Chapter LXXXIII: The Aftermath
Twelve hours later.
A tea cup broke.
Quickly smothered by the hustle and bustle of voices and hovering attendants. The first afternoon tea of the Hangrove Society Ball creating the perfect backdrop for an introductory speech. The decorations impeccable. Every petal in place, every tablecloth set and the high table centred for a glorious view of the happy couple. The society page of the Line Rumour certain to cover not only the decor, but the exact shade of white seen on the luminous gown of Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter. Perfectly accessorised for the theme, wearing lace gloves and a one-of-a-kind cloche hat, extensively embroidered in metallic gold, specifically fashioned to match the necktie of her lord. Four yards from a reception line over which Miss Gottfridsdatter was presiding.
Alone.
"It will be fine," said Raze, his voice soothing in the ear of his wife, the Lady Allegra. He waved away the attendant, continuing to dab a linen napkin at some of the residual tea now staining the edge of his wife's place setting. His presence providing the sturdy pillar of comfort that was keeping her from losing her mind.
"It…will not…be fine," she murmured back. Just as softly. Appearing from afar to have made a delightful compliment about the flowers. Her eyes focused not on Freyja nor the gown she'd spent an entire season preparing, but the floral centrepiece of their table, which she was systematically dead-heading with two of her nails. Pausing briefly to take a sip from her tea, placing the new cup and saucer down on the tablecloth…and then graciously acknowledging the formal greeting from Lady Morrigan across the room. The kind of nod that knew just enough about the other to be dangerous.
"Did you expect it to be fine?" asked Magnus, smelling curious as he popped a miniature eclair into his mouth. He was meant to be sitting beside Erling, but they'd had to shift him from the high table, which would now be occupied by a pair of siblings rather than the most anticipated pairing in lycan history. A fact which seemed to elude the gargantuan leader of the third Northern den, who was now wiping chocolate off his fingers.
And Allegra nearly turning…in public…to scent out the man. Her stare enough to make him cough, getting up to wipe a hand on his trousers. Muttering something about checking on the guard rota. His absence allowing her to sit back and roast in her fury. Unable to answer his question aloud. Not after spending four decades secretly…and thanklessly…planting the seeds for one of the greatest merges in lycan history. All of their Council thinking the Northerners had come to them—that Lucian had been the one to finalise a deal on the Northern pass—when the sole reason Gottfrid had been willing to meet in the first place was for the sake of his daughter's marriage contract.
So…
…no.
What she'd expected was for Lucian to be standing beside the girl, having his cake and eating it, just as he'd promised to do six weeks before, when he'd asked her to change the rumour. Smile at the ready. Greeting his guests. Not passed out on the bathroom tiles again, she did not need to add. The three of them, along with poor Weylan, already having spent the first part of the morning getting the most esteemed lycan in history undressed and into his bed. Smelling of liquor and vomit.
During Hangrove.
The event of the season for every youth under fifty. Every family whose fortune was still tied in dowries and for that reason, ripe for the picking. Dozens of youths seated for teatime in the Great Hall, chaperoned by their parents, yet—according to the Rumour—using the opportunity to ask questions about their place in society. Questions that would never have occurred a hundred years before. Words like…
…democracy.
And instead of building bridges with the next generation, as his partner in society, Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter, was now doing, greeting the surprisingly powerful attendees from the Lycan Women's Temperance Society, the lycan-master was instead…sleeping off…his liquor. Half of the room already speculating on his whereabouts, assuming after the previous evening's activities that there was only a single place where he could have gone. The blame already cascading not in the direction of the man, but however unfairly, the only creature into which they would truly sink their teeth.
Reinette.
The effects of the previous evening unfortunate because—according to Master Weylan Jones—the lady had not invited the attention. But she would still be blamed, she realised. Already planning the next steps. Preparing the paperwork in her mind. All that she would prefer not to do, but would likely have to arrange thanks to this latest…demonstration…of hedonism.Lucian still ironically unaware of how easily a male-centric society could destroy a woman's prospects. Raze, the only one who could sense behind her mask, and for that reason, reaching for her hand, kissing it before she could break another tea cup. "What is it that worries you?"
He knew.
But it gave her a chance to say it. That which she feared. Resting in his gaze, the irises black and soulful, like a constellation formed out of shadows in the night sky. "Has he talked to you about her?"
"No."
And it gave her comfort.
The truth in his eyes. That it had not happened yet. The conversation that she was dreading—the one that would mean nothing if Lucian had spoken to her…or Magnus. But this was Raze. The only one who was still there after so long. Not because he ran after the lycan-master, but because he was the only one who did not. Not truly. The only one whose presence was guaranteed. Whose years of patience…and steadfast listening…had solidified a friendship where out of all their souls, he was the only one the lycan-master would go to if there was truly a problem.
"Then why?"
It was not just truth in his eyes.
But kindness.
"Allegra, he's not been on a morning-shift this long in over eighty years," he said to her. Trying to explain the filth they'd seen that morning. The realisation that in the past six weeks, Lucian had avoided meeting any of them in his inner sanctum…
…even for the fittings. The last one occurring in their own quarters, when he suggested offhandedly that they might as well take care of it at the same time as Raze. A thorough discussion with his valet, Langley, having revealed that on a daily basis, his clothes were now being left in a hallway, while the bedroom itself was apparently off limits.
Raze preferring to wait for Singe before assuming the worst. His assessment making it all seem so simple as he took her hand. Her glorious husband, clothed in an immaculate dinner jacket, less formal for the afternoon, but lined with the same shade of copper as the broach she was wearing. At ease for the sake of his wife, but still watching the crowd, ever wary of expected danger. Even sounding apologetic, like he used to in the days when she dined alone and he sought to amuse her with astronomy. Like staring at her past self. A poor girl…left alone…with no one to fend for her…
…save one, she realised.
Looking into her constellation. Her Solheil al Fard of the night sky. Squeezing his hand once before letting it go. "My darling, that is precisely why I put him on a half-morning shift…and gave him six weeks to transition," she replied, adding a cucumber sandwich to her plate, so it could be mashed into a pulp along with the others. "Is it too much to ask?"
Raze did not answer.
Because it was…
…but thirty years of marriage had told him to keep that to himself when his wife had spent the past thirty-six hours being patronised by the fifty-year old youth who'd taken over the festivities.
Erling.
He'd changed everything from the seating chart to the entertainment. The quiet prattle of ladies discussing the weather now replaced by a string quartet. Their planning committee eventually forced to bend one or twenty rules of etiquette, once it became clear—in the sense of Erling telling them—that no one under fifty was interested in conversing with their chaperone present when they could be dancing the foxtrot. The desire of the planning committee to keep up with the times having finally surpassed their ability to avoid dance during the first two days of Hangrove. Which left them all sitting grimly at their tables, watching Erling lap up the praise.
All the precious moments that came from walking table to table. Talking to anyone remotely close to him in age. Occasionally throwing a Charleston into the midst of the dance floor to great success. The children of their society glowing as he dazzled them with his spirit and candour. Shaking hands. Clapping shoulders. Only the Elders smelling beneath the mirage. And Allegra again picking up her tea, speaking behind her cup so none would notice.
"He's working the crowd."
"I know."
They were all watching him. Every Elder in the room, including Lady Morrigan, who always seemed to be in the perfect place for viewing the worst of what could happen. And yet she could not help but think that they were all underestimating this boy. All of them, the Council, Lucian, and her husband included, still refusing to see how quickly their power could slip. Still thinking the control they held was an everlasting one. That a mountain would not fall simply because the pebbles were shifting.
Like trying to stop an avalanche, she realised bitterly, continuing to stare at the back of the boy…
…right until her tea cup cracked.
Again.
The handle this time. A lovely piece of porcelain that would have to be thrown out along with the last one, she thought. Placing it down on its saucer and waiting but a moment for an attendant to take care of the broken pieces. A new layer of cloth swiftly covering the old stain and a new set placed at the ready. The Lady Allegra continuing to pick at the centrepiece for a few more of those moments before reaching for a teapot, choosing to now perform that one oddity of the Hangrove Society Ball afternoon tea formalities that she actually enjoyed doing in a world where she outranked her husband.
She raised the teapot.
He nodded.
Accepting the gesture, taking her hand and kissing it again. So they could sit back and drink their tea. Enjoying the moments they had with one another. Listening to the orchestra. Watching the youths of their society dance in the space allotted to them for the afternoon. All the while waiting for the music to end, so they could deal with the inevitable aftermath of the sun going down, Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter returning to her quarters alone…and the lycan-master waking to realise he had missed the first day of Hangrove.
And he would regret it, she thought sadly.
o…o…o
Unaware that she was not the only one waiting for the sun to go down. The clock striking the hour and Reinette continuing to lie in her bed, waiting for the drapes to lose their glow. No longer certain for what she waited. Only that there was a heat growing in her nether regions. For a foolish moment, a period of two hours, thinking she'd hear a knock on her door. On the one hand, remembering how he used to come after her when they fought, when her aged appearance gave him license. And on the other hand, dreading it.
She'd won the game, he'd said.
But what did that mean now, she wondered, untwisting some of the blanket, the heat getting too much below her abdomen. His words turning in her mind, making her fearful that it was happening. Wondering if the path she was on now would lead to her death. Whether it would be worth however many years they'd have before he held her on a mountainside. Bleeding out with an arrow through her throat. The last of the glow fading and her throat seizing as she heard it.
A knock.
Just one.
Too curt for a guard.
And her body moving before the fates could caution her. The bedding pushed back. Her feet touching the carpet and the dressing gown wrapped around her chemise, burying it beneath a thick layer. Suddenly wishing she'd worn something else, that pride and practicality had not made her stick to the routine of seeking comfort for her sleepwear. It was an older chemise. Possibly stained, considering how many times she drank blood.And yet there was literally nothing else. Allegra having made certain that all her newer sleepwear was extraordinarily plain, thick and incredibly high in the neck.
Which was not to say she wanted anything to happen, she decided, heading into her sitting room. Tying a second knot in the dressing gown. "Come," she said.
The door opened.
And it was like a spark going out. The previous night having taken its toll on Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter. Or perhaps the first day of Hangrove, the hours of playing hostess in a beautiful room with a hundred eyes watching her. Already changed into a sumptuous blue velvet gown for dinner, but having taken a detour away from her attendants. For a moment hesitating before she entered, cautiously shutting the door behind her. Her own light seeming to fade as she saw it for herself…
…the splendour of the East Wing. Rumour paling in comparison to the rooms he'd given for her pleasure. The sitting room filled with a wall of books. Botanical illustrations. The chandeliers still in shadow, but hinting at the glow that would surround them once they were lit. Every piece of furniture purchased with an exacting eye. One that knew her preferences. So far from the nights when they sat in the ice and snow, watching the stars from her prison. And yet it was still there. That feeling of being small. The girl taller…mentally younger…and certainly more imposing. Otherwise known as…
…shit.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
She felt a line being crossed. "Excuse me?"
"Look—I am not a fool," the girl said. Intently. Rare to see anything less than perfection on the radiant beam of golden-haired sunshine standing before her, yet there it was again. A crack in the visage of one who'd been seamless for so long. "…neither of you have been attending the walks…and then suddenly I see you together on the first night before Hangrove…" She drew herself up. "…which he did not attend."
Reinette took the words in…and then scoffed softly, turning her back on the girl. No longer feeling pity now that the accusations had made their way into her inner sanctum. Instead, crossing the entryway carpet to the closest seat, one of the velvet settees from Oppenheim. "Therefore we're sleeping together?"
And whether it was her tone, her smell or the fact that she was refusing to speak Icelandic, a language they both knew Lyosha did not speak, it seemed to get through to whatever strange…understanding…they'd formed in the North. "So you're not?"
"No," she said, indicating one of the other chairs. "He drank too much and bet a watch."
Freyja breathed. Deeply as though she needed to gather herself…and then sat down beside her, not seeming to care how close they were now sitting. "Thank God," she whispered in Danish.
No need to celebrate, thought Reinette, turning on one of the lamps. Wishing she could get through an evening without someone thanking the heavens over the lack of intrigue occurring beneath her skirts. But the light throwing a shade of warmth over their surroundings, as though by coming in from the cold, they'd found a refuge for the conversation.
So many years of knowing one another
And never a connection.
Freyja always under the impression that they were playing some political game…and she too bone-weary and old to correct her. But in all their sixteen years of passing like ships in the night, this had never happened. Freyja's glove suddenly reaching for her hand, as though they were confidants. The act of a desperate creature, reminding her of herself…
…bereft on that monastery floor. Unable to see a path through and reaching for the only lifeline, whether it be friend or enemy. Even in that moment, the girl still seeming to occupy the higher ground. "I was good to you in the North, was I not?"
It was a decidedly chilling question.
But she shrugged. "I suppose."
As far as prisons went.
Freyja let go…
…resolutely staring at her. Then rising from the settee, she returned to the door and retrieved the hard-sided folio she'd brought with her. A strange purse to be carrying to a lycan high society dinner. Large by any standard, but she'd given up on understanding fashion when Allegra explained women were now wearing undergarments into the water.
The girl held it out.
And she could smell a trap just as easily as the next scent-deficient blood, she thought, keeping her hands where they were.
"What is this?"
Freyja raised it higher. "An annulment."
An…
…annulment.
It felt like she was hearing the echo. Incapable of reacting to the words. As though she'd been frozen. Or perhaps she was just feeling very…still.
All of a sudden.
The curiosity too great for her to hold back. Immediately reaching for the folio and holding it closer to the light. Reading. All of it. Unable to trust when twenty-three years had shown little proof of the terms that Freyja purported to be holding. From her imprisonment to the travel document she signed in England. The years in Germany…then Denmark. The annulment relying on a discrepancy in dates between her status when she signed the travel document and when she was officially listed as a dependent. Freyja content to wait as she devoured the words, the two of them sitting on the settee for as long as it took her to reach the section that mattered. As though her mind could only comprehend it in the barest of terms.
An annulment.
No more years in the North.
The pages fresh.
Unsigned.
Free.
She looked up.
"Why?"
"Because I do not want you here," said Freyja. Like she was resuming her mantle. "…and as soon as all parties sign, you will have enough years of service to apply for guarded citizenship."
Citizenship.
Not a guardianship.
The key difference between those who could choose their own path…or have it chosen for them. Only two places where her signature stood. A petition for leniency…and a travel document. But every other space on the old contract signed by a guardian. Or a clerk. As though she were chattel…
…just as Sabine told her.
The realisation making her feel cautious. Like she wanted to call for someone. Rena. Sabine who lectured her at every turn in all the ways they'd stripped her of her autonomy. All of the creatures who shared her prison. Like a bird perching in an open cage. Wondering if Kolya was even still alive. Instead going through the pages again, unable to find an explanation. Eventually forced to shut the folio and sit back to look at the only source of an answer.
"Has Lyosha agreed?"
"He will."
She nearly laughed.
"Then you are offering me an illusion," she said. Continuing to flip through the pages as she got to her feet. Unwilling to sit any longer in the bitterness of false hope.
"Not an illusion," Freyja said, standing as well. Taller now. And no longer frail in her manner. Like the solicitor she was, not so foolish as to press a potential client too far on the subject. Yet meeting her eye in a manner that showed how little the rest of her world understood her resilience. "Lady Morrigan has already offered one of her estates for your tenancy…and if you agree, Reinette, you would have your own staff, right of movement, and my full services for negotiating a new contract, subject to your approval."
Reinette.
It was the first time she'd heard Freyja say her name. Ever. And it was a not a good feeling. Like they were on that staircase again. As though a queen had finally deigned to look at the ground.
"In exchange for what?"
"Him."
It was not the bombshell she'd been expecting. Her first instinct to stare at the girl…and then laugh. Like the crone she was, deep down inside. So much that she had to steady herself. Almost reaching out to the walls, never mind the settee. Her laughter failing to catch on to the girl across from her.
Until it died.
Sucked from her throat…
…replaced by exhaustion.
The hours of waiting.
For something that would never come, she realised, closing the folio and dropping it at Freyja's feet. The years of simpering comments. The back-biting. The rumours. All of it settling on the surface of the new low that Freyja had reached, trying to tempt her with a lie.
"You can leave now," she said, speaking plainly, trying to keep it as simple as possible for someone so young.
"I know I can," said Freyja. In a strange reflection of the previous night, seeming to almost pity her for her lack of understanding. As though still she was not getting it.
And it made her afraid suddenly.
That she was indeed failing to see it. The cage around them both. A world where life was more complicated than she realised. Where the only thing one could desire was a life written by other people. Her silence enough that Freyja again saw her opening. Lowering herself to the ground, reaching for the folio, removing the pen from its interior…and holding it out.
One last time.
Blood.
The two of them staring at one another…and the ground no longer as stable as it had been in the hour before. Every bone telling her to wait, but Freyja knowing her all too well. Knowing that hunger she'd felt in the North. The heartache. Wishing for things that were not hers to have. Freedom. The ability to leave. Make her own path. Find her own way…
…without dying.
Something they both understood, she thought.
Taking the pen from the girl's hand.
"An annulment?"
"Provided you leave after he signs."
"Fine."
She signed.
And inside, she felt something break.
Like a sound carrying to another wing until all they had left was the aftermath.
A/N: Pheew, made it before June. Next chapter is mostly written, so hopefully forthcoming. Thank you to all for reviews and favourites! As promised, I am still planning to respond to reviews...and on that note, please feel free to read and review!
Wynter Phoenix: Thank you!
Books-n-Harleys: So glad you enjoy the romance, the entertainment and the extra detail (I do love world-building!)
Barbara Dias: They are indeed heating up. It feels at times like I'm just watching them and get to record what happens. I think Reinette does have her moments though of feeling sorry for Freyja (particularly after they spent that time together in the North). Hopefully Lucian does not completely fall apart during the rest of Hangrove.
ArielThinker: Glad you loved the chapter! On the plus side, I've started finding more writing time (and I want to finish this before I die. I'm not dying, but better to get it finished before then, whenever that is.) Also your point about having a mistress is very truuuuuue. I do not know how the political climate will take it, but we will seeeee.
Mackenzie: They totally want to make out under the bleachers...and indeed, Erling is awwwwful.
Hannah-Brietom65: This made me feel so many hearts beating all at once. Dark times are rough. Writing has been a constant for me, so it gives me great joy to know it can help someone else have a sweet moment in the day. Stay tuned for the rest!
Celine: He really needs to sit down with someone other than Singe. ;) - (Also thank you for noticing I wrote Gustav instead of Gottfrid! You are amazing! I've fixed it.)