Chapter LXXXVII: A Cacophony of Circumstances
Two hours later…
She felt like she was going mad. Not to say that she was doing so without purpose, thought Reinette. Simply that the departure of both Lucian and Rena, followed by an hour without news, was causing her to feel like climbing the walls. Which in the scope of a domestic household meant continuing her evening in quietude.
That being a sad hour of puttering before she began to question why she was wrapping a fourth layer of newspaper around a bronze paperweight that had already been packed. All while ignoring the mantlepiece. A harbinger of doom, as her mentor would have called it. Realising that eventually she'd have to look at the pendant. Perhaps even fondle it.
As though she could see herself in the glass, all her years of emotion trapped beneath a frozen surface.
Or…
She quickly put the pendant down.
…cleave to the ideals of her mentor, she decided fiercely, reaching for a fifth layer of newspaper instead. Because it was just…another…pendant. And even if the thing she thought was happening was indeed happening, then it was better to survive it…and get as far away from the house as she could. Far from him…and the things that were not hers to have. Things that would eventually kill her because they had no place in his world…
…or hers.
The same voice telling her that she ought to spend the next hour in a mind-numbing penance, metaphorically whipping herself, while meditating on her old journals. The few scratchings from when she first arrived in his household. Things she'd not forgotten…but had put aside. The question of her name. Her search for Áris…and how she came to be in Budapest forty-six years ago.
As though the fear of her past, the person she had once been, had rooted itself in her conscience. Causing her to shy away from truth or questions, lest they shake her to her core. And yet how fickle her choices had become.
How fruitless.
Even now, focusing time and energy…not on saying her farewells to Sabine and Allegra, but on tracking a creature whose…drug-induced choices were…entirely…none of her concern, she thought, looking at the clock. And normally…normally…she would have waited for Rena to return…
…but there were extenuating circumstances, she decided, shutting the door behind her and venturing down the hallway. Rena her only meal-ticket and the cook having failed to send a tray that evening for whatever reason. Curiosity, but primarily hunger causing her to walk, hands folded, eyes down, veil in place, down the stairs, aware that there were eyes on her back, but determined now to reach the necessary target.
The buffet.
Thankfully deserted, as most lycans seemed to have headed to the other end of the house for parlour games. Her foray to the last table revealing an unexpectedly vast array of options.
Steamed.
Spiced.
Iced.
She was furtively opening the different containers, peering inside. Fresh hare. An aged boar. A marrow-based compote. Still searching for the one thing for which she had a hankering, but could not find. No hawk's blood…
…and no alcohol.
Odd.
Perhaps they were saving it for the next evening, she thought. Picking up a porcelain bowl, opting to partake of her dinner as a soup, and serving herself from the closest option. Not drunk this time and therefore able to conduct the entire business without spilling. The lighter taste of quail's blood something that would hopefully get her back to her quarters without incident.
She turned around…
…and was forced to stop in her tracks. Just short of slopping blood onto both of them. Both being herself and a stunning bosom that had managed to place itself directly in front of her eyes.
Someone who'd not spoken to her in over twenty years, yet had made such an impression that at times, she still thought on whatever became of her. The tendency of most former mistresses to avoid his presence…and therefore hers…having added an extra mystery to the question.
One who was still a great beauty…as were they all…and yet older now. An ostentatious smirk on her lips as she blocked the doorway. Hair still comprising of short golden curls surrounding a bronze face.
Almost cat-like.
Jacqueline.
The tart.
She looked at the door.
And she had been so close.
o…o…o
Meanwhile…
Lucian was in the billiards room, contemplating why the fuck Rena was following him. It had been two hours of this nonsense…
…and normally…normally…he'd have told her to stop, but he was now debating if this was a good thing. Perhaps Reinette sent her. Which meant she was somewhat invested in his well-being. Or at least she was curious. Which then prompted him to wonder how much she knew. And if he'd been entirely wise to visit his forge for a top-up before suggesting a game of snooker with Erling. In any case, she was off his back now.
The unspoken rule of the evening banning all women, including the Lycan Women's Temperance Society, from the billiards room, thereby allowing him to make a signal for Langley to open another bottle of whisky. Scotch. Brandy. Whatever would keep the drinks flowing for the next six hours. Dinner over, the drapes drawn and a roaring fire in the hearth. The kind of place he could rely on for being filled with cards, drinks and not a dress in sight.
And…
…blood, he was seeing it again. His scotch quickly downed before his mind went further. Old scotch. Aged. Not young. Not tantalising. His desire to think on…literally anything else…compounded by the five hundred questions Erling had been shooting at him all night.
"Is it true you went missing for three days?"
Several ears turned in their direction. Many of the guests already gone to bed, but Erling and some of his keener friends trying their hand at the night schedule. In theory, it made sense if they were planning to stay awake for the dinner and dance the following evening. Especially if he was providing an open bar.
"When?"
"After that port explosion." Erling set his glass on the side of the snooker table. "They say you were missing for three days," he said. "No way to the surface?"
He considered the placement of the glass…and then set his own on the side table. Already foreseeing how that glass was going to spill before the end of the night. "Not at the time—no."
"And she was down there with you?"
He kept it short.
"Yes."
Unsurprisingly, the boy was still trying to rile him. And the boy knew he knew, but they still had to perform the play, thanks to Gottfrid using his son as his sole representative. A choice he might come to regret once word reached him about the annulment.
Or in the words of Allegra…
…keep it civil.
Erling had turned to the rest of the room, speaking as though to translate knowledge to his followers. "She was old," he explained. Leaning his cue on his shoulder like it was a hunting rifle. "I saw it myself when she arrived up North a few years back," he added. "The difference is uncanny."
Yes, thank you, he thought.
Keeping his seat, still waiting for the boy to break. His game surprisingly improved since losing the one eye, but something he tended to hide by letting his opponents win the first break. Which they had been waiting on for a quarter of an hour now, he thought, glancing at his watch.
"I hear she…"
He cut in.
"Are you going to break?"
The interruption was not well met. But with Magnus stuck on the night shift, their society did not provide much recourse for a fifty-year old to complain about it. The boy forced to smile tightly in answer, before finally making his move, so the balls could scatter with a crack.
A good shot.
Followed by an obnoxious crowing sound as Erling raised his cue, seeking the acclaim of the room. And the room heartily receiving his call in the form of…cheering. Fists launching into the air and backs being clapped as though a great feat had occurred. And Erling taking a step back, looking challengingly at him. Leaning again on his stick as though that was how it was done.
To which Lucian raised his glass in congratulations.
Because…
Finally.
He'd taken his damned turn.
Every bone in his body feeling averse to the situation, yet knowing there was an end-game. That in time they'd move onto the topic of the annulment. That Erling needed to sign the second document. And every moment that he spent holding his temper would be to his benefit. In other words…
…keep it civil.
"Does she play?"
"She does."
"Well?"
"Exceptionally."
Erling laughed softly as though he expected as much. "Maybe she can show me a few things."
Maybe, thought Lucian, keeping his eye on the ball rather than the shit trying to rile him. Like an ant trying to push him off a cliff when he was already falling.
o…o…o
"Are you looking for Alexander?"
It took Reinette a moment to comprehend what was happening. Jacqueline was talking to her. An extremely odd occurrence given that they had not crossed paths or even acknowledged one another, save for that one time she saw Jacqueline mouth 'filthy crone' from across a crowded room. Also who on earth was…
Oh.
Lucian.
She attempted to get around.
"No."
Jacqueline gave her a knowing look.
"Or possibly Erling?"
Her voice had lilted the last syllable of the name. Like it was a delicious cut of meat that she was savouring.
"No."
Jacqueline was not moving.
No surprise there, she thought. Finally heading for the dining table instead of the door and placing the bowl down carefully. Then promptly realising she'd forgotten the cutlery and turning back to go back for a spoon. But the girl…woman…was already there.
"Here," said Jacqueline, holding one out with an unnaturally seductive smile. Somehow managing to make a spoon look like a knife.
Oh…this was not a safe environment.
Reinette took the spoon.
Gingerly.
"Thank you," she said, seating herself down, arranging the veil and preparing to eat as quickly as possible before making a break for the door. The steam coming from the bowl suggesting she was about to burn her lips in the effort, but that it would be worth it to get out of the room faster.
"They're all in the billiards room," said Jacqueline, sliding into the seat across from her. "…all the men," she clarified. "…and they'll be gone for at least another hour."
She took a sip from the soup.
Wincing.
It was piping hot.
But she would heal.
"I wasn't looking for them," she managed to say. Around the burn. Blowing on the next spoonful before again, taking another sip.
Jacqueline settled deeper into her chair. "Of course," she said. Leaning forward…and her tone suggesting she did not believe her. And then she touched one edge of the veil. "You know, we've not talked in almost twenty years. What was it…1907?"
She nodded.
"Well, we should do something about that," said Jacqueline. Pointing to the door. "…perhaps you could join us for charades in the drawing room. Ladies only—will you come?"
"Busy."
"You weren't busy the other night," she said playfully. "Apparently, my husband lost four hundred quid to you."
It was more than that, she thought, focusing on the bowl. Seven more spoonfuls and she'd be done. Or perhaps she ought to just drink the entire thing down in one go…
"Oh, I am not angry," said Jacqueline. As though her silence had been some kind of apology. Her nails now…extremely…close to the veil. "…merely another day at the races," she murmured. "…but honestly, you simply must join us."
Charades.
Not a good idea.
She attempted to avoid the burn.
"Perhaps another time."
"Well, if you change your mind," said Jacqueline, idling over to the buffet now. "…we're over in the drawing room." She'd filled one of the glasses with fresh hare's blood, adding some bone shavings. "Could be a last night with the lycan ladies, if you like?"
She glanced up.
Too quickly.
"It's all over the den," came the answer. Again as though she'd spoken. The sumptuous tart now arraying herself across a chair beside her. "You do realise how quickly news travels?"
"I do now," she said, stomaching another burn.
Jacqueline laughed, sitting back. She seemed to take great joy out of watching her burn herself while drinking blood. "Well, the joke is on me," she said after a while. Nursing her own drink. "…and now here we both are. She has the knife…and we have our trinkets."
She frowned over the spoon. "I'm sorry?"
"Le couteau," said Jacqueline again. Emphasising the word, this time in French, as though to make things clearer. "…the man actually gave it to her, but you know how it is… loin des yeux, loin du coeur," she said, almost to herself. "We've all been there."
"Been where?"
Jacqueline's eyes glinted over her glass.
And then she smiled.
"Oh, you are a coy one," she said. Reaching down to her leg, finding a small flask, removing it from her garter and emptying it into her glass. "…I mean we all…knew…he'd get there eventually, but still…" She sighed, rubbing one of her wrists. "…it can hurt not to be the one," she said, sounding oddly reflective in her tone. "Or is that not why you're leaving so suddenly?"
She kept working on the soup. "Perhaps you should check the Line Rumour," she suggested. Starting to see the additional benefits to having her own household. A place without all the catty comments.
That feeling of being toyed with as the tart smirked, putting away her flask. Watching her as though she did not know quite what to do with her. But eventually tiring of her prey as they all did once she stopped reacting.
Jacqueline rising to her feet…
…and leaning forward.
"Charades in the drawing room," she said, still sporting the same smile. The one that did not reach the eyes. "…it might be your last chance to compare ivory with ivory," she said, the last part spoken over her shoulder. "Goodness knows, she's wearing enough of it," she added.
Slinking away…
…and the circumstances of the evening meant to carry them forward like dolls in a miniature game. Because she knew what they were doing. Trying to force her to play.
But.
She was wiser than that, thought Reinette, stirring the last of her blood. Older. And unaffected by circumstance. And so she sat, continuing to ponder the words, while staring into the bottom of an empty bowl. Far from the eyes, far from the heart, the girl had said. Remembering as she stared, not just the sight of the hilt in her hand…
…but the weight.
His hand on her neck, Like a compass pointing north. Feeling herself drawn to the memory. That wondrous blade crafted from steel with a hilt of ivory. Able to feel it…even now…in her palm. And weighing it against her vision, the sight of her own blood seeping out on the snow. All the while staring at the door.
Until she put her spoon down.
Maybe one game.
o…o…o
Twenty minutes later.
He'd given up on the billiards room. Erling still crowing to his friends, thinking the point of snooker was using his cue as a hobby-horse. Langley given his orders on the way out, without any indication of where to find the recipient, so by the time Allegra received the message and found him, he was on his third cigarette. Eyeing a balcony from a first floor gazebo. Two flights up and considering whether it would hurt his cause that much if he just threw the boy over the railing.
"Aleksey, are you avoiding Raze?"
He glanced up…and then squinted one eye at her, before leaning back on his chair. "No," he murmured. "Why?"
"He says you keep turning in the hallway."
"What hallway?"
"All of them."
Or none of them, he thought, sticking to his scent markers.
Because…
…yes, he was avoiding Raze.
But she had another thing coming if she thought he was going to talk about it. His reticence paired with his…sharing…from the previous evening earning him a simple whiff of impatience before the lady flicked some of the snow off her chair. As though to clear away whatever nonsense was going on between them.
"Alright," she said, sitting down. Apparently ready to move on with her life. "What's all this about?"
He took in the icy night air…
…and then breathed out his problem.
"Erling."
"What about him?"
"Can you…" He tapped ash into the snow. "…get him to sign your sponsored amendment?"
"I thought Freyja was going to help."
"She is…and she did…" Because the boy signed the first document…that morning…after twenty minutes of dickering around with a pen. "…but…we're thinking the second one might be a hard sell after all."
"We?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, we…"
Allegra smiled to herself, looking as though she wanted to tap his nose with her finger. "The two of you are really working together on this?"
"Yes."
It was a tall ask.
Even Allegra having tired of Erling after six weeks of watching him take over her work. But it was precisely the kind of relationship-building she'd been looking for…and he knew that.
"Oh, alright," she said, as though he were pulling her arm. "…I will find you an edge," she announced. And then she raised a finger. "In exchange for something."
He should have known.
"What?"
"Sabine is refusing to dance tomorrow."
He flicked ash off his chest. "So?"
"So I need eight…"
"Get someone else."
"It's with Benoit."
He made a face.
He was starting to hate Benoit.
Also he had no context for this conversation, he decided. Continuing to grimace at the balcony. Apparently speaking aloud because Allegra was now responding to his presumptions.
"You have no context, Aleksey…because you were supposed to have a meeting with Raze about it…and apparently, you walked in the other direction."
Psh.
He shrugged that off.
"Have you asked Reinette?"
"For Benoit?"
He nearly swore again. "No—for asking Sabine."
"I'm asking you," she said, getting up. "…and if you really intend on arranging this Vienna business, you're going to have to stop relying on Reinette for these kinds of matters."
"I don't rely on Reinette," he muttered.
To himself.
And his cigarette.
She gave him a look.
Ugh.
He tried again.
"How do you know she'll listen to me?"
"She's wearing the necklace," said Allegra, stepping out of the gazebo and brushing the snow off her coat. "So good on you…and now run with it."
Which necklace, he thought grumpily. Profoundly aware now that out of the two necklaces he'd given in the last twenty-four hours, one of them was likely sitting in a fireplace…
…but of course, Allegra did not know that. The extent to which he was hiding his non-existent affairs finally allowing him to drop the last cigarette into the snow. Remembering why he stopped smoking, but thanking the cigarette for the amount of cover it gave his scent. About to be on his way…and then suddenly looking after Allegra before quickly getting to his feet.
"Who are the other couples?"
"Ask Weylan."
She was already going.
Shit, he thought. He knew where this was going. The realisation of what was occurring causing him to sit back and light the fourth cigarette. Some ounce of his self-respect causing him to look at it…and then abruptly chuck it into the snow.
"This is still not consensual," he yelled.
"It will be tomorrow," she called back, stalking away through the snow without giving further instruction.
o…o…o
Meanwhile…
Reinette was in hell.
Or as they called it in that corner of eternity…
…charades.
It felt like it had been two hundred years since she picked up the card. And now she was stuck there. In the centre of a polite circle of fourteen ladies, all of them sitting primly on the edge of their seats, watching as she took her turn. Apparently, both Allegra and Sabine had been there, but then had inexplicably left, one following the other, shortly before she arrived.
Which left her trying to focus on the game, wary that she was unarmed and alone in front of…multiple…women…who abhored her, attempting to smell as though everything was fine, while staring at the very prominent ivory knife hanging from Freyja's belt. Its blade exactly as she'd foreseen it, only the hilt was plain. The osprey and all its intricate carving missing…
…and Freyja for once failing to immediately guess the word, therefore forcing her to capitulate to the masses for an additional thirty seconds as the timer ran out. Hannah chagrined enough to avert her eyes, but Jacqueline openly smirking at the far end of the room as she made all manner of gestures in order to communicate the two words. Which everyone knew, she realised. Right around the time she started receiving words like "sack-cloth" while Freyja got things like "Bride-cake."
The sand ran out.
She plunked herself down on an armchair and raised her arms. "Cat-gut?"
"Oh no," said Freyja, looking utterly devastated that none of them had guessed it. "I was thinking it might have been that, but I should have called it sooner."
All the other ladies smiled warmly.
"Better luck next time," said one of them…and then offered her the cards again.
Reinette picked the top one.
Spin-stir.
Just….perfect.
o…o…o
Forty-five minutes later.
Reinette slammed the door to her quarters. Rena was still not back. Allegra and Sabine had completely skipped charades…and she had just wasted… She kicked off one of her shoes. …one of her last evenings embarrassing herself in front of… The other one went flying. …everyone.
She breathed…
…and then started carefully unpinning the veil. Searching for her calm and deciding that—instead of dwelling on the moment—it would be better to think of the future. Because on a positive note, she had successfully completed her list for all the reasons why she hated Midsummer, the Yuletide ball, Solstice, and Hangrove.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
Fuck, she nearly yelled.
Then breathed.
Carefully pinning the veil back in place...again...and then turning towards the door.
"Come," she barked.
The door did not open.
She cursed softly, stalked to the door, opened it…
…and then grimaced.
This had to be a joke.
"You're back."
"I am back," he said. Looking a hundred times more awake now. Still dressed for the evening, but smelling profusely of liquor and cigarette smoke. "…I just…" And then he pointed. "…is Sabine here?"
"No."
"Are you…" He was sounding irritatingly analytical, the kind of sound that heard what she was selling, but could not fathom buying it. "…one hundred percent…certain?"
"Yes."
He nodded…
…and then he continued.
"Because her scent stops right here."
And in any other person, she might have described it as helpful. The way he pointed to where he was standing. The same spot that he was refusing to cross. Like the opposite of every half-witted mortal rumour about vampires, that being a lycan who could not cross her threshold.
Which she gestured towards…
"Are you coming in?"
"Is Rena here?"
"No," she almost growled. "No one is here."
"Could you check?"
"Oh for heavens' sake." An oak wardrobe, typically used for storing coats, opened behind her. Sabine throwing down the blanket she'd been hiding under and kicking it out of the way. "Yes—I am here, and no," she yelled. Hair…everywhere…and snot coming out of her nose. "…I am not doing the dance."
It was…
…a torrent of emotion. Tear-streaks on her cheeks. The girl staring between them…and then abruptly sobbing out loud, wiping her nose along her arm…and then kicking the blanket again.
"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving," she asked haggardly. Red and raw, her voice deeper from the crying. And the question coming out of nowhere for them. So that for the second time in a month, neither of them were able to respond. Until the girl threw her hands up, kicked the blanket again, picked up the nearest vase and threw it. Stalking for the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her.
Leaving them stuck…
…wavering in an awful silence.
Reinette feeling lost…about to turn towards her other, and then blinking because he was no longer there. Instead, he'd crossed the threshold. On the far side of the room already with his back to her. The vase safely caught in hand…and the man holding it for a moment, staring at the glass before setting it down on the nearest table. Leaning back against its edge before looking at her.
"Drink?"
She nodded.
Bleakly.
o…o…o
Ten minutes later.
They were whispering.
Reinette flipping through a book without looking at it. "Why were you being strange earlier?"
He continued reading. "I was not being strange."
The drinks were sitting untouched.
As was her pendant...
..which they were not talking about—just as they were not talking about what drug he was currently using…or why he might be 'odd' the following evening.
Feeling fed up, she got up, walked to the bedroom door, about to turn the handle and then returned to the sitting area. "We should knock on the door."
He turned a page. "You first."
She sat down.
Staring at him.
And then picked up her book again.
o…o…o
Fifteen minutes later.
Sabine was still not coming out.
They were still whispering.
"She's not doing it."
"Of course she's doing it," he muttered. He chucked a crumpled sheet of newspaper at her. It was just after one, the hour of night when most intruders on the night schedule either passed out or were led to their beds. But he was still looking…awake.
Wide awake.
She snorted, shoving her back deeper into her chair, so she could avoid seeing all the boxes. "Why do you care so much?"
"I made a deal with Allegra," he said. Scratching his neck. Turning his own book sideways and then shutting it, so he could switch it for something else. She'd refused to unwrap more than two boxes, so it was either Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë or Jane Austen.
Her sitting room now serving the same purpose as their private sitting room had once done, provided Rena stayed within two metres and she made a conspicuous effort not to appear. Which she was doing magnificently as she still had yet to return.
"What kind of dance is it?"
"Quadrille."
"You're joking."
"I wish I was," he said, turning a page.
Deep into Wuthering Heights now.
She calculated the likelihood that he'd ever read it…and then chucked the newspaper back at him again. "Has she ever been taught?"
"How should I know," he said, flipping to the back of the book. And then making a face. "…this is rubbish."
"It is not rubbish," she said, now kneeling on the chair, so she could peer over the back. Still hearing nothing from the bedroom door. Her focus eventually turning back round long enough to judge him with her tone. "…and you do know if you keep skipping to the end, then you miss the entire plot?"
"There is no plot," he muttered. "Can we swap now?"
She sighed, tossing him the Mary Shelley. Continuing to frown at the door before grimly collapsing into her chair again. "If no one has taught her the quadrille, then how is she supposed to dance it?"
"Did she dance at the docks?"
"Yes."
"Then it's the same thing."
"Lyosha, it is not the same thing."
"Of course it is," he countered, dropping the Mary Shelley to the floor. And if it had stopped there, she might have left it. But then he reached for the crumpled sheet of newspaper she'd thrown at him. Smoothing it out and finding the ever-present pen in his pocket. His hand moving swiftly and with precision, sketching the dance like a general plotting his next campaign. Eight crosses in the centre. Two of them circled…
…and his pen tapping both. "Couple starts with a bow and curtsey." He drew two arrows, one to the left and the other to the right. "On the second beat, she steps that way," he said. "…he steps the other way." Another circle went around each cross. "…they both turn once…and meet in the centre. Right hand to right hand…they do that three times, alternating the direction." He drew three notches below the diagram, tapped the centre and dropped his pen. "…and they're done. Simple," he said, handing the paper over.
And yet so complex, decided Reinette, continuing to regard him over her Emily Brontë, while specifically not taking the paper. The man receiving her stare…and then choosing to ignore it, picking up the Mary Shelley again and continuing to read. Her thoughts—namely the question of what the fuck had just happened—taking her on quite the turn before it affected her smell, that which likely prompted him to finally close the book and exhale his irritation…
"Just…say it."
Or she could draw it, she thought.
Adopting the same pose, she retrieved both pen and paper, added a stick figure…far…far away from the crosses, scribbled a beard on it, circled the beard…and then held it up. "I have never seen you dance in twenty-three years."
"So?"
"You can dance?"
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Three hundred years of compulsory lessons," he explained, picking up his book again. "…and yes—I am actually quite good."
"But you never dance?"
"No."
"Why?"
He scoffed. "Because fuck you, that's why…"
At least he was consistent, she thought, picking up Wuthering Heights again. And then faltering. The words taking her back. The memory gaining traction, sweeping into the sitting room like water on a sinking ship. Reminding her of a different night…
…over fourteen years ago. The two of them standing in front of the carriage house. Her bones aching, her hair white…and his refusal to give up even a minute of his rigid schedule leading her to the wretched business of shivering in the cold, while he'd knelt before the door. They were back in Oppenheim.
And she could see the house in the distance.
Their house.
o…o…o
She could feel the rain dripping down her neck. Her boots soaked. Her coat more of an idea than actual protection against the elements. All of it having very little effect on his understanding of why the outing ought to be cancelled. Her body still in their sitting room…
…but her mind in the past. Gesturing at the doors. "Lyosha, this is not what we agreed on."
He was still picking the lock. "Where is your sense of adventure?"
"With my horse."
"Indisposed."
"And whose fault was that?"
"Nature."
"You planned it."
Even with his back to her, she could feel him rolling his eyes. "Reinette—I like my horse. I want more of my horse, so it stands to reason that I am now breeding my horse."
Of course his gifts would come with a caveat. She felt like whispering again and instead, opted for saying it quickly. "You could have asked."
"Duly noted…" He removed the padlock, grasped the handle and pulled the door open for her. "…but as it is, your horse is very close to fucking my horse, so it's either the automobile or nothing. Your choice."
She groaned and passed through the doors. This was never about her choices. And the memory knew. Sweeping forward as it did…
o…o…o
Still in the past…
…but fifteen minutes later.
"What if you called Rena?"
"I don't need Rena."
He was circling the automobile.
"Well, how does it work?"
"Still figuring it out."
She crossed her arms. "You've not driven it yet?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because fuck you, that's why," he said. Starting to press things. His expression both stoic and elevated. That of a man who was proud of his choices. And yet somehow…
…with all his talk of being an expert with metal, she'd assumed he would already know how to operate the thing.
At her expression, he stopped fiddling with the door. "Reinette, are you judging me?"
"A little."
"Look, I just have not…" He was peering under the front half now. "…had a chance…to examine it…"
"You'll break it."
"I am not going to break it," he said.
o…o…o
He'd broken it, of course.
She blinked, seeing him across from her again. Back in the present. The sitting room of their house in Scotland. Soon to be an old haunting ground, a place that she remembered in passing. His eyes on her…and hers on his…and an ocean between them, she thought.
He squinted. "Where were you?"
Home, she realised.
No point in longing for it.
"Nowhere," she said.
Getting up and heading for the bedroom door.
It was time.
She opened it..
o…o…o
"Sabine."
The girl was in her bed. Curled up. Tear-stricken. No longer the siren. Like twenty-three years had been stripped, leaving a tired nine-year old who just wanted to go home. Like all of them, she thought. Climbing onto the bed beside the girl. "I'm sorry for not telling you."
The girl sniffed.
Roughly. She was still facing the wall, but looked as though she'd been wiping her nose on the pillow. Which was covered in snot now.
But no matter.
The two of them continuing to lie there until her breathing calmed. Like it always it did in a world where they could sit—side by side in silence—grieving what was lost. The red hair eventually turning on its side as Sabine sat up in the bed. Rubbing her nose against her arm again.
"Can I visit you," she asked.
Weepily.
Her voice so small.
"Of course," said Reinette. Allowing it to happen. The girl reaching out and wrapping her arms around her, holding her tight. Such warmth, she thought. And a great a deal of snot.
o…o…o
Lucian gone by the time they came out. But the diagram remaining. Causing a look of great confusion on the face of Sabine as she studied it.
Reinette already having forgotten half the steps…and the two of them arguing over what the crosses meant…until the door quietly opened and Rena entered the room.
Finally.
About to explain where she had been…and all she had seen…but distracted momentarily by the topic at hand. That being Sabine requesting her opinion on a flattened piece of crumpled newspaper. And the question resulting in the three of them now studying the diagram…
…and to their surprise, Rena the only one capable of properly deciphering it. Rena whose name meant melody. Who had once lived in an elegant den in the countryside, long before she lost her children. And the only one among them who could easily dance a French Lycan Quadrille—not to be confused with a mortal one, let alone an English one. As though a strange mist left her eyes for a moment.
The woman seeming to think teaching them was simply another one of her duties, placing six boxes in a circle, lining them up across from each other and moving them along to a beat, tapping it on a book…until they had it. The two of them staring at each other, suddenly shocked that they'd completed the dance in one go. Only then causing Rena to smile as they all looked at each other and started laughing.
Once.
And then it faded.
A/N: Thank you so much for those who are still reading! Fanfiction notifications and statistics appear to be severely compromised, so the reviews that came through gave me such joy!
If you are concerned about notifications, be aware that I post new chapter notifications on X/Twitter (sincerelyRush) and will eventually do so on Tumblr (sincerelyrushwriter). You can also follow this story on ao3 or Wattpad (rushwriter) .
The biggest thing to mention is going forward, I am changing the rating of this story to Mature. (I get the sense we are crossing that threshold, so be warned. I mean, whaaaaat...whyyy... that could mean anything.)
Guest: I think Lucian is also imagining a fall from a great height...
Guest: Admittedly I am also nervous about what is about to happen (because sometimes the characters do not do what I expect...or plan)...
AlohaSummer: This was a lovely thing to read. So glad you enjoyed the story so far and welcome!
Barbara Dias: Thank you for the Tumblr follow — it's very encouraging. (And I solemnly swear to still focus primarily on writing new chapters.)
Mackenzie: Hope you enjoy the Tumblr! And you are correct—something is definitely going to happen. Or at least I think it is, but I will only know for sure until I get to the exact part when either A happens or...even worse...B.
MermaidVampire: I wrote as fast as I could after getting your review! Hope the wait was not too long...and that these two finally figure out how to cross the ocean between them.
Again, thank you all for the lovely reviews. They were so...so...encouraging this past month.
On that note, on we go!