I."
They stared at each other.
Blood.
She was beautiful. Intelligent. Poised. She understood lycan politics. She cared about the plight of exiles. She was a calming influence on him. And in ten years, she'd never once insulted him, let alone his Danish. Why was he fighting this?
A knock broke his reverie.
"Come."
Weylan entered, followed by a lady-in-waiting. Both held golden trays covered in silk with what appeared to be boxes underneath. The lady-in-waiting bowing in an even deeper curtsy and speaking before Weylan had a chance.
"The gifts, milord."
Right.
She went first.
It happened every visit. Twice a year. Three times if she was staying for the holiday season. Something old and something new. Thankfully Weylan had some sense of what women were looking for these days. The 18th century enamelled box seeming to tick all the right boxes, though he hadn't the faintest idea what it contained.
Freyja's expressions of delight sounding perfectly genuine, though after ten years of this pomp and circumstance, he was starting to wonder. With an expert hand, she turned a latch, opened the cover and took out the meticulously carved wooden box from within the box. Opening that box to reveal a jewel-encrusted bottle with her name engraved upon the gold-plating.
Ah.
Perfume.
Always good for a fight. Nodding his approval at Weylan, he opened his own box, prepared with the appropriate response. Thank you. This set of cuff-links… knife… head of your brother…is precisely what I wanted. Unprepared for the moment when time stopped. Staring into the contents of the box, the two gifts nestled upon the black silk. The highly desired Patek Philippe watch—magnificent in its own right—ignored for the sake of its companion.
It was a necklace.
Late 17th century. Mother-of-pearl floral relief on a black background. Gold chain. His nail went for the clasp, opening the small chamber inside. Taking in its contents. The hinged plate with a small portrait in its centre. The silhouette of a girl shaped in ivory. No need to check the details for he'd long since memorised them. What he did not have was the exact date on the back. He flipped it. Three faint figures engraved in Arabic numerals.
23.10.1890.
Yes.
Oh…fucking…yes.
He looked up at Freyja. "And you're certain?"
"Yes, milord."
He felt like kissing her. Truly starting to question if it would be so terrible to just…give in…to the terms of the contract. All for the sake of a kiss. For once it started, there'd be no going back. And how tempting she was in that moment. Sixteen years of him searching for this one precious thing…
…and for him, she'd found it in five.
"Freyja…" For the first time, her name felt right on his tongue. Blood, let it be the right one. "…thank you."
She inclined her head again. This time with a knowing smile. As though to bring him joy was her only satisfaction. "You are most welcome, milord."
o…o…o
Two days later.
The problem was finding a time to give it to Sabine. What with all the winter walks and clay pigeon shooting, he was officially never alone. Forty-six guests, not including servants, all of them staying either above or below ground, watching his every move.
Except for his grand-daughter…
…who hated him. But perhaps might be willing to forgive him now that he'd found her mother's necklace. And though he knew he could force his way into her private quarters, several conversations with Allegra and Raze had convinced him that doing so was unlikely to get him back into her good graces.
His original plan had involved climbing over the roof to drop off the necklace, but it turned out people had started using the roof for…other…activities. Still not an orgy, he decided, leaving them to it. In the end, he'd snuck out an hour before dinner. He was supposed to be mingling, but instead he was standing at Sabine's door. Eager to pass its threshold, but unable to even use his knife apparently.
"Sabine?"
He knocked again.
No answer.
"Do you want me to leave, sir?"
"No."
Weylan was looking sweaty. He always looked sweaty when they were in the vicinity of Sabine these days. Like her presence was the countermeasure to his dignity. But if there was anyone Sabine abhorred as much as him, it was Weylan. Which at the very least might offset some of her rage. Provided he could get into the room.
Another minute went by.
Twenty years ago, there would have been a rush for the handle. Like a dancing firefly, eager to see the treasures he'd brought her. His choices getting limited. He was supposed to make a speech in two hours. And thanks to the forty-six guests, not including servants, staying on the six floors below ground, someone was bound to notice if he skipped dinner. In the old days he'd have gotten Reinette to convince her—but he was on his own now.
Except for the sentry.
She was watching his every move. Needles clicking away. An uncompromising woman hired by Allegra, courtesy of the Lycan Women's Temperance Society. Her presence simply to ensure that Sabine did not leave her room…and to remind him that he was not supposed to break the door—and that if he did, Allegra would hear of it.
Best to shift the blame.
"Weylan."
"Yes, sir."
He indicated the door.
Unlike the sentry, Weylan made it his business to provide. The door unlocked swiftly, thereafter leaving the two of them lingering on the threshold for a further minute. The sentry continuing to watch, no longer masking her disapproval. But he had bigger fish to fry.
He took a cautious sniff. No smell of cigarettes. All four rooms cleaned out in the last two months. The furniture replaced. The scratches mended. And their noses savvy enough to smell when a place was a mite too clean.
Damn.
Her quarters were empty. The window left open and her scent long gone. However… He leaned out the window, peering down the line of the house. …he'd wager he knew exactly where she'd gone.
o…o…o
Meanwhile.
Eight windows over, Reinette was seated at a cloistered table with the door mostly shut. Despite Sabine's attempts to get her out from her sitting room, she saw no reason to burn under a setting sun simply so she could see what other people were wearing. The problem being that her rooms were closer to the garden—which was exactly where all the guests were congregating.
Just out of the corner of her eye, she could see the red hair wandering back and forth from the window…to her door…and then back to the window again. For some reason assuming she needed to report back on her findings. The extravagance as guest…after guest…strolled across a terrace and then—gasp—entered the house.
"What do you think they're talking about?"
Reinette placed a card beside her last Queen. "Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters." Sabine sidled back into the room, closed the door and threw herself down on the chaise lounge. She was wearing a very thick frock, the kind of thing that could help one masquerade as a curtain. "We need a ride—and if a single one of those fellows is down for a good time, we might be in luck."
"What makes you think the docks are still open?"
"He cannot close the entire docks."
Ha.
Now that was a lark, she thought, considering the rest of her hand. She was missing a card. Her instincts sharp enough now, after a thousand years, to scratch her nose, considering the possibilities before peering under the table.
The King of Hearts.
It was under the hem of her skirt. Her very long skirt that was last hemmed in 1912. The girl's dress, the beaded number, hanging forgotten in the back of her wardrobe, and the pearls abandoned in a drawer. Typically she received an annual shipment from Allegra, but it was pointedly late this year. An extra slap on the hand, she suspected, forced now to walk out in clothing that was not only several seasons old, but also beginning to smell of cedar.
She heard a groan of disapproval from the chaise lounge. It was like having a pet. A creature eager to draw one daily through a forest and then determined to ruin the peace when they were stuck inside.
"How can you stand it?"
"Stand what," she asked. Refusing to rise from her chair. Sabine had been there since four, first to give her hair a trim and then to explain all the reasons why she was reverting in her life. So in theory, she could stand that.
"This." Sabine gestured at the entirety of the room as though it were at fault for not succumbing to her wishes. "Ten weeks in confinement."
Add it to a thousand.
"He cannot keep doing this." The girl threw one of the pillows from the bed…and then flopped herself back to stare at the ceiling. Her long hair in disarray, like she was the Lady of Shalott sailing into death. "Locking us up like chattel and then visiting whenever he feels like it."
He would dispute the use of the term 'chattel,' she thought, idly remembering the feel of warmth on her wrist. Imagining it on her waist. Going lower…
...and lower.
Like a flame licking her…
"I just…" Sabine was suddenly in front of her, kneeling on the ground, taking the edge of her veil up and holding it to her cheek. "…I don't understand why you're wearing it again, Reinette. You were doing so well…and now…"
It was like the world had turned upside-down for her. She'd expected Sabine to be pleased that they were no longer arguing, at the very least for the opportunity to pass on messages…but the opposite had occurred. The girl seeming disappointed above all things.
"…how can you even stand to be in the same room as him? He is…so…self-absorbed…"
They all were, she thought.
"…never seen a creature so devoid of morals," the girl was saying, gesturing as she paced. The rest of her words starting to fade.
Reinette nodding as required, but her attention absent. Focused on the other half of the table. One of the pieces from Oppenheim. She could tell by the scratches. Small gouges in the wood. Her mind still listening for the sound of his nail, impatiently tapping on the edge while waiting for her to play. Her memories still foolishly holding onto the sound. Trying to decide if it was enough.
Eight weeks gone and her nights spent wondering if he'd keep his word at the tenth. Whether she'd be back at his table. Whether it was enough to be the veiled firebird when it felt like her wings had been clipped.
The dismal change in her mood enough that, across the room, Rena paused in her work. Halfway through stripping the sheets from the bed, but now frozen. Continuing to stare, unblinking like a snowy owl searching for her young. The silent act meaning more than words after so many years in each other's company.
The one continuing to stare until the other responded. Her fingers quickly forming the words. She was fine. Realising with some sadness that in this life—the one built on betrayal—it was not Lucian who taught her the hand signals. It was Rena. But it no longer mattered. Just another memory of a dream within a dream. Each of them on their own path now.
And she was fine.
The woman nodded. The hair greasy and unwashed, lowering again to her work. Work that both she and Sabine ought to be helping with. Of course, it was not to be. There was a single knock on the door, too curt for a guard and too begrudging for Weylan. Prior to their restriction, she might have expected Sabine if the girl was not already sprinting into the bedroom, quickly shutting the door behind her and soon to be climbing out a window. In any case they all knew who it was, she thought, glancing at the clock on the mantle.
Past sundown.
"Come," she called.
It was Lucian.
He pocketed his knife. The cut of his hair since their last encounter something she'd heard from Sabine, but which still failed to describe the precise level of shock she'd feel upon seeing it. Effectively, it was the antithesis of every side-parted, clean-shaven gentleman currently frequenting his front hall. The sides and back cut shamelessly short in direct contrast to the beard. All of which suggested he was not only receiving suggestions from Allegra, but that he was fighting every…single…one of them.
"Sabine?"
"Not here."
"Prove it."
And back to reality, she thought. Rising to her feet, she stalked to the bedroom, opened the door and waved him through. Take it. Her privacy. Her carpet. Walk all over it, for all she cared. He did the obligatory search. Nodding once to Rena before checking the wardrobe. Past the four-poster, but coming up empty at the window.
It was open.
Drapes billowing from the cold night. The man tapping the side of the ledge, leaning out briefly and then cursing under his breath. He'd lost her again. Blood knew where she'd be hiding this time. And no sense in either of them stating the obvious. Only in a society of immortals could you find a thirty-three year old woman avoiding her guardian like she was twelve.
"Was it important?"
"No."
He'd already pocketed it—the box he'd been holding. As though it were meaningless. Another trifle to throw before a girl who hated him. The man looking at a loss before he looked down at her. Like she was a consolation.
"Care for a game?"
It was carefully said…and rightfully so. Years since they'd been able to have one. And the man seeming to have forgotten what must have been the three hours and twenty minutes Langley had spent preparing him for that evening's dinner. White tie with a white carnation. The pocket square pressed. A precision to his attire. And yet, she suspected that—as usual—when forced to subscribe to strict dining etiquette, he'd done something out of the ordinary. Something besides the hair. The question was what.
She made a point not to stare. "How long do you have?"
"An hour," he said, failing to give her the same courtesy.
She left him at the window. Knowing his schedule. The time. Impatient now to have her quarters back. Her ability to breathe. It had been easier when she was old. Easier to mask all of it. Her needs. Her desires. Every night pining for things she could not have.
But the cold serving as a reminder. Reminding her that she'd rather be a bitter old woman with companionship than a lonely youth flaunting her hair. Like an old friend wrapping itself around her throat. So that by the time he returned, the board was already laid out.
The man carelessly taking his seat, surveying his path before moving a pawn. All the while circumspectly eying the contents of her breakfast tray. Seeming mildly bewildered by it. For where typically she might expect whatever happened to be on hand, for some inexplicable reason, the cook had outdone herself.
Eight.
Weeks.
In a row…
…and that evening no different. Quail and lamb's blood for the main course. Finely grated pheasant marrow on the side. A miniature bowl of devil's ice to complete the meal. Each served in an elaborate urn—two of them heated and the last starting to melt—with matching teacups and saucers. And only a minute before he reached a hand forward.
She nearly slapped it. "Lyosha, can you stop drinking my breakfast?"
He was unfazed.
"Reinette, if you're still drinking it after thirty minutes, then it's fair game," he said. Finishing the pour, adding some marrow and stirring the cup twice, back and forth, before placing the spoon on the saucer. He took a long sip...and then nodded as though it had hit the spot.
Bastard.
She flipped open her pendant-watch, made the calculation and then held it up. Breakfast had been served at precisely six-thirty and it was five minutes to the hour. And yes, she had started wearing it again.
"You're off by five minutes," she said.
"Am I?"
He said it again, only this time, holding his arm out, the cuff revealing the obscenely expensive Patek Philippe watch now wrapped around his wrist. Clearly he'd been dying to show it to someone. The utter lack of shame drawing an unexpected laugh from her throat.
"Is that new?"
"Gift from Freyja."
Of course it was.
"It suits you," she said appreciatively, sitting forward briefly to take a closer look before returning her focus to the board. Wishing it had been her. Blood knew, he'd wanted one for ages.
"I know." He was admiring his own arm, looking quite smugly at the watch. "It's nice to be spoiled."
She indicated her tray. "I can imagine."
"Yes, you can," he said, raising his cup to her. It did smell wonderful, she realised, considering the rest of the tray. Pouring her own cup. He was waiting for her to say it. But she was not going to say it. They'd had enough banter…and no sense encouraging a feeling that would just fester and die the next time she saw him with her.
She said it.
"I mean, the time is still wrong."
"Oh fuck you," he said with a satisfied laugh. Capturing one of her pawns and chucking it to the side. "She made an effort."
"Did she wind it for you?"
"No, she didn't wind it for me."
She moved a bishop. "Then why is the time wrong?"
"Because I fucked with it in the bedroom so we could have this conversation." He finished his cup and then indicated the stack of cigarette-burnt cards taking over one of her side tables. "Dare I ask?"
Back to normal then.
She got up briefly to retrieve the stack Sabine had been leaving for his perusal. "Pause on the game?"
"If you would," he said, studying a rook.
"Priority?"
"Bad news first."
Always.
"She's not going to Vienna."
"Plan?"
"Nothing definitive," she said. And blood knew, she wasn't going to share it with him when she found out, she decided. "…also she wants me to inform you that…" She held a card up to the light. "…she will not be attending the breakfast tomorrow."
"What?" He looked up with a frown, already selecting a newspaper, as though the mere idea of discussing his grand-daughter was enough to warrant a foray through the obituaries. "Why?"
"It doesn't say."
"Is she willing to come to the luncheon?"
She turned the card over, skimmed the paragraph and summarised. "No."
"Well, fuck," he said. Finding the section he wanted, folding the paper backwards and then giving it a pessimistic tap to straighten the edge.
"Does she need to be there?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He turned a page. "Apparently Benoit would like to…formally…meet her."
"I thought you were against the idea."
"I am," he said. "…but—in the words of Allegra—if they meet and happen to like each other, who am I to stand in the way of progress?"
"You could try talking to her."
"The only way she'll listen to me is if I tie her to a chair."
"So tie her to a chair."
He flipped his newspaper down so he could frown at her over the obituaries. "Didn't you call me 'unreasonable' the last time I suggested the chair?"
"Yes, but it's been thirteen years," she said darkly. Pointing at the other cards on the side table—a form of communication that had once again replaced all conversation between the two of them.
"Can you ask her?"
It would not change anything, especially if the girl knew it was coming indirectly from him. But she bit back the retort. "Fine."
He opened his newspaper again. "Thank you."
And for an hour, it was calm. Rena puttering in the background, dusting things that did not require dusting, while keenly reading a book on carburettors. Like the days of old, only the likelihood of Sabine wandering in had dramatically decreased since 1907. The awareness of said fact making it all the more surprising when there was a knock.
"Come," he said.
The door opened.
It was Allegra.
As usual, giving the impression of Aphrodite deigning to walk among them. This time draped in a sleeveless blue velvet dress embroidered with orchids, thick enough for winter, yet somehow hinting at the insatiable elegance of spring that lay underneath. Rather than wearing a short bob, she'd been smart enough to keep her hair long, while still mimicking a shorter style. Each auburn strand swept into an elegant knot, swathed in silk with a few darling wisps falling to the side.
"Reinette, it's been too long," she said, coming around to stand beside her, bending briefly to kiss the air twice before turning to regard Lucian with a chiding frown. "…and Aleksey—this is where you're hiding. You do realise these are not your quarters?"
He smiled without looking up. "Then why enter on my command?"
"Old habits," she murmured with a sigh. Deftly pointing at the door with an immaculate nail. "Can we have a word outside?"
He flipped his paper down. It sounded like a sigh.
"Of course."
o…o…o
The door shut behind them.
Allegra leading him past the guards and down a hallway—an unfortunate shade of green, but far enough away that certain ears could no longer follow. And then she turned on him. "Did I miss a telegram?"
He scrubbed the back of his head. "Possibly."
"What on earth…" She was mystified by his ability to ignore the torrent of gossip soon to be raining down from the heavens. "…are you doing in her quarters?"
"Chess?"
"Because I thought we agreed on this," she said. They were only two days into the visit…and he was already trying to avoid the first dinner party. "You were going to avoid stoking the rumours."
"I know." He had the balls to look sheepish, leaning against the wall, putting his hands in his pockets. Perhaps for the first time realising it might have been advantageous to give her some warning of his intentions. "But…regardless of what I do, the Line Rumour will find a way to taint it. So why cater?"
"It's not just the Line Rumour," she pointed out. Momentarily distracted by his choice to wear a wristwatch with white tie when he ought to have used a pocket watch with a fob. But more importantly… "What is Freyja supposed to think?"
"That it's been four years since the incident," he reasoned. "That we are two…mature…individuals who enjoy each other's company. We are not fucking. So I see no reason to avoid her?"
"Aleksey, she does not look...mature...any longer," she said, indicating the woman's quarters with as much aplomb as a fish climbing a mountain. It was a losing battle. One that neither a veil nor a sturdy tweed was going to solve. "And honestly, darling—orders aside, there is only so much longer I can go without replenishing her wardrobe."
It was a problem.
The woman was still wearing a Mascotte skirt from the 1912 fall collection. Impeccable stitching, but like a fallen bouquet desperate for a new vase. All this nonsense over a dress which she had yet to see, but which apparently had been worthy of throwing her god-daughter into the wringer again.
Although to be clear, the hair was a triumph. A perfect balance of sense and sensuality—and good on Sabine for using such a daring cut on someone who clearly had the right bone structure for it.
"Yes…" he admitted. Though by his tone, he'd made his bed. He was lying in it. "…but I guarantee you. If you dress her, people will notice. The less of a fuss we make on the subject, the less others will focus on it."
Oh, that was such a typical response, she thought with displeasure, already discounting the opinion of anyone who thought neckties were only for men. As though it were always the woman's fault that others were looking at her.
"Aleksey, can you not see that there are repercussions for these visits—that you are not the only one affected by these…" Her voice lowered even further. "…degrading rumours."
"Then change the rumour."
"In what way?"
"Surprise me," he said. Already walking back towards the room. "Pretend I am not involved. Imagine that all I wish for...is peace and quiet...as I go about my business."
It was not often that he rendered her speechless. And yet, as lycan-master, he still deserved a degree of her respect, hence the reason she now wore the kind of strained smile that could politely communicate how foolish she found his perspective.
"So you want your cake," she said, speaking slowly so she could understand this madness herself. "...and you want to eat it as well."
"Precisely," he said, as though sharing with her a work of genius. "And if somehow, that does not work…then you seat them next to each other at a dinner table until the walls start to crumble." He touched a finger to his temple as though to pay homage for the gifts he'd received in his life. "Never fails."
He left her in the hallway. Taking with him all the copious knowledge of a man whose understanding of female relationships was akin to that of an idiot diagnosing his first Oedipus complex.
And yet…
…there was a kernel of an idea there, she realised, pulling a vial of perfume out from her purse. Spraying the scent of roses around the hallway leading to Reinette's quarters. Starting to wave it through the air as she thought on it. Conscious that the hallway was empty, but hearing music nonetheless. It was not cake that was required.
It was a quadrille.
A dance for building bridges. But only if a woman led, she decided, touching a scented index finger to her neck, once on either side, before heading for the southern wing. A place where a certain lady had retired while waiting for Allegra to find her escort. The largest of all the guest areas and the one currently occupied by the only partner he truly needed…
...Freyja.
A/N: It's official. After spending the last week doing a foray through older chapters, desperately searching for characters with brown eyes or any reference confirming they were people of colour, I came up with...
Drum-roll...
Two.
Raze and Jacqueline.
In other words, not nearly enough.
But I am going to fix it.
I realise that in building their secret, upper-class lycan society, Lucian and his best friend in the world, Raze, who is black, would have made space for people of colour. Having spent their lives being spit on by vampires, neither can abide with bigotry.
In other words, they might have to fake their roles when hiding in a mortal society of the early twentieth century (not always kind to people of colour and that is an understatement), but when the doors shut on a lycan home, their society most definitely includes lords and ladies who are people of colour. (And not just Raze)
So on that note, dear readers, although I am writing my next chapters, please know that I am also going back and making a few changes. It'll take some time since my main focus is newer chapters, but so far...
1. Auguste (pack-leader in France - see Ch 18) is now black as well as the comely lady Lucian noticed in that particular den.
2. Lady Morrigan (see Ch 66) is no longer fair-faced. The hint is that she's black, but the peacock feathers cover her hair and face, so Hannah is still not entirely sure what lies beneath the mask (other than knowing her face was once cleaved in two).
3. For one of you darling readers, Hannah and Matthias will have a slightly updated description for your perusal coming up. If Dido Elizabeth Belle can exist, so can Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish.
Thank you to Books-n-Harleys, Love in Halsey, O Pior, Ursiearielw12 and LovingBitch for the reviews—they are so...so...appreciated. (And yessss, I added Tolerate It to my writing playlist. Never heard it before now, but it was lovely.)
As always, feel free to read and review.