Chapter LXXXVI: A Light in the East
Eight hours later.
And so it was that the second day of Hangrove dawned, bright and early with an optimistic air about it, despite bearing all the hallmarks of a disaster. For example, the storm from the previous night had already toppled one of the hundred-year-old trees—planted by Lady Morrigan—into the newly-fallen snow; thereby causing an uproar among the planning committee, who in turn, held a moment of silence for the tree but then ordered the grounds-people to work through the night, clearing what could be cleared before anyone under sixty could start feeling nervous or discuss how close it had come to knocking out their electricity. Instead they were like children again, awake on the eve of Christmas, peeking beneath shutters before calling everyone to come quickly and see…
…astounded by its brilliance. The joy it brought to their faces, these creatures who rarely served in the red zone. Whose parents were so rich…and so keen to protect their heirs, the continuation of their fortune, that in dividing them from poverty, they had neglected to prepare them for hardship. Instead it was their lot to be frivolous. Unimaginative. So practiced in the business of mortality that they did not think twice before pulling on coats, boots, and in one case a dressing gown, so they could play a farce of war, throwing snowballs across an open plain at one another, while sentries kept an eye on danger from afar.
But that was the point.
Hangrove.
Any death-dealer would assume only mortals were stupid enough to be so blatantly vulnerable. Every ridiculous expense, every extravagant ball giving them credence in that mortal world, while giving them an excuse to rake in funds for the ever-increasing wartime budget…
…and yet at some point in the past six weeks, the decision to combine Hangrove and Yuletide as a cost-saving measure, and its subsequent memo to the budgetary office, seemed to have been cast out the window, pecked into pieces by one of the poultry house residents, before finally being defecated upon the same grounds across which their guests were making snow-angels. Instead, there were now two sub-committees, one headed by Erling, whose success with the first afternoon tea of Hangrove was now spouted as being legendary—despite Allegra having done most of the work—and the other headed by everyone else…at the same time, thereby causing some confusion as to whether it was still an afternoon tea, a gift-giving exchange, or an evening of parlour games.
In the interest of democracy, it became all three. The initial plan to host the second Hangrove tea in the same room as the previous afternoon, swept aside in favour of a new venue. A place which—as everyone had agreed at the start of planning—would have been a perfect location for a winter afternoon tea, had not all orangeries across lycan territory fallen out of favour after the fall of 1907, a fact which the Lady Allegra had hastened to remind the planning room, just prior to being backstabbed by the Lycan Women's Temperance Society, whose Chairwoman, Lady Forsythe stated—and she quoted, while conveying the tale to Raze three hours later—they ought to "hear the boy out." To which the Lady Morrigan replied that it would be on their heads.
And it was.
Literally on their heads.
Erling strutting into the planning room and before a single one of them could ask a question, placing a fruit basket in the centre of the table and suggesting they all start with what he called an "ice-breaker." Each of them placing a piece of paper on their forehead and tasked with determining who each of them were…without…looking at the name now presented on their respective foreheads. The boy having wisely chosen the names of…women. Women of power. Women of strength. Throughout history. Speaking into his belief on how each of these women had changed the world, so that before an hour had passed, the entire Lycan Women's Temperance Society were now of the opinion that any man willing to put such effort into honouring their history ought to have a place on their planning committee.
And so it began.
The theme of "Spring on the Arm of Winter" evolving from the committee's inability to pick one over the other, until Erling—again—had saved the day, suggesting the Lady Allegra give them "spring" on the first day, the Lady Morrigan bring forth "winter" on the second, and the final night of the ball would bring the two themes together…
…in a brilliant masque.
Every lady—and as he spoke, he gestured to his sister—the belle of Spring…and every gentleman, a beast of Winter. To which all responded with a cascade of applause for his clever wit. And all of them…completely…forgetting the budgetary restrictions. Throwing such talk…and memos…out the window in favour of the season. A time of good cheer and gratitude they told themselves while preparing for the second day of Hangrove. A day which ought to have been a quiet affair decorated like an afterthought paired with some mistletoe—but which had again…turned into an excuse for Erling to take over, only this time focusing on the second half of the theme. And the decorations now marching in tandem. With their own budgetary line.
Mistletoe above every table. Miniature ice sculptures that were primed to melt around frozen tulips. The events pushed closer to sundown so that each table would be bathed in its glow, causing each guest to feel a flicker of warmth in their chest as the servers began handing out candles. Each lit until they were a sea of fireflies, holding a moment of silence for the fallen…
…and then flowing into the Great Hall. A gathering point where circle after circle placed a candle upon the Yuletide tree. Their hands passing each small, flickering flame up a ladder or around a shoulder…until the ladders were removed…and the entire tree was the only source of light in the hall. Twenty feet tall and festooned with garlands, ribbons, and gold, a gargantuan pine delivered specially from the estates of Lady Morrigan, and now situated…pride of place…in the centre of the Great Hall. And if the woman had stopped there, they might have still been able to keep up some appearance of budgetary constraints.
But she had not stopped.
And though some might call it bribery, it did not change the glow on people's faces when they realised there were gifts beneath the tree. Gifts for guests. Gifts for servants. Gifts for every man, woman, and child within the boundaries of their gathering…and all paid for out of the Lady Morrigan's personal fortune, though she would rather remove her mask in public than admit to such flagrant generosity. Hence the reason each gift was labelled as coming either from 'the fairies' or 'Father Christmas,' depending on which of Morrigan's assistants was writing the label. Which was precisely where she went wrong.
Because…
…in order for a gift to arrive from the fairies or Father Christmas, it meant that said gift had to be placed between the first night of Hangrove and the subsequent morning. That is…prior to the afternoon tea on the second day of Hangrove…and prior…to the tree lighting. So as a natural and expected consequence, the Lady Morrigan had commissioned the decorators to place the gifts beneath the tree in the early morning hours, in order to build up anticipation for the tree lighting. Which meant that as each youth was gallivanting out to play in the snow, they were also greeted by the sight of the tree…and all its gifts.
All to the delight of its admirers, the morning decorators, the servants, the breakfast attendees, and of course…the gossip-mongers, including but not limited to the honourable Lady Hannah Cavendish, who was at that moment distracted by the question of what could be in their gifts, and therefore discussing the matter with Adelaide and Marigold, rather than paying attention to the three missives that were (at that precise moment) going out with the morning post. The first bearing the seal of the Council, requesting an immediate response from all members either in person or by proxy. The second detailing precise instructions for laying out the cover for the highly anticipated Yuletide edition of the Line Rumour…
…and the third sitting in the hands of…not Master Weylan Jones…but rather Langley, the head valet, who'd just been called into the lycan-master's bedroom. Which was surprisingly spotless. As though his lordship has spent the last eight hours maniacally putting his affairs in order. The previous evening's sleep having done wonders for the man who was not only bathed and mostly dressed, but also…packing…a bag.
"All of it, sir?"
"Yes," the man said. "…and I will need you to move it to this account," he added. Handing over a second paper…allowing him to see the code, signal that he'd memorised it, so they could burn it as was the custom. "Once the transfer goes through, you will receive further instructions."
Langley nodded, about to take his leave for the errand, but then turning back to look at the lycan-master. Feeling confused. "Forgive me, sir, but…is this not something Master Weylan usually takes care of?"
"It is," the man said, rolling one of his shirts around a plain wooden box before placing the bundle inside the bag. "…but I am asking…you…to take care of it this time."
"Consider it done, sir."
And normally he would just have gone.
Confident in himself after all his years of preparation. The pride of having moulded himself into the perfect valet. Only to find himself…unsteady…that morning. Like he was sixteen again and all his training had gone out the window, along with the lower octave of his voice.
"Are you…" Despite his loyalties, even Langley was starting to feel odd about the…bag. "…are you planning a trip, sir?"
Without answering, the lycan-master cinched the buckles of his bag tight. Only then taking a moment to regard Langley. As though mystified as to where he'd gotten such an impression.
Langley continuing to stare at the bag…
…before promptly bowing his head.
"Very good, sir," he said. Backing out from the door. Quickly on his way. First to deliver a message to the kitchens, the bunk of McNally, the quarters of Magnus…
…and then Rena.
o…o…o
It was approximately ten minutes later, just after nine in the morning that Reinette woke up. Sensing a presence in her room, scrunching her nose…and then reaching for her bed-curtains, pushing them back. Still keeping her head on the pillow, as yet, unwilling to break contact. Squinting at the sight, trying to ascertain why her wardrobe was open…
…and a velvet-lined trunk sat upon the carpet. Beside which, Rena was carefully folding items of clothing, one by one. She'd laid out a toilette on the side. Everything needed for a journey.
"Rena, what…"
The fuck, she meant to say, but it came out as a yawn. The rest of her still half-asleep, but soon realising she'd have to complete the sentence if Rena was ever going to answer. Eventually extricating her fingers from the blanket, so she could finish the expletive, however crude, in her poor excuse for lycan sign language.
And Rena bearing the brunt of all messengers whose job it was to deliver news. Her fingers fluent, moving quickly in the dark, but with an air of shrugging. Causing Reinette to frown blearily, rubbing one of her eyes, before hoisting herself up onto her elbows, the pillow still calling to her. "Why does he want me to pack?"
Rena raised her shoulders.
She did not know.
A response which would have required more delving, if the answer had not hit her faster than poison followed by a four storey fall. Like the aftertaste of something rancid. The aftermath of what she'd done.
He'd signed it, she realised.
Staring bleakly at the trunk…no longer sure how she felt about leaving now. Wondering if he could be that much of a bastard as to kick her out of his den as soon as the ink was dry—and then brusquely giving up on the topic. Too exhausted after the previous evening's activities to question his choices any further. Instead she deposited herself back on the pillow. It would keep until nightfall, she decided.
Falling asleep again.
o…o…o
Two hours later.
Lucian checked his watch. Ten to eleven. Eight hours until sundown. Which gave him exactly thirty-six hours, fifty…two…minutes…to execute the entire plan. His habit of working until the very last second allowing him some reprieve from seeing anyone during the buildup to the second afternoon tea of Hangrove. Save Allegra, of course, who swanned into his study, looking as though she intended to personally walk him down an aisle.
"Why does Langley smell nervous?"
"For the same reason you were hitting golf balls at him for half the night," he proposed musingly, unperturbed by a question that scarcely needed him to lie. Continuing to work through the daily stack of missives that waited for no man, whether he was attending an afternoon tea or not.
Allegra smelling mildly distrustful. But then allowing the scent to drift as though there were more important matters. "And how are you feeling?"
"Good."
"Did you sleep?"
"I did."
He did not.
"Lovely," she said. Arranging herself in the chair across from him. Continuing to sit there…as though waiting for something. Her nails finally removing a speck of dust from the chair before she spoke again. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He gave her a bone. "Define it?"
"The development."
There was a whiff of familiarity in that word. Its presence solidifying his suspicion that not only had Allegra seen the annulment folio, but she saw it before Weylan. Likely even sent the man the previous evening, he thought.
"Are you suggesting we do something illegal," he asked, ignoring said folio—featured prominently on his desk—in favour of another document, starting to review that instead. A transfer request from the cook.
"Of course not," she responded, nearly chiding him with her tone. "Section four, article seven. Pack-leaders may not influence one another in the matter of signing over counterparts." Her nails again began seeking for imperfections in the chair. "I can however provide a report on the number of secure lines Morrigan requested on the telephone this morning."
"Starting with Gustav," he said, approving the request and shifting it over to the red box.
She nodded.
No secret the two of them had formed an alliance after the man started courting Morrigan. But the news getting worse as she began counting on the immaculate hand. "My sources tell me we can expect couriers in the next twenty-four hours from Gautier, Auguste, Goar, Borya…and surprisingly…Dante."
"But not Thore?"
"No."
Interesting.
The Council already had its majority—which brought it down to Erling and himself, he thought. The only authorised signatories. Getting up from the chair to reflect on his conundrum. The view changed now that the rocks had been covered in snow and ice. Beautiful but more treacherous for the careless walker, he thought. Squinting towards the horizon…and then turning to face Allegra, now gauging her scent with the same watchful eye. "Did you know she was planning it?"
"No," she said, though she seemed to regret not playing her part. "I knew she was meeting with Freyja, but I assumed it was the usual business about Hangrove."
Unlikely.
Allegra was very rarely caught off guard. Which meant she'd known…and she'd allowed it to happen. But water under the bridge, he thought. Picking up his pen and starting to fiddle with the nib. "And do you see any problem with it?"
She smiled encouragingly. "I do not."
"Even on the second page?"
He'd stopped fiddling with the pen. Well-versed in the art of asking irritating questions of one who considered herself to be well-versed in the art of reading paperwork. The lady looking…gravely…suspicious now. As though a trap was trying to settle around her shoulders, one spun out of silk so fine that one would assume its victim would not see it…
…until they realised she had a pair of scissors.
But he had a pair as well, he thought. Relying on his scent to steer the conversation, that being his right as the leader of their world to ask a question…and expect an answer. Continuing to stare until the lady sat up a mite straighter. At first smiling as though she could not imagine they were still having the conversation, and then upon realising that he was serious, presenting her thoughts like a half-hearted attempt at cautioning one to avoid eating rotten meat off a golden platter. "Why do you ask?"
He reached for the folio, turning to the second page and handing it over. "The contract is fair," he conceded. "…but I think we can agree the…locale…" He pointed to the appropriate line with his pen. "…leaves something to be desired."
A point which even Allegra had to see. That for every sentry reporting to the Council, Morrigan would have twice that…and twice the access. The lady frowning over the fine print and then sighing in the manner of one who had perfect vision, but at times, wished for a pair of spectacles merely so she could gesture with them. "And where would you place her instead?"
"Vienna," he suggested. Reasonably. "…she would be within your territory…and it would give Sabine an excuse for going with you and Raze after Yuletide."
Allegra raised a finger in correction. "Sabine is already going with us after Yuletide."
"Not according to Reinette," he said. Momentarily pleased by the wavering scent that suggested he'd not been the only one blindsided by the news. The additional insult of being outside the girl's inner circle of confidence causing the lady to wilt slightly…
…and then quickly brush aside the insult as she moved onto a new target. "That aside," Allegra continued carefully. "Even if I were to sponsor a...second…amendment…" She brandished it like a foul humour towards the red box. "You'd still have to get Erling to agree to the new location."
He pointed his pen. "Leave that part to Freyja."
To which Allegra laughed.
A glorious cascade of laughter at the folly of men. Followed by a plea for sanity, as she so often called it. "Aleksey, you skipped the first day of Hangrove, embarrassed the girl with your absence, and have spent the past twenty-four hours trampling over the Lycan Stock Exchange," she said, wiping the corner of one eye so as not to ruin its liner. "Why on earth would she help you?"
It was a valid question.
Each syllable softened by the peals of laughter, but not entirely banished until he waited it out. Waited until she realised that his typical shrug was about to be followed by movement this time, starting with the opening of his right-hand desk drawer…and the subsequent removal of a case—that legendary case, now infamous after so many years—in which he stored his mourning knife. He placed the case on the desk and carefully unhooked the latch, opening the cover to reveal…
…an empty chamber.
No knife.
And it was worth it.
Just for the shock in Allegra's scent. Watching her trip over the criticism she'd been about to hand him. Quickly smoothing the pause, herself and the four hundred years of rumour that had kept him from ever showing the knife in public. Making him want to scrape the knife over his face because this was merely the first reaction to what would soon be all over the great hall. A brimming joy beneath the surface.
"Oh, Aleksey," she said softly. Like a herald of the Golden Age, putting a graceful hand to her chest. Almost in wonder. As though he'd finally…finally…done something worthy of her approval. "…you gave it to her."
He shut the case with more force than he'd planned. "I gave it to her."
She was beaming.
"I knew you had it in you."
"Can you keep it under wraps until this afternoon?"
"Of course, darling." She looked like a cat with a bowl of milk. "And you do see it's for the best?"
He capped his pen…
…and smiled back at her.
"I do."
o…o…o
Which brought him forward to the moment. Not the aisle, but…closer than he'd ever stood before. Because there was no going back on it. Checking his pulse, while waiting in the wings of the second afternoon tea of Hangrove. Already preparing himself for the room. The exits. The scents. Nodding to Freyja as she came to stand beside him. Because she knew what he needed to do…and he knew what she needed to do…and they were going to make this work. No matter what. He offering his arm so she could take it.
And they were perfect.
Every neck in the room turning in a synchronized dance of wonder and anticipation. A murmur of intrigue as they all saw it. His mourning knife on her belt. A finality to its presence. Even with the handle uncarved, it was enough to silence every question as to whether or not he would renege when the time came. The two of them standing in the reception line for two hours, greeting every dignitary and investor, sometimes twice if they happened to be both.
The night pulling them forward through the tea…and the lighting of the candles. A ceremony of remembrance as he and Freyja led their people forward to the Great Hall. All their faces glowing with hope and merriment. Joy for the gifts they were about to receive. Every eye on his back…right until it was over. Like a changing of the guard, the two of them…finally…allowed to leave for the sake of decorum. The necessity of changing their clothing, simply because they were passing from one activity to the next. Able to separate at the landing…
…Freyja bowing in obedience as she left.
Her work done.
Giving him exactly forty-six minutes to change before the dinner bell. Langley having swallowed his curiosity now they were back to the business of dressing. Freyja's attendants having already dropped off his colour-coordinated accessories, a surprisingly pleasant shade of coral, supplied by Allegra of course. The first steps of an intricate dance complete…but not the last. Dinner comprising of a light buffet followed by parlour games. Charades for the ladies. Billiards for anyone wearing tails.
A final check in the mirror revealing a beard trim was probably in order, but he'd be pushing himself for time. Instead he told Langley he could have the night off, waited for exactly six minutes, then opened one of his bedside drawers, pocketed its contents and headed out to the hallway. After taking a dose of course. A paltry amount. Enough to keep him awake without making his hands shake.
The walk leading him to the landing closest to the East Wing. Just past the banishment of Hamlet. Doubting himself as he stared at the painting. No longer sure that all was in hand, but left with no choice now. The die cast…and the deal struck. And from his stance, able to see a path forward.
The light under her door.
He just had to reach it. Glancing over the bannister, seeing the guards standing two floors below. Both of them keeping their eyes front. Like a Rumour waiting to happen. His discomfort at the thought nearly sending him back to his quarters…
…only to stop again.
Fuck it.
He strode towards the light, looking over his shoulder once before knocking on the door. "Nette?"
A creak of the floorboards.
But no answer.
Then finally.
"Come."
He opened the door, predictably met by the sight of everything he'd been thinking about for the past twenty-four hours. Everything he was fighting. That warmth he felt when he saw her, and yes—even the increasingly treacherous scent of her displeasure. Like attempting to walk through a minefield, the travel-box and trunk ready, but a second and third crate now in the process of being packed by Rena, who was stacking a selection of books on the far side of the room. Very silently and specifically avoiding looking at either of them.
He shut the door behind him. "Can we talk?"
Reinette was sitting at the old rosewood desk, eyes front, reviewing one of her journals. "If you wish."
She seemed…so…aloof. As though the cast iron fireplace could not warm her, all the small places where the glow was radiating. Her neck. The length of her hair initially throwing him when she'd first cut it, but now starting to entrance him. It kept grazing her jaw when she bent forward. Like a second veil—tantalising him with a secret. Reminding him why it was important. Why he had to stay the course…
…not just for himself…but for her, he realised. Taking his preferred seat on the settee and attempting to present an entirely sedate front. Capable of setting aside his instincts and getting straight to the point.
"Do you want me to sign it?" he asked.
And it began.
Their chess game.
"Have you not already?"
She was on the offensive.
"I wanted to talk to you first," he responded, allowing his gaze to meander over to the travelling box. The source of her discontent. Wishing he could say more. That he could soothe her anger. All the thorns she was carrying.
So many thorns.
"Is that a criticism," she replied, rising from her chair. Turning her back on him, veering towards the only wall that had never let her down. The stack of books Rena had left for her to review. Like they were in tandem, the one moving to a different crate, giving the other room to pick at the smaller one. Not just the one bag he'd expected, but everything dear to her. As though she assumed she was not coming back.
"If you wish to see it that way," he continued. Putting his hands together so he could focus on something…closer. "But you had every right to…make…that choice—and as long as you are satisfied with the conditions, if you want me to sign…then I will."
She was speaking brusquely now. "Well, it's for the best, isn't it?"
"No one is saying that."
"They will be." Her tone was matched by the candour with which she was shoving books into the smaller crate. "…as soon as you stop…" She shoved a book. "…looking over your shoulder…" Another book. "…every time you come here," she finished, dropping the entire stack on top of the pile.
To which he laughed softly, leaning back in his seat. "I do not look over my shoulder," he countered reasonably.
It was his first mistake.
And he ought to have sensed it was a mistake, only by the time he'd sensed it, Rena had already made a first move towards the door. Quietly putting the larger crate she was holding down. The woman already halfway across the room. Like she was suddenly aware of the minefield around them.
For Reinette had stilled. Raising an eye at his laughter. A very…cold…eye. Staring at him in a manner that he knew well, the kind of look that suggested he might have gone too far with the laugh. After a dangerous pause, releasing all of her energy in a breath, she moved her attention back to the crate, speaking without looking at him. "You know I think Rena has a prior engagement…and I am feeling tired, so perhaps we should discuss this later."
"I'm not leaving until we talk about this."
He would live on that settee if he had to. She was not going to shut him out. Not this time. Because he'd done that to her…and she'd done that to him. And they were not doing it again.
Her jaw tightened…
…and then she looked at the door.
"Rena, you may leave now."
The woman started to turn the handle.
He pointed at the door, barking an order over his shoulder. "Rena, do not leave."
The handle stopped.
Rena was smelling very uncomfortable. Also this was getting embarrassing. Either he'd be forced to leave out of decorum—or something else would happen…which could not happen…so either he hurried the fuck up or went on his way.
"Was it the quadrille?"
Reinette picked up another crate, removing frames from the interior so they could be wrapped in newspaper. "No."
"Because you agreed to the quadrille."
"I know."
"You said it was fine."
"Of course it's not fucking fine," she retorted. Gesturing at the fire with one of the frames, a specimen of Alchemilla Vulgaris. "There is a silver lock on Sabine's door, you hate Hangrove…and I've been eating three-course meals with a man who asked for the measurements of my cranium. How is any of this fine?"
"It's not," he admitted tiredly, removing one of the cushions and dropping it. Starting to wish he'd let Rena walk. But determined now to get to the bottom of the hole in which Reinette was stubbornly burying herself.
Neither of them talking for a minute. And Reinette continuing to empty the crates and repack them again. One after another. As though by putting her luggage in order, the rest of her life would follow suit. Him foolishly thinking it was going to be Erling that would be the wedge between them.
He scrubbed his face finally. "I already took the lock off Sabine's door," he said. "…and yes—we are being watched…constantly, but this…" He indicated the space between them. "…is not the problem."
"Then what is the problem, Lyosha?"
She'd let go of the last crate.
Direct in her manner.
But her voice betraying it, the tiredness coating her skin. That which had been building so imperceptibly over the past twenty-three years. Because she was tired of it. The life he'd built for them. A sampling of rooms and books and meals arranged for her pleasure. A tiredness that would eventually snuff out her hunger. The more that kept her breathing, but which—he knew now—lay beyond what he had the capacity to give.
Which meant it was time to give in to the mire that would be his future. His legs feeling as though they could give way, while on the outside…merely shifting the angle of one knee.
A gentleman without a care.
"Look, this clearly is not working for you," he said. Keeping his focus on his hands. The creases on his palms, each holding a word he'd never be able to say in her presence. "…and though I'd not…planned…for you to leave like this," he said. "…the Council will accept your services wherever you land…so if you wish to…go…then I will not stand in your way."
Not for all the poppies in England, he thought. Remembering the last time he fell as hard as he'd done now. But it was not…right…to lay that on her. Not after what Allegra had told him. But even then…holding his breath and waiting for her to see through his words. Wishing she could understand…just…how much he wished her well. That he wanted her to be happy.
To feel joy when she woke…
…and when she slept.
"I wish to go."
Right.
That hurt.
More than he was expecting. The tightness growing in his chest again, a sure sign that it might be time for another visit to his forge. But he nodded, standing up quickly before he changed his mind. "Then I will sign it."
"Thank you," she said. Carefully watching him…as though he might still take it back. But there was no going back, he realised. Reaching a hand into his coat-pocket for the small, slightly battered box he'd retrieved…one final time…from his quarters. Staring grimly at its exterior before proceeding to bite the bullet.
Finally.
"You might as well add this to the trunk," he said, holding the box out to her. "…something to open when you get there."
And again…
…he had that sensation. That a mistake had been made. Reinette's reaction something that threw him now because she seemed to be confused as to why he was holding out the box. Making him regret wrapping the thing in twine. A last-minute decision from that morning. He'd seen the other gifts under the tree and they'd all been wrapped in twine, so he'd asked Langley to find him some twine.
Blood…
…he should have left off the twine. Fortunately it got worse from there, so he could rapidly forget about the wrapping, and focus instead on how badly his plan was going now that he could no longer 'just hand the thing over and leave.'
She'd gone from staring at the box to frowning at it. "Why are you…" Her back had stiffened, the question trailing off into a confused mutter. And then she gained momentum again. "…why are you giving me that box?'
"What's wrong with the box?"
"You've been carrying it around for six weeks."
"I know."
"So why are you giving it to me?"
"Because…it's…"
Rena smelled like she wanted to die.
He ignored the scent.
Focusing instead on the one in front of him.
Calla lilies.
"…it's Christmas eve," he finally said, now also frowning at the box, wondering what the devil had possessed him to wrap the thing in twine. Fuck, all he could think about was the twine now…
She still was not taking it. Rather she'd gone from frowning at the box to frowning at him. "I thought it was for Sabine."
"Why Sabine?"
"Her necklace."
"I already gave her that."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Oh…"
She looked troubled.
"…good," she finally said. Starting to turn away…and then realising the box was still there, she turned back towards him, took the box…and then held it. Just as awkwardly. "I forgot it was Christmas Eve."
"You always do."
"Should I open it now?"
"You can…" It felt like he'd lost his hands. He raised one…and then put it down again. "…if you wish."
She opened the box.
o…o…o
And for a moment, she forgot herself. No longer in Scotland, but staring at her rose ceiling, back in the quarters she missed. Right before the war. She remembered closing the hiding nook, preparing herself for what was to come. Her journey to Denmark. Leaving a single treasure behind while Rena packed her books away in storage all those years ago. Things she would not need in the North. The key. The photograph. Her rune.
But not the book.
She had left the Comte de Monte Cristo, now so frail that it would not survive the journey, in the hiding nook. Assuming it and its treasure would be destroyed and preferring to allow time to swallow its existence. The feeling of confusion…and the memory of leaving it behind…now replaced by a sharp wonder. As though she'd stepped inside a mirror, reaching her hand tentatively inside the small box, examining the delicate pendant inside…before passing a single finger across its surface.
It was…
…her saffron flower.
Twenty-three years old now. Blackened by ink and close to falling apart. Its years in the old hiding nook leaving it worse for the wear. As though then…as now…neither it nor she had expected more life. Curled and misshapen by time.
Yet held in place.
By glass.
A different kind of pendant. Not porcelain or steel…but two panes of crystal-clear glass like a pool of water surrounded by a circular gold casing. Like its reflection was holding her up. The worst kind of chain…
…the one made out of time.
Affection.
Love.
o…o…o
And still he did not see.
Still focused on his choices. Whether it had been the right decision to salvage it. His own journey after the war requring a last visit to Oppenheim.
His presence needed for ceremony, the two months he spent travelling to each den for the sake of honouring their dead, but also to sign over his rights to the old property. He'd been shocked by the damage. The walls only partially standing. A hole in the roof. But on the last walk around, he'd gone back into her room. He'd found the hiding nook…and he'd seen the book. The heavily damaged Count of Monte Cristo. Scorned after Rena packed the rest of her life away in storage all those years ago.
"You'd left it behind…" He scratched the back of his neck. "…and the book was starting to disintegrate," he explained. "…but I…thought…you might want to…keep that."
By disintegrate, he meant there were no words to convey the level of disgust on the five-hundred-year old Chief Archivist's face when confronted with her partially destroyed copy of Le Comte de Monte Cristo which had found a second life as a rodent nest.
"…I mean, we could get it rebound," he continued. "But…apparently the…volume…of mouse droppings was…"
Just…
He cleared his throat.
"…astronomical…"
Obscenely.
"…so they advised…destroying…the book."
With fire…fire…and more fire.
He finally found his hands again. Just in time to…do…nothing with them because that…was… He put them in his pockets. …what he did.
She was still staring at the pendant. Looking slightly at a loss. And not necessarily in a good way. Possibly because he'd mentioned the rodent droppings. And to be fair, the flower had smelled like mice until the jeweller had aired it out for a few weeks.
"Thank you."
He nodded. "You're welcome."
She put it on the mantlepiece. Looking like a desert pondering how best to cross an ocean. And then she pointed at one of the logs in the fireplace, possibly as a nod towards Christmas or because she was thinking of throwing her gift in the fire. "I didn't get you anything."
"I know."
She was still looking uncomfortable. "Do you…" She gestured, but unlike him, her hands actually seemed to know where they ought to be. "…know if my old photograph was with the book as well? I could have sworn we packed it, but I haven't been able to find it in any of the storage boxes."
He shut his mouth.
"Yes," he admitted. It felt like he'd lost his hands again. "…you did pack it, but I may have...taken that."
"You..." The discomfort in her scent was speaking volumes now. "...took my photograph out of storage?"
"Yes, but...let me clarify," he added, also wanting Rena to die on his behalf now. "...any photographic evidence of exiles tends to get…destroyed…when the Line officials do a transfer out of a red zone. So I had it moved into…my storage…so that it would not get destroyed, along with your key. So I can…" He put the hands back in his pocket. "…get those back to you." He coughed. "Before you leave."
"Thank you," she said again. Starting to wrap herself in another layer of black veil, the kind of thing she always did when she wanted a conversation to wrap up. "…also do you know exactly…when…the Line-runners are coming this evening?" Her voice lowered. "Rena's already…packed…her bag, but I don't know if she needs a transfer request?"
"Oh…" He looked at the trunk. "…no."
"To the transfer?"
"No, I mean you're…" He squinted his way forward. "…not…leaving this evening."
"But there are arrangements?"
"Not really," he said.
She looked confused.
And a bit…
…annoyed.
"So let me try and…understand," she said slowly. Looking a bit dazed. "…you sent Rena a clandestine message ordering her to pack…" She indicated the room around them. "…literally…all my things…but there are no arrangements for me to leave?"
He breathed, timing things out in his head. "No, I did…and I do…but I may have got the timing wrong."
Now she was angry. Twenty-three years of handling his…sometimes difficult…obsession with accuracy when it came to the hour making this a particularly difficult sentence to swallow…
"You got the timing wrong?"
"Yes."
She was still not biting. "How?"
"I've been preoccupied?"
"With what?"
He took a step back. Because there were too many questions now. Trying to answer her first one, but instead watching it drift off into…nothingness. Continuing to stare at the nothingness for exactly twelve seconds before he abruptly turned his back on her, intending to leave the room, but catching himself at the door again. Realising he'd almost forgotten the most important part. The speech he'd rehearsed to himself that morning...
…but which he'd somehow forgotten. Some time between spending the last twenty-four hours cleaning his quarters, planning the next twenty years of his life and trying to not overdose on heroin.
So he improvised.
Starting to scratch his neck again. "Look, I might be…odd…tomorrow."
"More than usual?"
What is that supposed to mean, he thought. Biting…and then flicking one of his nails against the other for a moment before moving on. "I just…I…have to do something…at the dinner…tomorrow…" He was back on track—this was definitely the right speech. "…and I wanted you to know that…it may…seem odd…" Same speech, but slightly more disjointed than when he'd planned it. "…but there is a reason."
"You're being very odd right now," she said candidly. Her stare becoming more intense. Already categorising his movements.
But only for another day, he thought. Resting his back against the door and meeting her stare with his own. Basking in it. For a moment, losing himself to the quiet. The few moments when the clock stopped ticking in his head. When he was in her presence. Knowing what he needed to do…now…tomorrow…and the day after that.
Until he was forced to…let go…and move on. The ticking starting again as he turned his back on her. "Just remember, there is a reason," he said again. Mostly to himself this time.
And in doing so, receiving his own gift. A moment in time. Reinette still continuing to study him from beneath her veil. And then taking his breath away as she pushed the darkness back, revealing her face as she used to do when any conversation required clarity rather than banter…
…so she could see him eye to eye. Still his Reinette. Each iris holding him close. Like she could see into the hole, sensing that something was off…and abandoning their chess game, the battle of words, for the thing that truly mattered. The simple question he heard too often and yet not enough.
"Lyosha, are you alright," she said discerningly. And yet so plainly. So used to being old that she still spoke as though her voice was deeper than it was.
And he wanted to tell her.
So badly.
But it was like…
…holding threads. Like that old tapestry, falling apart in his mind, the few times he dreamt of it. He kept losing it…and yet he knew…exactly how to fix…all of it. As long as he stuck to his plan.
"Everything is fine," he said reassuringly. Because he did not want to lie to her either. "…or it will be," he added, opening the door behind him…and stepping back into the hallway. "…because I solved everything."
It was his second mistake.
Sharing that.
Because she'd taken a step forward. That discerning eye no longer on his face, but his hands. Almost following him as though he'd said something to give her concern. "What do you mean you…solved…everything?"
"I mean…"
Because it could not be more clear.
"…that I solved…everything."
And with all in hand, he shut the door.
o…o…o
Leaving her almost alone.
With her thoughts.
And her guard.
Her dearest friend in the world. And the only one she truly trusted with knowledge. That his hands had been shaking. Too much this time. And the thing she thought was happening…
…was actually happening. But not in the way she'd wanted it.
Reinette turned.
"Rena, can you please follow him?"
There was a distinct sigh this time from Rena…who had spent the past twenty...socially-horrific...minutes seated on the chair by the other side of the hallway table. Trying to blend with the wallpaper in a manner that only a piece of wallpaper could appreciate. Wishing—as Sabine sometimes did—that they could just get on with things so that she could get on with things.
But the woman nodded.
She would follow.
A/N: This chapter is brought to you by Rushwriter hiding in a cupboard, frantically writing on her phone while her children yell, "Mummy, where are you?" Many thanks to all who have been reading, reviewing and following! As an aside, I've started a Tumblr for Prelude (visuals, inspiration, etc.). If you're curious, you can find me as sincerelyrushwriter.
On that note, onwards!
Celine: Thank you, I'm feeling much better!
Guest: Regarding Sonja's necklace, apologies to any who were searching for it in the last chapter That is entirely my fault. I indicated it might show up, but it did not. Not even a little bit. But it is still among Lucian's things. The last time we saw it was in Chapter 17 Murder on the Orient. It was in the wooden box Sabine was handling right before the attack. (And typically when he's "home," it's in his quarters.)
It did finally make an appearance in this chapter while Lucian is packing. (Poor Langley is thinking "Oh my goooosh, Lucian is packing! What is he up to???")
Barbara Dias: I loved that we've reached that point when he's able to start thinking on Sonja again (he's been shoving the memories down for way too long). I couldn't find the fan or hater meme but it sounds very amusing.
Love in Halsey: He is very unpredictable!
Mackenzie: I do hope Sonja and Reinette would have respected one another (assuming they lived in a world without Lucian as the connecting factor).
Guest: I think he might sign! Or will he...?
Sallyster Moon: You are so so right about the low self-esteem.
Hannah-Brietom65: So true...I think when Lucian actually chooses to get in a bath, you know he's in trouble.
Ella: It is about to get SO much more tangled.
Ursiearielw12: I am doing so much better these days (thank you for the kind wishes)! Hopefully we get the next chapters soon (every time I'm in a work meeting, if I look like I'm planning something VERY serious, it's actually the next chapter of this fanfiction.) Stay tuned for Hangrove!
Malik: (Rushwriter joins chanting) On a cliff! On a cliff! On a cliff!
MermaidVampire: I'll definitely see if I can slip Jacqueline into one of the upcoming chapters (Diggory is here so she's definitely in the house somewhere). I think you're right about Reinette. She needs to find herself. (And yes, lycans are SO gossipy!)
BelAyre: I think without the mourning knife, most of the ladies probably saw Freyja as a breakup waiting to happen (even after he'd tied his investments up in the marriage contract)...so next chapter might be the first time people really start to react to its presence. It's kind of like the engagement ring...and he SHOULD have handed it over ten years ago, but he's been stubbornly holding onto it...so I think most ladies like Jacqueline have been assuming they'd be comforting Freyja at some point just like someone had comforted them.
And yes, he totally said it. ;)
Guest: I know! Freyja definitely has the knife now.
Guest: He needs to keep better track of his ivory!
Storytellingislo: That was so lovely to read! Hopefully the puzzle continues to excite!
