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Chapter LXXX: A Carousel of Wolves

It would have been fine if he'd not started dwelling on it. The next two days filling him with a strange confusion. Trying to understand precisely what was rubbing his fur the wrong way. His initial unease centring on the realisation that he would be spending three days surrounded by high society without alcohol. Which in turn had him thinking about how at least—if he had to handle it, then Reinette would have to handle it as well.

Which gave him some consolation. Until he began wondering why the cook had served him porridge for several weeks—citing rations as her excuse—when the entire time, Reinette had been dining like a queen. Which in turn made him think back to the chess game. And it ought to have stopped there…because for four years, although they'd been ignoring each other to some degree, he'd still seen her in her current state—and it had been inconsequential. But then his mind kept going.

To the point that he was now finding himself painfully aware of her idiosyncrasies. Things he'd known about her…for decades…but rarely thought about because they were so banal. Her manner of moving a bishop for example. Not a rook. Not a pawn. Just the bishop. As usual, considering her play, absentmindedly turning the bishop three times between her fingers. Touching the piece once to her throat and then decisively placing it on a square. A move he'd seen her do countless times.

Only it was…no longer…banal. The way her veil grazed her throat beneath the bishop. Like he'd wandered down a familiar path, expecting to see a dried up riverbank and finding a waterfall instead. Albeit frozen, but a waterfall nonetheless. Beautiful…and incredibly dangerous. At the time, he'd been confused by the feeling and rather than allow it to surface, he'd made a point of seeking out anything that could help him avoid acknowledging it. Suggesting they review the cigarette-burnt messages from Sabine so he could have an excuse for doing something mundane.

And so they'd paused—and they'd talked…and then he'd read his newspaper for the rest of the game. Trying to focus on things that irritated him. Surely a winning strategy considering he'd put together a lengthy list after living with her for twenty-three years, give or take four. For example—and this was just the tip of the iceberg—she habitually had blood-stains on her right index finger…not because she was a messy eater, but because she picked her teeth when she thought no one was looking. A second item. Rather than allowing Rena to clean her preferred riding habit, she tended to wear it several months in a row, wafting the smell of sweat, mud, and horse manure—long after it ought to have been burned. Even Sonja never smelled so rank. And a third. She had a tendency to run her tongue over the back of her incisors when she was hungry…and it made the slightest of sounds that once heard could not be unheard.

Also…

…she bit things. All the fucking time. There were notches on everything. Her pens. Her books. Her furniture. Even her bed had notches on it. And that was where things took an unfortunate turn. Realising that before he'd connected the biting to the bed, he'd just seen it as…mindless…biting. Mildly irritating at best, but bearable as long as he remembered how many of her chairs he'd destroyed during his tenure. But in the context of her bedroom—which admittedly he rarely saw now—he'd started seeing it in a new light. Seeing the same notches, the same bed…

…only it was…not the older Reinette, it was that…woman…in the photograph. Like his memories were starting to coalesce with her…existing state. All of which he had to ignore because to focus on it would be to admit that he was descending into a hell of his own making. One that required an extreme form of concentration for the sake of keeping his scent together. Particularly since he knew it was a passing thought—and given her history of being married to a madman, the last thing she'd want to do was climb into bed with another one. More to the point, it was exactly as he'd told Allegra. They were two mature individuals. They were not fucking.

So there was no issue.

And for Reinette, there did not appear to be an issue. Her tendency to brood rather than speak when forced into a position she'd rather avoid, leading to a very short conversation—naturally with Allegra in the room—regarding the possibility of her being out and about on the arm of Erling during the coming season.

To which she responded, "Fine."

o…o…o

But.

It was not fine.

Reinette spending the same two days trying to understand precisely what was causing her to lose sleep. Hours of it. Enough that at ten in the morning, she was lying there, staring at the ceiling, running her tongue along the back of her incisors, trying to understand her problem. One that apparently Lucian did not have, considering he'd spent the entire conversation picking gold-leaf from one of his nails while Allegra conveyed the exciting news. A new wardrobe. Fittings to be done in her last two weeks of restriction.

She threw the covers off. Crossing the bedroom floor and throwing the wardrobe open. Digging past the old mourning dresses and veils until she had it in hand. The beaded dress. Rumpled. She tried smoothing it out. Holding it up against her torso. Trying to understand why it had felt so different wearing whatever she wanted…without a veil…at the docks.

The short answer was she'd been drunk or dealing with the aftermath of being drunk. Dancing for hours with people who did not know…or care who she was. No longer forced to stand against a wall, waiting for it to end. All of the dinners, the hunts, the balls and festivities she'd attended and avoided in turn. Midsummer. Solstice. The Yuletide ball which always seemed to end with several drunken people streaking naked across a snow-covered lawn. Hours of watching him drink across a room, occasionally toasting her arrival, while a carousel of wolves nipped at her heels.

And now they expected her to just…

…take off her veil.

Take off the only thing protecting her from their gaze. Assume that for twenty-three years, none of it had affected her. The idle comments, the simpering, the cruel insults they knew she could hear. Things that should not have affected her…but did. The memories carrying her easily to the one room she rarely used, where she was finally able to christen the new toilet they'd installed two years ago.

She threw up.

o…o…o

Fortunately, the rest of the house was unaware that her head was over the toilet. Not with six weeks of activities and a ball to prepare, all of which had the desired effect of giving Lucian very little time to think on things he'd rather not think on. Especially with Allegra roosting in his study again. She'd brought twelve menus, each from a different den—and they needed him to narrow it down to one. Which would have been fine if she'd not also been perusing his schedule.

The lady flipping back through the past three months, back and forth, before abruptly pointing out the issue. "Aleksey, have you gone celibate?"

He glanced up. "I'm sorry?"

"Celibate."

"And…" He felt mildly confused by the question. "…how is that your business?"

She gave him a look. One that suggested she was going to go talk to Raze. Which meant Raze would have to talk to him. And Raze would talk to her. In which case, he might as well skip the rigmarole and just…

"Alright—fine," he snapped. Having found his place again, he resumed trying to comprehend the necessity for so many courses. "I thought I would give it a go after the war," he explained. "Singe keeps calling it a road to recovery."

"Darling, do not go to Singe for advice on sexual matters."

"First…" He pointed his pen at her. "…it was Raze who suggested I talk to Singe, and second..." He underlined three hors d'oeuvres and added a question mark beside them. "…I was celibate for over two hundred years, so it's a non-issue."

Allegra made a laughing sound of disbelief. "Two hundred?"

"…and twenty-one years."

"Even with all the…"

He shrugged. "It doesn't count."

"Of course it does," she said. Examining his discard pile. "Pearls always count when one is willing to dive for them—or was that not your experience?"

"Depends on the pearl," he said, sliding the second menu over to the middle of the table. Now trying to understand why the Venetian chef wanted to serve a soufflé during the third course. Why not the first…or the last? Why not give the fucking thing a chance instead of signing it up to fail spectacularly in the middle of a eight hour charity dinner without alcohol? He crumpled the entirety of that one as well. "Remind me why I am doing this?"

"Keep to the shadows and survive the war," she said vivaciously, her tone perfectly answering why the covens still had no idea they existed. None of them would dream that a society of werewolves could be so mundane. All of them capable of…so much more…but doomed to live a life of bureaucracy. "Also whichever menu you choose gives the chef a contract for the following year…"

"On what?"

"The next Gathering."

He frowned, eyeing her with more than a little pessimism. Already envisioning a table no longer filled with raw beef, but a line of Waldorf salads. They were regressing. And yet there was something to be said for the inclusion of fermented herring by the den of Thore, who rarely spoke at most Gatherings, but seemed to be walking a very bold line by suggesting a course that was literally made of rotting fish. Not to say that he wanted to eat it…simply that it was…interesting.

In which case…

…one more.

He continued reading.

Allegra still looking on with amusement while she waited for him to sign one. Her eye travelling from the drapes—long since replaced with something more elegant and yet admittedly warmer during the winter months—over to the stained glass window before finally coming to rest on a drawer on the right side of his desk. Its contents hardly a secret considering she'd probably had Raze do a full inventory. The key. The photograph. All the things he ought to have burned after Reinette left them behind. Staring for a brief moment at the handle before idling over to the window. "You know there are other options beyond Erling," she said. "Have you considered introducing her to someone more…compatible?"

He moved onto the desserts. "You mean older than a millennium?"

"Oh, you know what I mean," she said, flicking a finger at a winter walk occurring beneath one of the other windows. "…perhaps she just needs…" She searched for the word. "…a bedfellow."

Don't we all, he thought grimly, scratching his forehead with the barrel of the pen. Suddenly wary—thanks to Allegra's interrogation—that it had been four years since the war ended…and therefore four years since he'd fucked someone against a wall. The thought of it…the constant…ever present…thought of it nearly causing him to lose focus again.

Blood, he needed a fuck.

"Well it never hurts to ask," she muttered. Taking the opportunity to return to her seat. "And I know at least a dozen candidates who'd be more than willing. What if I were to arrange someone for her?"

Oh fuck it.

He signed the menu with the fermented herring. "How is this my jurisdiction?"

Allegra gave a light laugh as though he were being silly. "Well, if anyone is her chaperone, Aleksey, I think it would be you."

"So broach the subject with her," he said, capping his pen before shifting his choice back to her side of the table. His work here was done, he thought. Now starting to peruse the other items on his desk, least of all the ball's schedule…

…it was a three-day affair.

Like the antithesis of Midsummer. The first two days filled with afternoon teas and the third culminating in an eight hour charity dinner and dance followed by breakfast at dawn. Allegra kept calling it a "splendid experience" with only the "bare minimum" of forty or so rules of etiquette. The entirety of which he'd be expected to follow for the sake of inspiring a younger generation—who in twenty years would be opening their pocket-books. He was running out of excuses.

"What about Benoit?"

Allegra was frowning over his choice of menu. "For Reinette?"

He nearly bit his tongue. "No—for the fucking ball."

"Oh." She added her signature beneath his own. "He's been cited as lacking in experience."

"He's three hundred."

"Two hundred and seventy-one."

Shit.

o…o…o

Twenty-four hours later.

He could literally see circumstances degenerating in front of him, starting with Allegra's manner of leaving his study the previous evening. He should have known there was reason she was perusing his schedule. Typically on the Northern visits, Freyja would have her schedule…and he would have his…and occasionally, their two paths would meet and there would be a ride. This time, there seemed to be an actual effort being made to increase the number of times their schedules crossed. His excuses dying a painful death on the floor as Allegra added a flourishing symbol to her black book and tucked it away out of sight with the words, "Tomorrow at ten?"

To which he'd responded…

"Fine."

But.

It was not fine.

Despite being at the designated spot, a particularly hideous portrait of a Flemish landowner who looked suspiciously like Gustav, precisely at ten, he knew it was not fine. They were supposed to be viewing the gallery. But with Reinette still under restriction, Erling had bowed out. Which left Allegra and a resentful Sabine walking on the opposite side of the great hall, while he and Freyja toured the new pieces.

Once again, she'd pulled out the stops. The simple line of her dress, embroidered silk lined with peonies, giving him a…shall he say, bountiful view of spring. Her attendant remaining ten steps behind, but maintaining enough distance that a farce of having a chaperone could be maintained during what he soon realised was meant to be a private conversation.

"May I speak freely, milord?"

"Of course," he said. Taking pains not to walk too quickly lest they miss the other three portraits of Gustav that—once again—came with the house. "I have no desire to restrict you."

She bowed graciously, continuing to walk by his side. Daring to take his arm. "For several years now, I was advised by my father and brother to keep…a distance…from Miss Jeanne-Antoinette. And as a consequence, I fear she may…assume…that I do not hold her in high regard."

And fuck.

It had started.

First the delicate biting of the lip. Then the brief pursing of the brow as she looked down. "Has the Lady Allegra spoken to you about this, milord?"

"She has."

"And you'd give it your blessing?"

He was not following. "On what precisely?"

She took to his reticence easily. Her fingers poised delicately as she drew him to the next painting. "Ideally I'd like to spend time with her—as we used to in the North."

"Time?"

He was stalling.

"Yes, milord."

"Doing what?"

"I am at a loss, milord." She made it sound as though she had tried all. "She has never fully warmed to me, but…given your friendship, I thought you could provide some suggestion, based on your previous interactions."

Allegra was watching him like a hawk from across the room while appearing to admire a Rococo portrait of a mother and child. Sabine had crossed her arms and was sitting on the gallery bench, waiting for it to be over. As for himself…despite counselling Allegra to make the walls crumble, he'd been imagining himself in a different setting—one filled with peace and quiet—while it happened. All of them keenly aware that any interaction between Freyja and Reinette, typically in a language he did not speak, seemed to last for a very short time—and upon any inquiry as to how the conversation had gone, the answer was habitually 'fine.'

Or in other words…

…not.

A fact that he was content to ignore, given how few times their paths crossed in his presence. In short, he felt like backing away. But there was nowhere to go. And far too long of a silence. The thirty-two seconds of Freyja staring finally prompting him to say something.

"I suppose she…"

Oh, this was the stuff of nightmares.

"…still collects plants," he finally suggested. His tendency to avoid explicitly parading his activities with Reinette in front of Freyja lending some mystery to the precise nature of what that meant after ten years.

"Any species in particular?"

"No, it's more to do with the…" He started walking again, suddenly cognisant of how poor a choice he'd made in the realm of conversation. "…time of year."

"Perennials?"

"Not exactly."

Allegra had overheard. And she knew where it was going. He knew she knew because she was now staring hard at him. Her hand very subtly making the sign for him to…stop…talking.

And…

…he was talking.

"No, we were…" He ignored Allegra. "…finding the plants too quickly," he explained, scratching his beard. "So we devised a system…" Perhaps Allegra was wrong. Perhaps by sharing with Freyja, he would be contributing to the kind of relationship-building that would benefit a future marriage. "…using the season and botanical name…and depending on the cipher, if you find a specimen out of order, then…"

Shit.

There was no way out of the sentence. He'd started it…and now he needed to finish it. He needed to solidify her understanding that his daily life as an immortal was not the exciting adventure that people in their first century of life thought it was.

But Freyja was nodding. "Yes?"

"Well, you…leave it," he finished. "And perhaps it's there the next time you search, but perhaps not…and it means it can take years to complete a collection rather than just…" He forced himself to say it. "…you know, months."

And that was…

…that.

"That's very clever."

Was it?

He saw Sabine feign a yawn on the other side of the gallery. Tapping her foot against the bench before she crossed her legs with an entirely unnecessary eyeroll. She used to come out with them in the early days. Practically lived for finding a specimen of Polystichum braunii. But one thing led to another…and eventually it just seemed easier to tell a fifteen year old that if she was so bored by their company, then she could bloody well see herself home.

Which of course, she never did…

…because inevitably Reinette would give him a look and while she went on ahead, he'd have to turn back, secretly following the girl, making certain she was in the house before they could carry on with the walk. But no one ever remembered that part when they were hating you with every fibre of their being.

"Yes, well…" He indicated the next corridor. One that hopefully had a landscape. "Good way to pass the time."

Freyja followed his lead. "Does she garden?"

"No," he said quickly.

And then corrected himself.

"Well…" Because of course, there was a story, he thought. "…she did for a while, but it was…"

How to describe it…

…months spent listening to his gardener, the kitchen staff, and some of the grounds-people complain about her desire to cultivate rows and rows of plants that could kill people.

"…a non-starter."

Freyja's eyes had not dropped this time. An occurrence that was rare since their first meeting, but deep down, still there. The hunter whose lips were drawn back in good humour as she watched her prey.

"Anything else?"

He was definitely in a trap. An odd state to find himself in, given that most people were not curious about what he and Reinette actually did in their spare time. Most people just wanted the rumour. But Freyja genuinely seemed to want to know. And he'd spent so long not discussing the matter that…it felt good to share it. Almost freeing. In fact, he could feel himself starting to loosen up.

Allowing himself to think about it. Her interests. Her hobbies. Things that excited her…other than…the newer things. Because if he was not careful, his mind would veer towards it. He knew his mind would veer, but he was in control. Because that was…the key. Anything prior to 1919. Anything to do with her being…

…old.

"Let's see, there was…" He went back in his head. Starting to circle a sculpture—also Gustav—so it was between them. "…uhm, horse-breeding. She's quite good at that."

Her face lit up. "The Kismer Half-breeds."

"Yes, we kept track of them for a while," he said. Pleased to see her interest. Freyja was an accomplished horsewoman, so to some degree, he'd wondered if she would take a similar interest in not just the riding, but the breeding side of things. All their work chronicled on an old chart in one of his files, the years getting progressively smaller as they went off to the right. 1920. 1916. 1909. 1888. 1870. 1861. The red lines following four specific names. Hemlock. Oleander. Foxglove. Mistletoe. Each of them underlined and—upon further examination, stemming from the same lineage. The four years after 1909 when in the centre of the chart, the circled Our Lady of Sixteen Hands was annually bred to Aconitum.

"Is there a record?"

"No," he said. Not bothering to explain further. Because if he really thought about it, Aconitum belonged to Reinette and Our Lady of Sixteen Hands—God rest her soul—had been his favourite mare. Which meant he'd bred their horses together. Four years in a row. Even he had to agree…

…that looked bad.

He started walking again.

Moving on…

"Music?"

"Anything with a cello."

Freyja nodded, seeming to appreciate the short answer. By her scent, taking his words not only in stride but with appreciation. Only leaving his hand for a moment to walk ahead, turning gracefully, nearly a pirouette to indicate the surrounding walls. "Art?"

"Surprisingly not the Pre-Raphaelite movement." He was wondering if she should start writing this down. "I bought her a Turner once and that seemed to go over well. Loves botanical illustrations. Prefers intricacy over simplicity. And yet once became obsessed with this painting of a Sussex cow that she…just…adored for some reason."

Freyja was looking intrigued. "Did she ever explain why?"

"No," he said, thinking back on the piece. "And honestly I was not seeing it—but she loved it. So…" He shrugged. "…it's a hit or miss situation with the art."

Allegra was looking ill across the hall, but Freyja merely smiled, studying him with an air of discernment. "Is that the cow painting in the drawing room?"

"It is."

She laughed softly, looking slightly perplexed. "Are there not two in the library as well?"

He could feel his smile start to lose some of its depth. Possibly. But he'd forgotten about those. "Yes, I believe the artist had done…a series…of them," he said. Four to be exact. The first and most favoured of the series likely in storage with the rest of his belongings from Oppenheim. It used to hang in their sitting room. Or rather…

His…

…sitting room.

Time to change the subject.

"Do you have a preference yourself…" He knew he must have asked her over the course of the past ten years, and yet for the life of him…he had no idea what her answer had been. "Art or…music?"

She turned, looking over her shoulder. Mysterious as she continued to walk ahead like she was leading him somewhere hidden. Her scent filled with an appreciation for the question. "I do, milord…but you may find it an odd choice."

"I'm surrounded by odd choices."

"Have you ever heard of Marie Laurencin?"

"Can't say that I have."

She enlightened him. Not too long. Just the details required to describe something without losing his attention. Not the first time she'd given him that sense. A creature with a mind of her own who'd been born in the wrong den.

"Fascinating."

And he meant it.

o...o…o

Which did not stop the rest of the week from being a disaster. The first night starting well for Reinette when Weylan inexplicably arrived with one of the old paintings from the Oppenheim sitting room.

She'd loved that painting.

The cow holding little interest to her, but its associated memory drawing her back time and again. That first night when she deigned to sit longer than a moment. Her eye happening on the first painting that happened to be across from her. Deciding then that if she was to spend eternity as an aged creature, she might as well do so in contemplation of a cow.

Seating herself night after night before the painting, unable to do more than study brushstrokes, until she felt ready to move forward with the rest of her future. Lucian keeping a careful eye on her in those days, all the while saying nothing, but eventually taking her on a midnight outing to a gallery, hooded and in secret after the place was closed to the public. She'd seen another of the cows and stared at it the longest. Neither of them speaking, but he seeming to take a shine to it as well for he ended up purchasing two more within the year.

Like seeing her ceiling rose again, only she could enjoy the thing without her bones aching. Weylan handing her a small card, which quickly quashed the fond memory. It was Freyja who'd sent the painting—not Lucian, she realised, holding the signed card, thanking Weylan briefly before dropping the card in the fire after he left. Reminding herself that two decades had passed, the year was 1923 and whatever sentiment Lucian might have for their past, a painting of a cow was not among them.

As expected, the second night was worse. Allegra showing up at her door followed by Rena who'd been conscripted to carry a dozen patterned boxes wrapped in silk ribbon. Gifts for her pleasure. Spiced blood from Lisbon. Stockings from Paris. A small golden safety razor for…her underarms…apparently. Allegra making a pishing sound when she mentioned the ban on sharp items in her quarters. "Nonsense," the lady said. "Do they expect you to shave your legs with a butter knife?"

It was a challenging question. Allegra seeming to think she was in possession of knowledge that could explain why she ought to be shaving at all. Her memories scant in that area. Perhaps it was a lycan custom. Years before, she'd seen one in Lucian's toiletry bag, but given that all her aged parts were covered, it had never occurred to her that she ought to use one.

A wave of panic sweeping over her as she tried to remember whether the other women at the docks had underarm hair. Or leg hair. Suddenly realising that Sabine's underarms were indeed always shaved. But then…was it wrong to show hair in places other than one's scalp? And why would hair grow naturally in such places if it was not meant to be there? Her belief in the fundamental right of all women to ignore what was surely an archaic custom founded on a male-centric point of view failing to address the more pressing question…

…had Lucian seen her underarm hair on the night when she'd been wearing the beaded dress? Was that why he was horrified? Was it not the dress?

After a disturbing minute of staring at the safety razor, questioning everything she knew about the world, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Determining not to think on it again until she had more time to feel nauseated. Instead, following Allegra into the bathroom, watching with some curiosity as the woman began to unpack a host of things that she'd never seen before.

"Now," the lady said, laying out her offerings on the marble counter. "Rena has told me that since your youth has returned, you do menstruate. Is that correct?"

That…

…was…private.

She looked at Rena…

…who looked away. Refusing to notice the wave of hostility that was now coming from her direction. Allegra noticing the wave and proceeding to wave it away as though it could not possibly exist when they were all women.

"Come now, Reinette, we are here to help," she said. Holding up a blue box labelled Kotex as though it contained Christmas. "As I understand it, you spend this time in your quarters, refusing to leave…and Rena, bless her soul, has simply been handling the laundry rather than providing you with options." Allegra seemed to have taught this class before. "Now since the war, there have been sanitary advancements beyond what you may have seen in your past. And together, ladies, we will now explore these advancements which are going to make your lives easier. The way it works…" She opened the box…

…and ten minutes later, Reinette was ready for the sun to swallow her whole and spit out the ashes. But the visit kept going. It was like Allegra was stripping her. Her lack of response and eye contact finally prompting the lady to suggest they move on to the actual fitting.

Her bed soon covered in fabric swatches, while they looked through the wardrobe. The beaded dress left hanging in the back with the relatively tame comment of "Well, they do it in France, dear," but the rest of her clothing falling to the guillotine. The lady discarding dress after dress while regaling her with stories from the mortal fashion world. Names like 'darling Coco' and 'poor poor Poiret' meaning very little to her.

Her only understanding of this tantalising lifestyle typically formed out of the magazines and newspapers brought to her sitting room. Publications that someone—possibly Weylan—still assumed ought to be an exact mirror of those brought to the lord of the house. In other words, her grasp of feminine life was based upon advertisements like "Harrod's Quality Menswear" and "Toe and Heel Interwoven Socks for a fitting present and a whole-soled future."

And it was here that she let her guard down. The next hour filled with a warmth that she'd forgotten. The same sensation that she sometimes found in Sabine's presence. Not the drinking or dancing. But the realisation that she was a woman. That she could enjoy feminine things. Until very abruptly, just as she was pouring her second glass of bloodwine, Allegra stood up and pulled a tape measure from her pocket. "Alright, dear—dress off please." She clapped her hands. "Rena, hold the door."

Which left her standing naked, wrapped in black silk, trying to stand up straight with her arms folded beneath what was not an ample bosom. Giving her little choice but to go along with the tide of what came next. Because one would assume the tide would have to do with clothing. Or at least she'd assumed so, right until the moment Allegra handed her a pincushion.

"So…" Allegra drew the tape measure around her bust. "Have you considered taking a lover?"

The pincushion nearly dropped. "I'm sorry?"

"Mortal or otherwise, Reinette—we live in the twentieth century. All can be arranged, if you so desire."

"I hadn't…" The black silk wrapped around her torso jerked up suddenly, forcing her to rebalance. "…thought on it," she finished. Realising too late that she'd added a negative to the sentence…and used the past tense. A candid lesson from Lucian several years ago having finally taught her that in English, when saying sorry, one was not actually sorry. And if she really wanted to shut down a subject, she was to tell people she would think on it.

Allegra made a mark in the black book she was holding. "Surely the dress must have started a thought?"

They were not talking about clothes anymore, she realised. But assuming a thought was not a 'thought,' then the dress in question had indeed started several 'thoughts' when she was at the docks. All of which she had…turned down. Like a fool. The option of…doing anything with…anyone…seeming enticing until she paired the idea with an oily tarp in the middle of a urine-coated alleyway. By a dock. That was infested with rats.

"Not really."

She felt a pin sneaking a little too close to one side. "Well when was your last encounter, dear?" Allegra's voice had taken on the tone of one who could not imagine that discussing such things could prompt anything but clear and candid conversation.

Yet she still felt like skirting around the subject. Pushing the pins further into the cushion. Starting to consider if—like her choice to avoid discussing the monthly cycle that came with youth—it was a problem if someone besides Rena knew the truth of the matter.

And though she liked to think she was impervious to Allegra's ministrations, she knew that she was not. From the first time the woman had bathed her, stroking the shoulders of an enemy all those years ago. Strong in her capacity to care…and incredibly kind. And so warm. The last hour of discussing everything from menstruation, however light, to the existence of electrical back massagers—which Allegra had stated quite clearly were not for her back—having pushed her into a state of no longer knowing what was too far out of her comfort. Easier to say it…and be done with it.

"I do not remember," she admitted. Forcing herself to meet Allegra's gaze for the first time since she'd seen the Kotex box. Because of course, she was used to this part. Like the time Weylan asked if she could swim so he could mark it down for her travel arrangements…and she had no answer for him. Her memories still filled with holes. Lucian the only one who seemed to have no issue with the question, simply pushing her into a lake the next time they went on a walk in order to find out the answer. And yes, she could swim.

"But you know the…" Allegra had paused in her draping, a look of tremendous curiosity upon her face. "…principle?"

Did she…

They were both looking at her now—Allegra directly and Rena more subtly looking at nothing by the door. And she froze. No longer sure of what she knew. Or how long it had been.

"Yes," she said quickly. Before anyone could start…explaining…anything further. Keeping her words short…but to the point. "I am…" She was a thousand years old. "…fully aware. I just…have no memory of…partaking," she said, hoping that would clarify the situation.

It did.

Excruciatingly so.

And it ought to have felt worse after that. But Allegra seemed to envelop her in warmth, placing a steadying hand over hers. "Oh my dear," she began. As though all had been explained and was not only right, but beautiful. "There is nothing of which to be ashamed," she said. "…take all the time you need—and if at any point, you wish to expand upon your experiences, you need only ask…and all can be arranged."

She made herself nod. Ignoring how flushed her cheeks were feeling all of a sudden. Focusing on the pincushion instead. Trying not to think on how a thousand years of…that part of her past…had been wiped by her Awakening. Her few memories of anything remotely…of that nature…still formed out of…idle dreams…and the throes of a death vision. And the rest locked behind a door. The key to it—that dreadful feeling of being bound—something she'd not thought of in two decades. As though her mind had sought to purge itself of…

…something.

She jerked back from the thought. Feeling the pain before she saw it. Blood on her finger. Quickly touching it to her tongue before it could drip. All the pins on the ground. Her breath short and her skin starting to sweat. But Rena knowing what to do. Idly humming. Reaching out for her hand as she'd done so many years ago. Her voice soft and soothing, like a song telling her to breathe. Until she started to relax again.

Her mind drifting off, eyes closed, listening to the sound, soft and soothing. Until the pins had all been gathered and the work began again. Unable to see Allegra studying her as she adjusted the line of the draping. Taking a step back now and then to appraise her work…before nodding. As though all was right in the world.

Even though it was not.

o…o…o

Until the time had passed and the ten-week restriction was over. Lucian now sitting on a bench beyond Reinette's quarters with one of his oxfords hooked against the other. It was probably a bad idea, but he was so used to doing it with his boots that it was hard to break a habit after seven hundred years. Allegra had tried to talk him out of being in the hallway, but there were still some parts of his house that he could control. Some areas that were off limits to the surrounding populace. And she was right.

If anyone was her chaperone in this den of wolves, it was him. He was the one who'd offered her this life. The one who'd fucked it up by failing to realise just how strange people would find the notion of a vampire living in his household. And now after twenty-three years, he was going to face the fucking music—and at the very least, walk both her and Sabine down the staircase, instead of letting every ingrate on the main floor treat her like a fucking aberration.

Also he was still hoping to give Sabine the necklace. Her presence at this blood-forsaken private dinner suggesting some bribery may have passed between her and Allegra. Making him wonder if more and more, he was losing a grip on his household. All the things that kept it running. If he was honest with himself, it was Raze he needed to talk to. Allegra refusing to stomach any potential waves in his behaviour and constantly assuring him that he just needed to get past the season. Four rides, three walks, two dinners and one event where he'd inexplicably have to leave before the second half. Assuming they even made it to the car, he thought, checking his watch.

Eight minutes behind schedule.

She always left it to the last minute. Every one of their outings since 1904 a matter of him pacing a hole in the front hall, barking her name before finally leaving her behind. It was only after 1910 that he realised sitting on a bench, guarding their coats, might be a better use of his time. That and seeing how long it took to wear out the back of his shoes. The shine on his oxfords saved by the familiar sound of steps on his left.

Finally.

He stood up…

…and immediately realised how poor a choice he'd just made. Wishing he could go back in time. Knowing they'd moved past the point of ignoring it. Past the point when he could lie to himself about why things were not and might never be fine.

Still Reinette, and yet without the veil, it was…that woman. Her face frozen in time for so many years. Still sharp in its appraisal of the world, the lady whose gaze had come alive and seemed to strip him to his core. And he could see what they'd tried to do. The accessories limited to her pendant. The dress leaving nothing to chance, merely a modest black shift that went to the knee. Everything meant to keep her…less…than her peers. Like trying to hide a masterpiece behind a black frame. Only to find it suited her…

…so well.

All their years leaving him at a disadvantage. He still was not ready. But for her, all was as it had been. This…younger…version of Reinette moving past him to look in the mirror, checking her teeth for blood-stains before she turned, using her hands to indicate the general area beneath her neck.

"It's not too simple?"

"No, you look…"

He wanted to say it.

So badly.

"…fine," he managed. Taking a step back, focusing more on fixing his cuff-links. Realising they were already fastened and putting his hands in his pockets instead. "Is Sabine ready?"

"Almost."

"Good."

She sat on the hall bench, putting a purse down while they waited. He considering the painting beside the bench—an unfortunate Pre-Raphaelite piece that ironically depicted the banishment of Hamlet—and she eyeing her pendant-watch now. "What time do you have?"

"Ten past."

"Damn," she muttered. "It's one of the older ones. Always a few minutes behind."

"I'll send it for repair," he offered. "It's probably overdue."

She nodded. "Probably."

And they continued waiting.

He sat down. And immediately regretted it. Scratching the line of his neck, while looking for the first reasonable excuse that would let him vacate the bench. Suddenly aware of how close she was. Two feet. His eye still blind on that side, but her scent…

…so close.

She smelled like calla lilies. The sound of Sabine providing him with something else to focus on. They both stood up...and it felt strange for a minute. The three of them in the hallway, reminding him of a different time when one of them had been substantially shorter. A red-haired girl of eleven pulling them forward so they might see the butterflies she'd scratched into the wallpaper—which he had specifically commissioned three decades prior from the workshop of William Morris—who was now dead. Much better than the previous pattern, she'd assured them.

Naturally, it had been…difficult…not to react, but Reinette had been adamant that they keep a portion of the wallpaper and simply frame it for posterity. His mind still having difficulty comprehending that the child had grown up. Only the red hair to tell him it was the same young woman standing between them. Seeming to be waiting for something.

And then Sabine sighed loudly. "Are we going?"

He snapped out of it.

"Yes."

They started walking to the landing…and then he stopped. Coats. He'd forgotten coats. It was freezing outside. Finding the one hanging on the bench. Getting Reinette sorted. Seeing her off and then standing for another ten seconds while Sabine gave him a slightly disturbed, mildly piercing…ever so slightly disgusted…look that took a moment to interpret.

Fuck.

She had a coat as well, he realised. Going back for it…and in the same instant, debating whether it was the right moment. The necklace still in his pocket. Always there to remind him that he'd fucked up once…and if he did it again, that would be it. That when he gave her the necklace, he would be risking something. The uneasy peace that seemed to come when the three of them were together.

So he left it.

Again.

Reinette watching him help Sabine from the stairwell, always discerning in her gaze and the only one who might know all his secrets. All the ones that mattered. Not just the necklace, but the reason why his hands were not shaking. Why he was sleeping so well. Wishing he could just…tell her…what was happening. That he was spiralling again. That after years of living without his drugs, he'd slipped after spending a grand total of twenty-six nights away from her in 1914. His supplier was McNally…which was why—despite their differences—he kept him around. Knowing that every night, he needed more of the drug…and eventually, he would drag everyone he loved down with him—and that it needed to stop.

All of it…

…needed to stop.

Neither looking away this time as he came to stand beside her. Wishing he could offer his arm, but instead, reaching for the railing. "Ready then?"

And for an instant, it was as though she were looking at a stranger. As though she were seeing him in a new light. Or perhaps an old one. Looking over her shoulder to where Sabine was standing. Like the bird that had been told to perch precisely so by the photographer, only to change her position mid-way. Fingers in motion, her form starting to stray…

…but her face suddenly turned back towards him. The familiar jaw, the lips slightly parted. The eyes filled with an arrogance that reminded him of things he wished to forget. No longer locked in time as she spoke.

"No."

And he could have lied to her.

But he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, wishing he could tell her it would be alright. That eventually, it would be fine. And then with his other hand, he led her forward so it could happen just as he knew it would. His gait loose as they came down the steps. And he should have known Allegra would not let it happen. The rest of their party waiting on the landing for the second floor. Beautiful Freyja coming to join them…and Erling already showing his eagerness, that reckless scent of vice as he offered Reinette his arm. The exchange happening before they could reach the main floor. Sabine dutifully going to join Allegra and the rest of his guests…

…stopping.

Their eyes glinting in the dark, following Reinette with interest as Erling escorted her through the front hall…the same confusion they'd shown on the night he'd first brought her home. Their stares…the words that they were not saying…starting to become unbearable. Not just for Reinette…but Freyja. Her lungs moving faster until they reached the car. The windows black and the quadrille leaping forward.

Blood, this was going to be a nightmare, he thought.

A/N: Many thanks to Books-n-Harleys for your review—it made my day. I'm determined to keep the momentum going this time, so hopefully the next chapter comes quickly (although granted, Christmas might get in the way a bit—but hopefully not too much). As always, feel free to read and review. Onwards!