Chapter LXXXI: The Eve of Speculation

Two weeks later.

The stress was getting to everyone. As a consequence, though Reinette was meant to be attending the third walk of the now infamous quadrille, she'd instead asked Rena to go in her stead…and then after fifteen minutes of searching unsuccessfully for cigarettes in her quarters, she'd managed to scrounge two off the cook, after which she'd gone behind the stables for a very quick smoke.

And at some point, though Lucian was meant to be working in his study, he'd inexplicably appeared behind the same section of the stables, literally in the act of unscrewing his hip flask. Clearly heading out to his forge to spend his evening with said flask after he'd just professed to them all during the previous week that he would have to bow out from further walks as he was too busy to be doing anything but working on Line missives.

Their mutual appearance warranting further questions, but as usual, receiving none given that they were both up to no good, therefore no good would come of acknowledging the deception…

…so he joined her.

And though neither of them was meant to be there, they were both now sitting on the back-step, hidden from the house but still giving enough of a view that they'd see the first walkers over the hillock. The previous walks having already given her a good sense of how precisely the evening's activity would go, enough that she could confidently wager on Rena making it back before the others.

Freyja usually front of the pack, but likely going at a slower pace for the sake of her ladies-in-waiting…who were waiting on Erling…who was by now at the bottom of the hillock, regaling everyone with a tale of one of his many deeds on the Northern front. All of which Erling had told them during the previous two weeks.

Like a dance, that first dinner of the quadrille proceeding exactly as they'd expected. The boy showcasing his manners for the first twenty minutes and then rapidly changing his tune when it became apparent that no one, let alone his dinner partner, was charmed. As though youth could make her forget the three years she spent staring at a dying fire, while this boy—a drunken lout—pointed at her through the bars. Always surrounded by his friends. The kind of creature who'd grown bored of watching the wind.

That had been the first course. The second had involved his sister occasionally trying to redirect his attentions whenever he veered too close to insolence, Sabine picking unenthusiastically at her cocktail…and Lucian simply watching the entire debacle from across the table, looking like a man whose meal had gone sour. Half of the conversation drowned out by a cellist who seemed confused by her earplugs and blindfold, yet by the volume, determined to earn every penny of whatever fortune they'd paid her. None of them truly listening until the evening reached its inevitable conclusion…

…dessert.

Otherwise known as an onslaught of questions. The boy directing his conversation to Lucian, but his words protected by diplomatic immunity and therefore designed to be disconcerting. Could she fight back if a lycan attacked her… Was she allowed to hold a gun… How did the visions work… If a drop of his blood fell in her glass, what would happen… His knowledge of her file finally settling on that part of her lineage, her Sámi mother who could almost be forgotten, if he'd not ventured towards the topic like a goat running off a cliff. Illuminating them all with his interest in eugenics. Going so far as to ask his host if he had the measurements for her cranium.

The slight a step too far, Lucian immediately glancing at Freyja, who swiftly cut in with a sharp rebuke for her brother, though the damage was already done. The rest of the night passing in silence, while her memories closed in on themselves. Guarding her emotions before she could think too long on why the circumference of her skull mattered to this boy. For years, recalling the looks she'd been getting from the lycans of Gottfrid's den. The side glances. The curious whispers of 'what is her background again…'

And yet it was not the insult that had ruined her appetite. It was the look Lucian had shared with the girl. Like they were in harmony. Foolishly thinking she was the hawk that fed the hunter, when a golden eagle had been patiently roosting on his other wrist. Making her realise now all that she had missed. That youth was not enough, that he had been training this creature…his betrothed…for a purpose. He knew her now. Trusted her. They were a match…

…and it was a good one.

Which brought her back to the filthy stable step. Determined now to finish her smoke, get through the damned quadrille and return to her life of atrophying into wood. That and dealing with the after-effects of being on the arm of someone who'd spent his life successfully meeting all his goals for being a despicable person. Knowing what Erling was about, yet forced to go through the motion of holding his arm while they were in view of any who could gossip.

Her broken chatelaine the latest item in her possession to fold after ten seconds of Erling examining it, professing that he'd 'not seen one for years' and 'good gracious, do women still wear them?' His apology compromising of a neat observation that it was quite old and would likely have broken anyway, regardless of the years that she'd been carrying it. The kind of apology that made her realise how spoiled she'd become. That she'd grown used to living in a house where the lord of the manor made it his business to ensure that everyone treated her…and her things…like glass.

Granted he was not perfect, she decided begrudgingly, picking at some of the cold mud on her boot. Flicking it at the ground while contemplating his shortcomings. The lord of the manor still fully capable of breaking a chair on occasion, typically in his sleep, and always after three hours.

She'd even timed it.

All those years ago in Oppenheim. Her pendant watch teaching her that that without his drug, whether accidental or not, he would break something upon waking. The sheer constancy of his routine shedding light on why he preferred to sleep alone. More than one mistress habitually seen slipping down a corridor after a night in his quarters, yet embarrassingly barred from sleeping at his side, as though deep down inside, he feared it would not be a chair arm he broke while sleeping.

But therein lay the difference. The reason why she no longer felt like screaming at someone who so often used to ruin her things. For as often as he broke them, he always fixed them. His ability to feel remorse now woven into their lives…

…their strange…overtly orchestrated lives. Like living in a menagerie. Every corner of the house filled with people scrutinising their every move. And where once she'd blended into the greenery, able to spend a year in silence if she wished, it had become near impossible to walk a hallway without being accosted in some fashion. The onlookers, people in his circle who'd ignored her for years, always painfully polite, but quickly whispering amongst themselves as soon as their…quadrille…as Allegra had called it…had passed. As though by removing her veil, her face…the problem of youth…had pulled her into the same light in which he lounged, thereby forcing all of them to play out the farce.

Rides. Dinners. Parlour games. Neither of them quite having the words to describe how it felt, knowing that the following night, they could look forward to charades. But the mood perfectly summed up by the muggy weather. The hills covered in mud rather than snow, as though the land was refusing to acknowledge winter.

That and the spectre of doom sitting beside her, she thought, handing him the smoke. "Do you think he knows?"

"What," said Lucian without looking up. He was in the process of fixing her chatelaine, but paused momentarily to take the smoke. "That he's a shit?"

She nodded.

Unable to find another word for the creature who'd superseded all of their other conversation topics. At least with Freyja, there was a mutual understanding that if she was silent after the first two questions, there was no point in asking the third, she thought.

But Erling had no such aversion.

The last walk spent listening to him talk…constantly…about his experience, giving very little room for others…and allowed to do so, possibly for the soothing effect his features were having upon his primarily female audience. Taking it upon himself to tell mind-numbing historical facts about the surrounding landscape that would inevitably turn into a ghost story for some of the younger ladies in their party. Apparently one of the caves was home to a poor soul who'd lost her way during high tide, never to be seen again…

…and if one listened very carefully at midnight, one could hear her wretched cries to that very day. At which point, he would attempt to startle the young ladies and then laugh like a cock surrounded by giggling hens. It was the kind of story that made her question if she was in fact dead…and her punishment was walking the hills with Erling.

Lucian already seeming to have come to that conclusion. Grimly taking a short drag from the smoke and then handing it back to her in the same time it took him to mutter, "Yes, he knows," before once again resuming his repair.

The bitterness of his response suggested that he was meticulously counting the hours until they could see the boy's back. The unfortunate bureaucracy involved with hosting an heir to the Northern dens leaving him with very little leeway beyond harnessing his rage and pouring it into the business of mending something. The last chain clamped into place and his pliers tossed to one side, as he spent a further minute inspecting the links in what little moonlight there was. Eventually, making that rare sound of approval, like a bee humming over a finished hive, before holding the piece out to her.

"Good?"

She took it. "Good."

Better than good. He'd switched out the chain on the book. Added a new clasp. The pencil would eventually need more lead, but she could do that herself. Instinct telling her to fix the chatelaine to her skirt and begone before she made a fool of herself.

For as much as Allegra was treating her like a precious heirloom for being the equivalent of a memoir on sexuality filled with blank pages, she was not an idiot. She knew why he'd been awkward that first night at the quadrille. She knew she was not old, that the perfume Rena had gifted her was truly…lovely, that the clothes she'd been wearing lately were more…appropriate for a younger woman…

…and maddeningly so, she knew that in spite of her flights of fancy, the man—that enticing, utterly stubborn bearded fool walking around with his hair too short—was still a walking cock without direction. One that had probably just come from someone's bedroom and was likely headed to his forge so he could spend his next hour getting intoxicated on whatever drug he'd hidden there. And as much as she trusted him as her ally, she knew his ability to make decisions—an ability that ought to stand the test of time and immortality—was being affected by whatever drug was swimming in his veins. That what might seem like a good idea could so easily become a nightmare.

The problem…as ever…being his ability to lull her into comfort. Fooling her into thinking his presence was her home. That time had turned back and she was curled in her chair, sitting across from the mess he'd made of her carpet. Watching him clean his tools, the boxes he'd temporarily hauled down from the forge. Wishing she could reach out with her hand again, but using her voice, so unfamiliar to her now. Still deep but no longer a croak. "Are you still on the half-morning shift?"

"I am," he said, using his thumb to wipe a tool. Each treated with a reverence as he placed it back, closing the box on the entire set. Like a clock striking the hour.

The chatelaine fixed…

…but neither of them leaving as he continued to stare at the hillock. Like he'd done on that first night, practically chewing on the sight and soon growing tired of his meal. Scrubbing his eyes and then pointing at her fingers instead. "Are you going to finish that?"

"No, you can have it," she said. Handing it over. The smoke helping her mask it. The despondency she felt staring at the hillock. Like soldiers waiting for an army to arrive—both of them knowing it was coming but unable to do anything but helplessly watch. Which also meant they were not precisely paying attention to the inside of the stables…

…right until they heard a gasp. The sound of a small chain followed by a velvet purse hitting the cobblestones.

"Oh my blood."

They looked behind them…and then Lucian quickly dropped the smoke and stubbed it out with his boot.

Too late.

Sabine came slowly out of the shadows, her eyes glinting silver in the dark. She had not attended the walk…and she was still technically banned from the stables, so it was a question what she was doing there. Possibly something to do with its capacity to reach the garage without being seen. Her coat buttoned up to the very top, suggesting there was something quite revealing underneath. But rather than appearing sorry for sneaking off the grounds, she looked vicious. "You're smoking with him?"

Shit.

"Sabine, we…"

"I cannot believe you," the girl said. Backing away as though it was all too much for her. "He has…all of us…following that stupid rule for ten years…and now the two of you are just smoking together." She made it sound like an extraordinarily shocking betrayal. "Like it's all supposed to be fine now?"

There was no chance even to respond. Sabine seeming to wash her hands of them, disgusted by all that she was seeing and stalking away. And she wanted to call after the girl. But it was not her voice that was going to make it right. The wounds that were still there—the anger at whatever he'd done sixteen years ago. Her frustration justified. Because they were not fine. They were all just pretending.

Lucian looking mildly as though he was considering going after her, but then keeping his seat, possibly too tired to make the effort. They were still not seeing the walking party. Another minute going by before he took his flask out again, unscrewed the top and handed it to her. The last dregs of a very strong blood-wine. Only getting to his feet when the first walker appeared in the distant dark. Otherwise know as the catastrophe that would be the next four weeks, she thought, wiping the blood off the flask before she handed it back with her question.

"Where to?"

He folded his coat over an arm. "Study," he said, putting the empty flask back into a pocket, all the while looking over his shoulder in case Sabine was still lurking. And then he glanced at her. "You?"

"Kitchen," she said, holding up the matches she still needed to return.

"The cook gave you matches?"

"She did."

He eyed her with some skepticism. "She doesn't give me matches."

"Why would she give you matches when you ignore her," she asked, taking his proffered hand so he could pull her up.

"I don't ignore her."

"You do," she responded, quickly letting go of the hand. Every one of his lies, even the ones he told himself, so clear to her after so many years. Glancing towards the hill and stepping back into the stable shadows. Out of sight for whoever might be getting closer from that hillock. "Apparently she has been working in your den for over two hundred years…and you have never once thanked her for a meal."

He leaned against the doorway. "It's been a busy two hundred years."

"You should still thank her."

"I might."

He was not moving.

And she could see the problem. His inability in that moment to calculate all the consequences and reason to himself why it was important to leave the top step of that stable…and go back to the house. But if she'd learned anything in twenty-three years, it was that she could always get him moving, she thought, folding her coat and refusing to let herself feel anything but the mild disdain that kept him on his path. "Are you ever going to give Sabine that necklace?"

He gave her that inscrutable look again. Studying her in the same manner he'd done before sending her North. And yet it was a wayward smile that followed as he bent to pick up his tools. Unfazed by her question, not even curious about how she knew about the necklace in his pocket. As though he no longer needed the answer to that.

"Still thinking about it," he said, scuffing his boot against the step. Looking out to the hills again before stepping down. Leaving her in the shadow of the door.

Alone.

o…o…o

A familiar loneliness filling her hours as it became clear they were on different paths again. The quadrille taking them through dinners and rides, but his back—when he was there—always to her. Which was fine, she decided. Keen to move on with her life and therefore capable of spending the entire quadrille simply waiting for it to be over. A state that unsurprisingly seemed to suit Erling quite well, given that he rarely gave space for others to speak, let alone choose their partners.

The first eve before the ball arriving quickly, but the weather refusing to cooperate, thereby leaving the planning committee in dire straits. According to Allegra, the theme was 'Spring on the Arm of Winter', yet they were still surrounded by mud. It was an utter disaster, the woman had said during the last fitting. But the first afternoon tea of Hangrove would wait for no one. The first snowfall yet to come, but a small army of decorators working around the clock on their masterpiece…

…which is where her night began to unravel. Her decision to wander down after the fitting proving particularly ill-wrought. Namely because she found herself…lingering. Eying things from the doorway. And for foolish reasons, the kind of sensation that she'd long associated with Freyja and her ladies-in-waiting.

It felt odd to like it.

But she did.

The great hall, typically a dark space for staring pensively at decorative muskets and dead animals, now filled with tea tables covered in golden plates, pale pink candles and snow-white tablecloths. As though spring had indeed found its way not just onto the arm, but directly into the bed of winter. Each centrepiece brimming with chrysanthemums, tulips, and roses…

…and upon closer inspection, made out of crepe-paper. Its tactile nature adding warmth to the electric light fixtures. The colours almost obsessively chosen, building a waterfall of ombre that could only be attained by Allegra going without sleep for several nights in a row. Their sole purpose to ensure Freyja coordinated with the room and Erling with his vision.

He'd completely taken over the affair. His back to everyone, including the planning committee. The blond hair flicking from side to side as he gave orders to the young woman at his side. She'd seen her in passing, one of the youths at the tail end of the walks. But the sight of her indoors conjured up a sudden memory, that of a young girl with wispy curls nervously seated in an elegant sitting room. Prim and upright, wearing the formal garb of one used to chaperones and teas. Her skin brown. And then as she thought on it…

…russet brown.

Darker than birch. At first a single shade, then changing in tone, sweeping from russet into a warmer sepia. Save where her knuckles had turned not white…but a reddish copper from gripping her dress. Cheeks flushed. A perceptive look on her face, the kind that was constantly listening to all that was occurring around it.

Hannah.

Cavendish.

Who looked over her shoulder. Their eyes locking. The dark pupils widening in recognition. Like a wheel had turned, the sight of one of Sabine's oldest acquaintances, reminding her again, why she was entertaining this nonsense of being escorted by Erling. Not just for Allegra's request, but because it gave Sabine an excuse for coming to the ball after brashly stating that she'd rather eat a live dog than be in the same room as Lucian.

Sabine…

…who'd made it a point to behave as though she did not care about lycan high society, when she'd been secretly wanting to attend the Hangrove Society Ball again since she was fifteen. That being the same year she'd been banned from Midsummer, the Yule ball…and Hangrove, once Lucian decided it was his archenemy for reasons he refused to disclose in any manner beyond a scoffing sound.

Her curiosity as to how exactly Hannah knew Erling quickly satisfied by the appearance of a tall curly-haired boy, whose expression suggested he was keen on the napkins folded into tulips, but only because the rest looked a bit trite. One who shook Erling's hand as though they were old acquaintances. That being a candid boy whose tendency to point out the obvious could not easily be forgotten. A certain 'Are-you-of-the-Staunton-school' master…

…Matthias Cavendish.

At which point, Reinette left the hall, realising quickly that the longer she remained, the higher her chances of being sucked into a vortex of folding napkins.Or just a conversation.

o…o…o

Those under a hundred finding it a delightful game to be involved in bringing the Hangrove Society Ball to light, but her own personal views requiring little to no contact with anyone on a planning committee. Unfortunately when one Cavendish saw something, the other was not likely to be far behind. Her intentions set on reading old newspapers on the terrace, but her solitude lasting a mere twenty minutes before they found her.

The same spot where she'd fallen four years before, only now instead of blood leaking out of her skull, she was surrounded by seven hundred acres of nothing happening. The pile of newspapers on her table all ones she had read, but the glass of blood-wine she'd scrounged from the cook managing to add an extra dose of intrigue to The Inverness Courier. Her second foray into an advertisement for a 'Wilkinson Safety Shaver for the upstanding gentleman' interrupted by the sound of a whispering scuffle in the bushes behind her. "Matthias, do you always have to be so vulgar?"

"How can it be vulgar if she remembers us?"

"It was sixteen years ago."

They were getting closer. Two sets of footsteps, the lighter ones trying to drag the heavier back with the force of a silk scarf pulling on an elephant. The bushes parting to reveal her visitors, the Cavendish twins, tall and short, male and female, dressed now for the outdoors, having chosen to abandon their decorating duties for the sake of rooting her out, no thanks to Rena, she thought, glancing pointedly at a nearby tree.

"Beastly weather, isn't it?"

Not really, she thought, switching to a different paper in answer. Twenty-three years having taught her that there were only two kinds of visitors beyond her regular circle, and neither had her best interests in mind.

The taller one spoke again. "We've actually met." He held out a hand "Matthias Cavendish…and this is my sister, Hannah."

She turned a page rather than taking the hand. "I remember."

"See?"

He sounded jovial, but his sister looked deeply uncomfortable. They both had to be in their thirties now, but it looked as though the past sixteen years had wound Hannah up so tightly she'd broken a laundry wringer. The girl attempting to look at the ground, but then forced to make eye contact for fear of risking a social misstep. "How do you do?"

Well enough not to keep you, she thought, murmuring the appropriate response. A thousand years and a newspaper giving enough coverage that perhaps she could pass the rest of the evening without having to entertain further pleasantries from the pair.

Matthias sat down. "Not really much to do up here, is there?"

She tried rustling the newspaper. "Depends on what you like to do."

"Do you still play chess?"

Rena, where the fuck are you, she thought, looking at the tree again. Usually the woman 'scented people out' if they overstayed their welcome. An ability she'd never fully understood, but assumed was like giving someone a hard stare. The absence of any movement or staring from said tree forcing her to speak. "Occasionally."

"My sister and I once saw you playing the lycan-master…"

"Matthias!"

"Well she knows who he is," he said to his sister, reaching forward for one of the newspapers. "Are you done with this?"

"No."

"Anyway, it was a really good game," he said, picking it up and studying the first page. "Apparently he's devilishly hard to play, but at the time, Sabine said you were on par. Top marks for strategy."

Oh good.

She could die in peace now.

There was a long-suffering sigh behind them. "Matthias, I think we've taken enough of her time…"

"Nonsense," he said. "These papers are over three weeks old. She's obviously not doing anything."

"Actually, I was about to head inside—"

"Excellent," he said, getting up. "We'll walk you—where are you headed?"

She regarded him over the top of the paper. "Are you going to follow me all over the house?"

The boy laughed. "I am."

"Why?"

"Because in sixteen years, I've never seen a game like that one," he said. "And after this ball is over, Hannah and I will be sent south again, but before I go…" He folded his newspaper and leaned forward, tapping her own with the one he was holding. "…I would like to play you."

It was like being followed by a terrier.

"No."

"Why not?"

"The odds are uneven."

"So let's even the odds," he said. "One game of chess…and another where the odds are in my favour."

"Such as?"

"Speculation."

"Which version?"

"The lycan one, of course."

She considered him. Handsome now that he'd grown into himself. On the one hand, like a terrier. And on the other, she had nothing else on her schedule.

She let the paper fold.

"Why not."

o…o…o

Two hours later.

Hannah felt like pinching herself. The games room on the second floor initially holding four, but soon growing to a crowd of six…and then fourteen as the youth of their society became aware of the spectacle. Not just a story in the Line Rumour, but a front-row seat for those who were quick enough to get through the door.

A blood playing Speculation…with lycan rules…

…and winning.

It was a mesmerising display, the malevolent fog swirling around this woman who seemed to care very little for the opinions of others. She played well and did not seem to feel a need to apologise for it. A blood surrounded by wolves, yet by whatever scent she could glean, holding no fear of the situation. Always seen from afar, but thanks to Matthias' lack of societal boundaries, only a foot away from her now. The clothing still fiendishly rich, but again, reflecting sense. Plain beading. Simple lines. An old pendant and a chatelaine seeming to be fixtures in her life. And yet there was no way around it. The same elderly woman she'd seen so many years ago…

…but young.

A cutting sensuality to her gaze. The hair alarmingly short, possibly an inch from her neck. For the past six weeks, seen without her waist-long veil during public engagements, but wearing a shorter one now for the evening. Almost a net rather than a sheer gauze, barely hiding her face, yet providing a wall between them. As though it was the armour that kept her at ease.

It was the hallmark of true gentility, a household where the domesticity of lycan life had culled their ability to kill without consequence. Or perhaps it was for the presence of her guard, the woman in the corner who shadowed her. Rena. The single name of one who was older than many…whose last name had changed often enough that the first name became the only name.

The other players slowly growing irritated and then folding their hands one by one until there were only three remaining at the table: Lord Diggory Foster, whose wife was indisposed and therefore unlikely to protest his debts; and her brother, Matthias, who according to their grandfather, suffered from deep pockets and not a penny of sense.

Very little talk…

…until a hush suddenly came over the room.

All of them looking over their shoulders, whispering amongst themselves, save for the lady at the end of the table, who was far more interested in counting her winnings. The lycan-master's shadow creating precisely the kind of restless murmuring that told everyone that something was about to happen. The act of gambling heavily frowned upon by the Lycan Temperance Society and therefore something to be avoided, given the following afternoon's teatime activities. His primary aide, Master Weylan Jones rapidly entering the room as well now, looking very out of breath and about to speak, only to be foiled by his liege.

"Whose idea was this?"

Without compunction, Matthias raised his hand. Just as all their heads turned to look at the other end of the table. A part of her even feeling guilty for it. Their eagerness to blame the blood rather than take ownership. The entire business likely to be shut down in a matter of minutes, given that none of them were meant to be gambling.

But there was a gleam in the lycan-master's eye.

Studying not only the lady…

…but Matthias.

His voice managing to carry an ease without a bark. So used to being obeyed that he had no reason to look to see that his orders were carried out. "Any with wagers on the field, you are to remain," he said, circling the table. "Everyone else…out."

The room cleared.

Fast.

And Hannah ought to have left. But there was reason she'd lent Matthias their mother's bracelet when he nearly ran out of funds…and it was primarily for having a reason to remain by his side, whatever the cost. Her journalistic integrity for one. Something she needed to uphold, even when faced with the reality of what could potentially be the end of their welcome. Matthias and Lord Foster already putting their cards down, no doubt starting to see an end to the night…

…and Master Weylan Jones looking particularly discomfited, as though he was starting to foresee what would occur next. Or as common sense would dictate, that illustrious moment before things go awry.

The lycan-master sat down in an empty chair. "Your play?"

"It was."

There was no doubt to whom he was addressing. The rest of them having become inconsequential. Their baubles and tokens still in the centre of the table, but their presence merely for the sake of their coin. Which by the look on his face, he intended to win.

He unbuttoned one of his cuffs.

"House rules?"

The lady nodded.

As though they were sitting at an auction. Her quiet affirmation all that was needed before he reached for the box in the centre of the table. The one Miss de la Roche had brought out when they first started the game. Intricate with gold inlaid over a black surface. The man taking out a new deck, identical to the one they were using, only instead of black, the cards were now red. Like the threads she saw in that sitting room.

A prominent bead of sweat now starting to collect on the brow of Master Weylan Jones. Perhaps aware more than most why it was imperative that the lycan-master end the evening's affairs, rather than join them. His murmur barely audible to any more than a foot away. "Sir, if you would like me to handle this…"

"I would not," the lycan-master said, raising two fingers. Still eying his opponent. And then he unfastened his watch and laid it in the centre of the table. "Winner takes all?"

Blood.

Hannah felt a familiar pinch on her arm. Matthias giving a soft whistle as though she could possibly fail to appreciate what had just happened. They could all see what it was. A Patek Phillippe. Worth more than everything on the table. Hannah wishing she had her pen, but hoping the memory would remain long enough that she could recover it. Hoping she could put into words the reason why Master Weylan was now looking so sick.

"Sir, I really don't think we should…"

"Nette?"

And it was in that moment Hannah saw it again. Not just the dynamic between them. But the warmth in her name. No longer a bark. Or an order. But a room falling away in the face of rumour. So there were no other people. Only his offer. And the lady considering it. Weighing her options beneath the veil before she answered.

"Three rounds?"

"I'll give you four," he said, starting to shuffle the cards. Quickly. His use of a faro shuffle followed by a different technique. And then another before one could blink. The stakes quickly increasing as Matthias and Lord Foster threw additional coin on the table, both of them eager to resume their places in the game now that the watch was there. For herself, she added nothing more, considering her bracelet lost now…

…but no one noticed.

No one was waiting for Hannah. They were all still waiting for her, the lady beneath the veil whose winnings were still in front of her. A choice yet to be made. Her contemplation only interrupted by the rush of cards being shuffled against his palm. The practiced hand of one who'd been playing for centuries.

Until he abruptly finished, cutting the deck.

"Are you in?"

There was a precision to his tone. As though they were having a different conversation than the rest of the world. His question unanswered. For longer than one would think. Until the lady abruptly pushed her winnings forward as well. Only then reaching for the watch. Studying its face before she held it up. "Are you sure you want to lose this?"

"I won't be losing it."

Master Weylan swallowed. "Why?"

The moment passed.

"Because Reinette…" The lycan-master sat forward, starting to deal out the cards. "…has a tell."

It was Matthias who dared speak now. "A tell, sir?"

"A tell," the man said again. "For twenty years, she has had a distinctive means of telegraphing her intentions while playing cards. Therefore…in short…" He picked up his hand. "…she has a tell."

The lady gave a slight scoff of annoyance. Starting to sort her own cards in hand. "And you think it's still there?"

"I know it's still there."

There was an air of condescension between them.

Yet the lady smiled…

…and put a card down.

A/N: Thank you to all who are reading! Next chapter is forthcoming, but needs a bit of clean up. I basically got no writing done after Christmas (started a new job...which I really like...but whoooghhh, it's busy). And then I finally cracked the code to writing...and surprise, it involves locking myself in a room for up to five minutes at a time before my little ones seek me out). On that note, typically I say "Onwards" and leave it here...but I promised Ella (she may not have read my promise, but on Twitter, I made a promise to her) that I would start responding to reviews again (four months ago) so here we go!

Draegan88: Your note nearly made me cry in a wonderful joyful way. Happy holidays!

Guest: I failed to keep up the pace ;_; buuuuut I think it'll get better. (I hope it will!)

Celine: You hit the nail on the head. :)

Books-n-Harleys: Thank you and I do hope when we get to the future, it is worth it!

Malik: This was a lovely, lovely, lovely review. I love where your mind is going, and I will neither agree nor disagree with any of these possibilities because they are lovely.

Ella: For four months I have been saying to myself "When you finally post a chapter, remember to respond to the reviews. Do it for Ella!" I finally got here. I have indeed watched Blood Wars, but I do probably need to do a full Underworld binge night again one of these days.

ArielThinker: I took too long, but I did write most of the next three chapters before posting this one...so...hopefully the next one will be soon.

Hannah-Brietom65: We are sooooo close

Mary Petrova: ...or will it be another twenty years...?

Mackenzie: As long as it's not another twenty years before I post another chapter... ;)

Guest: He is SO considering it.

Barbara Dias: She SHOULD take a lover. (I hope life is no longer beating the shit out of you. Much love from one who does not know you personally, but definitely writes in the hope that you'll get some enjoyment out of reading a chapter on a park bench in your city, likely in spring since it's four months later). Also you were so right about the voice. I've started including a bit more description there. May go back to fix things.

Allison Annelize: Sooo close

BelAyre: I think every one of my responses is turning into me saying "We are soooo close"...but we are...

Ella: One of these days their stars will align. I promise.

Ursiearielw12: I wrote this chapter with a mug of tea, but I really think I should try wine next time and see if it makes me write faster. (Or smuttier ;))

Guest: True, I think being old for twenty years can make everything feel odd for some time. (Note that I have no experience in ageing backwards)

Love in Halsey: I still haven't decided on this one, but we ARE going to see more Freyja in the coming chapters.

storytellingislove: Welcome!

NightStalkers: Welcome back! I am indeed back (although a month after the last review). Hope you enjoy the new chapters xo