Content warning: This story is rated Mature, and there is a content warning for this chapter. If you want to read it first, please either view the end notes or scroll to the bottom of this chapter. If you want to avoid scrolling, navigate to Archive of Our Own and add the following to the URL to see end notes: /works/749807/chapters/141904045#chapter_88_endnotes
Chapter LXXXVIII: A Rule of Separation
It was the same hour that the clock struck twelve. The dollhouse now quiet in the Eastern Wing, while a flurry of activity began on the levels below. The teas put aside, the ice sculptures removed and the ballroom emptied. As though the eve of good cheer had been all that was needed before each guest flung themselves into the new theme. The brilliant masque in which all ladies were belles on the arm of beastly winter. Each servant having their part to play in what was understandably the event of the decade, if not the century…
…the illustrious and highly anticipated third and final night of Hangrove. A night that in time would go down in history as the first fracture in what ought to have been an immutable foundation. A fracture that would ruin everything. To the point that in decades to come, the Hangrove Society would be disbanded and its affiliated ball relegated to the annals of Things One Did Not Repeat Lest One Wished to be Shepherded Through a List of Reasons for Why Courting Rituals No Longer Included the Lycan French Quadrille.
And yet it started so well.
With a bow…
…and a curtsey.
And a mask.
o…o…o
Four in the afternoon.
Lucian was standing precisely two feet from a gilded mirror in a vaulted dressing room, alone save for the disconcerting fact that he was fucking up his tie. He knew he was fucking it up because typically around then, Raze would have said he was fucking it up. Typically he'd have been surrounded at such times by not only Raze, but at least twenty other souls, many of whom were determined to make their mark in politics and others simply foolish enough to brave his company while preparing for a ball.
Four hundred years of lycan tradition—specifically the masque with its dinner and dance—having created an unspoken rule of separation in any den hosting such an event. Breakfast always served in one's quarters, followed by the sound of an ominous gong for those who had slept in. Enough to ensure that by three in the afternoon, those subscribing to a more feminine tradition—Dante for one— could abscond to a private drawing room for the sake of pampering themselves before the grand event…
…thereby leaving anyone in tails to gather where fortune might lead. Like a fucking wedding, he realised, suddenly clawing the tie off, stiff-collar and all, and starting again. His quarters usually the first stop on what ought to have been a two-hour wine tour before they headed down to the dining room. But he was avoiding Raze…and rather than allowing Langley to handle the finishing touches on his obscenely expensive attire, he'd thrown everyone out before sending the boy on a final errand. One that ought to be taking him a very long time to complete and in so doing, making it wholly unexpected when he heard a knock on the hallway door.
Twice.
And a third time.
"Langley," he barked.
The name bellowed before he remembered he was alone in his dressing room, twenty-six steps from the door in question. The principle of the matter leading him to take his blood-forsaken time and finish the damned tie, so he could tap the silk fabric satisfactorily in the centre, sling back a portion of his brandy—which according to the Lycan Women's Temperance Society, he was not drinking—and only then, head for the front door of his quarters.
He yanked the door open…
…and immediately scowled as Allegra, wearing an enormous cloak for reasons that went beyond him, swept over his threshold and placed an ornate box on his hallway table. She then proceeded to turn her back on the box and present her arms up in wide acclaim, as though the doorway, which they were both facing now, required applause.
"Your new guard rota."
"I don't have a new guard rota."
"And yet there they stand," she said, again indicating the two lycans who had failed to enter the room. "You remember James and Thomas Fulligan, of course…" Two lacquered nails, painted like crescent moons, went to the taller and then shorter before handing him a sealed envelope. "Liam will be travelling down from London on the next train…and we are considering Aron for the fourth position."
He snatched the envelope from the nails. "Did Raze agree to this?"
Allegra laughed shortly, as though he'd said something droll. "Perhaps you should speak to him about it," she suggested, already on her way out and heading for the next stop, her maid scurrying after her with a hundred more boxes.
"I might," he called after her.
He would not.
At least not for eight hours, he decided, staring with what he knew was unmistakable disdain at the two lycans, who were still standing in the hallway, but now making it their business to study the floor. They could have been chess pieces: a pair of rooks on opposite sides, one black, the other white, one tall, the other short. It was common practice to pair them up that way in the orphanage, as though his history with Raze had somehow permeated the fabric of their society. A place where children could look nothing like one another…and yet smell like brothers.
They were brothers.
And she was right—he did remember them.
Not just the first time he gave them their task as newly-trained youths, but the last time he'd stood in front of them, tearing his skin off. A nine-year old Sabine lost and the three adopted sons of Bess struggling to get her to a silver-plated room. Though exactly when they started using Elizabeth Fulligan's name was still a mystery to him. Those whose grief was suddenly palpable in the air. Smelling like creatures lost without a task…for he had indeed forgotten them. Forgotten that there were others who might have been affected by her death.
And the feeling striking too close to home. A feeling that they knew more than they let on. That every time they looked at him, they were in the same hole that he'd fallen into sixteen years ago. Perhaps for all of them, the death of Bess throwing a light on old wounds. Bones that never healed. Making him question why in the hell Allegra would have paired him with these…
…orphans.
In the end, he shut the door in their faces and returned to his dressing room. Taking a moment to break the envelope seal so he could scan its contents. Red wax. The letter inside congratulating him on his new guard rota. His desire for self-preservation encouraging him to drop the letter in the fire before recalling the ornate box. Returning to where he'd left it and examining the exterior. A wax seal on its clasp, this time black, indicating the contents were fragile. The kind of thing one ought to open carefully, but which ended up being half-broken as he flipped the cover off. A cursory inspection revealing a gold-lined card with instructions in the interior…
…and two masks.
To which he smiled.
Langley had done his job.
The second gong of the afternoon suddenly ringing out from the other side of the house. A final warning for those on the wrong levels of the house. And a sudden knock calling his attention to the door again. This time making him move quickly. Both masks smoothly placed back in their box and the cover shut again.
Hidden.
"Come."
The door opened.
"You do know it's white tie," said Allegra. Pityingly. Her face appearing for less than a second before she was gone, shutting the door promptly behind her. Like the deadliest form of assassin, gone before he could respond, but the blow precise in its execution. Leaving him with his hand half-raised, about to point out that yes, of course he knew it was white tie…
…and instead seeing his problem in the hallway mirror. Suddenly and without mercy. A perfectly-centred, entirely precise…black…tie.
Completely out of place.
Like his subconscious was daring him to fuck up the evening before it had even started, he realised grimly. About to use his nails, now sharp, to claw the thing off…again…before pausing in the act. As a beast retrieving one of the masks from the ornate box and reflecting on its countenance. Like a second head beside his own, reminding him of a time, nearly four hundred years ago when the masques first started. When there was only wood…and shadow. And it felt like he was losing his mind. That he could choose a mask to wear…any mask…but over time, it would end up scarred.
And only then did he spare a thought for the poor soul whose job it would be to explain everything after the night was done. Likely Langley. That his lordship had been fine at the start of the evening. That it had all started with dinner…and as he played the events over in his mind, he saw the hours that would turn his mask from gold into lead. Dinner at eight. Dancing at midnight…and then assuming each hour played its part…then they'd be done with it.
And he'd be scarred again.
Once and for all.
o…o…o
Meanwhile…
It was the same gong that sounded on the other side of the house. The time when things began to go wrong. Or as Reinette saw it, the hour of an early sunset falling on an empty room. One she had never truly called home, so that—without the small treasures it once contained—it held little interest for her. Simply a place now filled with boxes and cases. The last of it packed by Rena before the next few minutes of chaos.
A frantic Sabine bursting into the room, stating vehemently that she had made a mistake, her steps were abysmal, and she wanted to skip the quadrille. To which both of them nodded. And yet she wanted to do the quadrille, said Sabine, now clutching the necklace around her neck. A new addition. Keeping it close in hand as she went back and forth…
…sure and then unsure, until she finally shared her actual fears. That she was nervous of all things. A child battling a new sensation, the fear of failure that came when one cared too much. Reinette continuing to listen from her seat, allowing the girl's words to surround her with warmth. As though her costume had taken hold, leaving a flurry of red and gold pacing between the boxes. Each layer adding depth to her beauty, that of a tigerlily with the soul of a burning firefly. And Reinette wishing the firefly could see how much brighter it shined in the eyes of the night. Wishing she could hold her longer. But knowing she'd be gone in time. And that Sabine would land well on her feet.
Provided…someone…went over the steps with her again, thought Reinette with a purposeful glance at Rena. Who was the only one in the room who could possibly fix the situation. Rena who took such things in stride, laying down the dress she'd been arranging on the bed and dutifully leading Sabine out of the room. Moving from task to task, whether it meant teaching a quadrille…or as she always did…signing herself up for guard duty on nights when frivolity required dresses. A boon, in some ways, because it gave Reinette an extra moment in solitude, during which she could either accept the fact that she'd be wearing said dress in two hours or simply burn it.
The lack of matches forcing her towards the first option, but only by a margin, heavily influenced by practicality. The realisation that—like it or not—she was indeed attending the Hangrove Society Ball that evening…so at best, she ought to make peace with the situation. Allow the dress to fulfill its duty in helping her fade into whatever shadows were to be had after sundown. The colour black…as usual, and the theme of simplicity continuing for if she had been able to set fire to the dress, it would have gone up as a single column of flaming chiffon paired with a few lengths of purple.
The unfortunate nature of the Hangrove Society Ball—and its theme, Spring on the Arm of Winter—requiring every lady in the hall to swathe themselves in crêpe paper, for the sake of emulating flowers.
Calm…
…beautiful flowers.
And yet her desire to burn things was increasing exponentially as she tried to wrap the purple lengths of crêpe paper gracefully around the black. The question of which side was which leading to a full thirty-minute misadventure, only to realise the dress was backwards…before closing her eyes, attempting to calm herself, so her nails would be short enough to adjust the thing without shredding it into a thousand strips. In the end, she gave up on 'beautiful' and instead aimed for sufficient. The botanist in her blood having difficulty equating her costume with the long petals of a calla lilly, but willing to wear anything if it got her closer to the night's end.
Or almost anything.
Her decision to retrieve the gifted flower-pendant on the mantlepiece heavily influenced by hunger. At first, a need to examine the breakfast tray Rena had left on the small dining table that she rarely used. The woman habitually trying to force her movements by leaving things she required in the same vicinity as things she desired. Pouring her morning blood, stirring the cup vigorously several times and seating herself down in a chair which so happened to be across from her seating area.
The fire lit…
…and the flower-pendant just…sitting there. Still. Because of course…Rena…had not packed it. Which meant it was bound to be left behind.
So she might as well…
Fuck it.
She got up, stalked to the mantlepiece, snatched the flower pendant, stalked to the bathroom and placed it around her neck. And immediately wished she had not…
…because it was perfect.
The length was perfect. The weight. Even the feel on her skin, as though he'd spent the last twenty-three blood-forsaken years keeping track of her preferences. Possibly even noticed that—over the course of several pendants—she often preferred the more durable chains over the lighter options. Its presence on her chest filling her with warmth. Like it was no longer a pendant, but her heart beating. A metronome keeping time with a very precise series of notes. Completely entwined so that if the tune stopped, it felt like the entire mechanism would break.
And a ticking voice inside her mind, that of her mentor, warning her of danger. Telling her she was weak for even wearing it. Until the sound of a very precise series of knocks broke her reverie…
…and she found herself in a different room. That at some point in her reverie, she had moved. Her hand now in front of her, holding a broken glass with the edge facing the door. Staring at the edge…and then abruptly, returning to the bathroom, placing the broken glass in a bin and washing her hands quickly. Feeling that something odd had just occurred but quickly shaking it off. Hearing the knock again, dropping the hand towel…and quickly yelling the word, "Come," before realising the door was still locked.
The next knock causing her to curse in at least two tongues, before striding to the front door—which had yet to open—and doing the honours for whomever was standing there.
And for good reason…
…because the person standing there had their hands full. Allegra bustling past her into her entryway, appearing too busy to notice the world—let alone broken glass. The lady handing her a decorative box, one of several dozen being delivered around the house. About to carry on her way and then quickly bustling back to where she was standing, taking a second step back to consider what she was seeing and then snapping her fingers for her maid to take the rest of the boxes from her arms, already focusing all of the intensity she was now carrying on Reinette. "What happened to Rena," the lady asked.
"I sent her with Sabine."
"Why?"
"Quadrille."
"Ah," the lady said, as though she could fully understand such generous choices. But now gesturing towards her bedroom. "Say no more—I have six minutes, so we will use them wisely."
"I finished already."
Allegra smiled warmly, but in the manner of one watching a child taking its first steps. "Darling, your dress is backwards."
Reinette looked down.
Oh.
o…o…o
And so she found herself—approximately six minutes later—waiting patiently for her dress to be turned, while Allegra slapped her fingers away, rooted through Sabine's borrowed toiletry bag, and redid her makeup. Spritzing a small mist of perfume and having her walk through it before they handled the more obvious problem.
And one might assume it would be the dress, but no—first, they had to change the stockings and the shoes, after her earlier selections were deemed 'too practical.' The thinner stockings and higher heels brought out of storage. The dress finally turned, but the extravagance continuing as Allegra began fussing over the folds. Sweeping her hair back, before having them both walk…carefully…to the decorative box, so she could remove what appeared to be a Viennese mask from its interior. The lady using her free hand to fix the mask to her hair, pinning it on either side, then taking three steps to the left…and the right. Turning her one final time…
…before indicating the mirror.
A place built out of longing, for the reflection had somehow transformed. Before her stood—and there were no other words for it—a calla lily. Beautiful and veiled with a mask of black lace, leaving little doubt of her identity, but adding a layer of mystery to her expression. She could see her chest rising like a graceful stem, surrounded by a sweep of dark petals below her waist. The costume no longer jostling as she moved. The long gloves she'd initially spurned, now keeping her fingers warm, while drawing the eye up to her shoulders. Adding a touch of grandeur from afar. Like a final note had been played…and balance had been restored.
She felt…
…young.
And yet there was a disconnect. Harboured deep in the other flower. The saffron around her neck. No longer decayed or misshapen. But lost. Still feeling like a seal dressed in lace. A child afraid of the dark. And all that came on the edge of winter. So many assuming that this was what she wanted. Elegance and mystery. The vibrant beauty dressed in the petals of a calla lily…
…but her soul still hurting.
Ancient and alone. Forced again to take that breath in, the one that felt like it had been waiting…so long. And was still waiting. Even as she stepped forward to the mirror, studying her appearance…before looking at Allegra.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, darling," said Allegra, before raising a hand to touch it. The flower pendant that had remained around her neck. "…parting gift?"
"Yes," she said, at first keeping her eyes on the mirror…and then meeting those of Allegra. Realising that she had nothing to hide. "I told you I wouldn't be here long."
"You did," the lady said.
Sadly.
o…o…o
And she ought to have understood that sadness. That beneath what she knew to be happening was another layer. Always another layer with the wolves that handled this world…
…and the first layer stripped from her stem as she heard a knock on her door. Thinking it was Allegra again and opening the door without question…and now stilled on the landing.
Mystified by his presence, if not the reason for it, this creature who had no business being anywhere near the East wing, yet continued to play his part, that of the fool refusing to take a chair when he thought a throne was in his grasp. Idling by her door. Like all those who'd come before him, daring to tempt fate with a bead of blood.
Not Lucian.
Erling.
From afar, he might have seemed dapper. Handsome. A gentleman wearing the obligatory white-tie, but his mask hanging loose from around his neck. Hours later, she would wish she'd noticed the mask. But it was not the mask that she focused on in that moment. It was that his coat was already unbuttoned. A hungry look in his eye.
"Blood, you clean up well," he said. Pushing past her into the room before she could react. But her instincts already weighing the repercussions. The distance from herself to the door. The distance to the broken glass in the bathroom. The ease with which she could snap his neck…
…and then the politics of it.
Her annulment.
His position.
Not enough to be an heir when he could make trouble on the final night of Hangrove, spilling his selfishness over their world, she thought, opting to remain by the front door.
He was an hour early…
…which meant the rumours were already starting. Questions. Theories. An entire den likely buzzing after someone—for there was always someone—noticed the heir of Gottfrid stealing up to her quarters before signing paperwork for her annulment. She could only assume he'd not signed it yet.
"You know, I have been trying to get in here for six weeks," he said, walking around with a keen look on his face, stepping around boxes and travelling trunks."…a bit disappointing, if I'm honest…"
She cut in.
"Why are you here?"
"I'm your escort."
"You're early."
"I thought we could toast the tree," he said. As though it were a long-standing tradition, one that all lycans and lycans before them had done since the dawn of time. And she already missing something. A cultural divide that seemed to linger regardless of the years she'd lived among them.
"Toast the tree?"
"The one that fell down," he explained, opening his coat further to reveal a bottle. A blood's version of champagne. "…it was on Magnus' list of stops for my southern tour. I'm supposed to be ticking them off as we travel…but the damn thing fell before I could visit the grove."
He'd had six weeks to visit the grove.
"Who else?"
She was borrowing time.
He uncorked the bottle and held it out to her. "No one over sixty if that worries you," he said, seeming to glean from fears that were not there. "…but you can bring your guard if you wish."
She did wish.
But wishing would not change what this boy intended, she thought, going to a sideboard, retrieving two glasses, and taking the bottle from his hand. Walking as one does when the idle pace of certainty replaces fear. Her steps leading them out the front door and down to the end of the hallway before she stopped. Drawing the first and second layers of the drapes, so they could see into the night.
In the distance, the one spot where the east and south collided, the small grove of trees standing as a contrast to the barren Scottish countryside. A single evergreen fallen in its centre…and like a vision, she saw its branches filled with shadows. These creatures 'younger than sixty' that he'd mentioned….the ones that looked up to him. A nervousness to their movements. An energy in their strides, like they were close to running.
Or planning something, she thought, balancing both glasses, pouring both and setting the bottle down on the sill. "This is as far as I go," she said, holding one of the glasses out to him.
In case he was not following.
The guards missing from the hallway. Likely paid off in exchange for whatever came from looking in the other direction. The boy expecting her to have entered that grove of treachery…and now forced to make a change to his plan. Giving a sullen scoff at the turn of the events, but raising his glass towards the window.
"To the tree then," he said.
She raised her glass. "To the tree."
But she did not drink.
And he laughed at that.
A genuine chill in his eyes now. Reminding her of that first time she'd seen him. Like he was looking at a dog…and wanted her to cower. Taking a sip from the blood, seeming to have difficulty finding his words now …and then putting his glass down. Indicating the hallway. "Look, I thought we could have a chat before the ball," he said.
"About?"
"Your amendment."
And she could have lied. She could have feigned knowledge on the subject, but he had her in that moment, as though another gong had struck, echoing a different note from the previous night. Amendment, he'd said. Not annulment…which meant there were pieces moving on a chessboard. Knowing the culture that surrounded them. That there was gossip…and deals…and likely a dozen offers on a table she'd never seen nor heard about…
…and her scent betraying her. Or her eyes behind the mask. But the pace of certainty gone as she lost her footing. "What amendment?"
"Oh," he said, looking genuinely surprised as he took a step back, frowning in the same manner as his sister. So like twins, the pair of them. Using innocence and confusion as masks. "…has he not told you?"
It felt like an echo of a moment…and another moment. Countless moments as she stood, struck by how often she was asked that question. Because of course he had not.
"It must be maddening," he continued. Still smiling. "…having no say in your future. But that's the Council for you. They control everything."
Not everything, she thought, putting her glass down.
She was done with the conversation. Starting to turn back towards her quarters, but the boy reacting quickly, reaching out for her arm. And holding it. "Do you know how it became that way?"
"What?"
"The Council."
"Of course not."
It was a foolish question to ask an exile. But she could hear his pause, maliciously waiting for her curiosity. The mystery he was trying to share now caught on his tongue. And the boy too eager to let it rest, instead forcing her to hear that which she did not require. "I am only trying to help you."
"How?"
"With a warning." The smile was still there, but she could see the stains on his teeth. An acrid stench on his breath. "He makes powerful allies…and then he disposes of them."
"And you think he's going to dispose of me," she asked. Wondering when this boy began to think he knew her.
Them.
A clumsy attempt at intrigue as he looked over his shoulder. As though keen for her to be wary. "He's done it before," he said. And she saw the faintest glimmer of warning on his face, making every whisper seem like it was worth her time. "Two others in the beginning." And this time, he spoke quickly. Not so foolish as to raise his voice, but bold enough to speak the words in the lair of one he was disparaging. "…Sabas…and Xristos. They followed him for centuries, you know…"
He trailed off.
"And now it's just Raze—doomed to be second, while Xristos rots in prison," he finished sadly. Perhaps waiting for her to ask. To peel back the layers of the past. The tragedy of two creatures she'd never met. The halls seeming to recede as a trickster plied his trade. Thinking that he could see through her eyes, that all she saw was a golden stag inviting her to his kingdom.
But it was a mirage.
She could see through his desires. That he was not letting go of her arm. And yet her discomfort was starting to recede along with the halls. Instead she felt the most…exhilarating…sensation. Urging her to play with her food. Curious if he needed an audience to feed himself, or if he would just focus his energy on whatever distraction snared his interest.
Like a domesticated rat.
"Tell me of Sabas," she urged.
Watching him eat it up. Coming closer and whispering in her ear. Close enough that she could finally smell it…the cat blood on his breath. "The histories says he disappeared," the boy murmured, nearly kissing her with the words… "…but my father says…" He ran a hand up her side. "…on the eve of a great battle, he once saw two of them go up a mountain…and only one of them came down."
And she ought to have recoiled.
But she found herself leaning into the scent.
Cat blood.
Fresh.
A foul reminder of her past. That feeling of being trapped. Desperate and afraid. Seeing herself on the filthy ground, choking on the taste of its entrails…and then suddenly…
…not.
Erling took a step back.
Suddenly.
Finally…
…picking up on the notes that were calling to her. The scent coiling itself around her memories. That which lurked in the dark. Able to see now that it was not for her sake that they never served cat blood at the dinner table. And the boy immediately raising his hand in that universal lycan symbol for peace…and letting go of her arm. As though stung. Trying to find his footing in a world that was no longer as steady as it had been. Quickly taking another gulp of his foul concoction, perhaps to try and finish it before things went sour. Forcing a smile that was no longer confident. "Sorry, what was I saying again?"
She took a step towards him.
"The amendment."
"Oh…" He sniffed. "Yes," he continued, taking a step back. Quickly retrieving the bottle from the window-sill as though that was the reason for his retreat. His need to take a sip directly from the stem. "…it seems he wants you in Vienna now."
Vienna.
Close to Sabine.
Freyja coming with her annulment. Lucian offering to sign it…
…and yet making no mention of this amendment. A new location. New territory. All of it seeming minor if he had not been so odd the previous evening. Like seeing everything in halves, knowing something was wrong yet forced to step forward all the same.
"When did he mention this?"
The boy shrugged as though it were of no consequence. "This morning."
Allegra knew.
Had likely signed it.
It was…possible.
Hope springing from beneath until she saw the way Erling was looking at her. That coy smile of one who expected all doors to open for him, but the expression stopping at his teeth. "Now I'm a reasonable man," he said. "…and I am more than willing to sign these extra conditions…if…" Erling reached out, almost touching her lips…but stopping just shy. "…we can come to our…own…arrangement."
And it was not the first time she had heard those words. All of her memories drawing back…and a sudden wariness entering her fingers. Like an unseen veil, warning her of danger…and giving her that remarkable insight into the reason why any plan—even one formulated by Freyja—was bound to fail before the last signing…
…the boy was a shit.
She started walking back to her door.
"You can leave now."
"Look, I know he's been skimming off the top," he said, starting to follow alongside her, still gesturing with the bottle. "…someday…if things were to change, you might be grateful to be in my good books."
"I have nothing to offer you."
"I think you do."
She turned. "And who told you that?"
"The Lady Allegra."
Again.
A decision to trust…
…or not.
Still feeling that warmth, but seeing clearly now what he was trying to imply. His words already clouding her judgment. Making her question everything. Whether Allegra had dressed her that evening out of nostalgia…or for a purpose. And yet through all of it, even if such thoughts may have crossed her mind, there was a single one that won out.
Allegra was kind.
And this boy…was still…a shit.
She continued staring at him. Like the crone had taken hold, waiting for a malicious child to tell his truth.
"Alright, she didn't…" He licked his lips. "…exactly…say it like that."
"Then how?"
"She said you'd be grateful."
He started to reach for her arm again.
She shifted back.
Continuing to stare.
To which he laughed. "Why would I sign any of this…unless I get something in return?"
"Perhaps you can spend your evening contemplating that," she said, turning back towards her door. And perhaps if he'd left it in that instance, things might have ended differently.
But he did not.
Instead, he gave a pretentious scoff…
…and then lunged for her.
All of it…immediately…
…going black.
o…o…o
Erling gone when she blinked again.
And if her hands had been shaking, she might have felt better about the situation.
But they were deathly still.
A shard of glass held between her fingers.
Her nails longer than usual.
She'd Changed.
The world appearing sharper. The shadows longer…and the remnants of conflict evident in the hallway. Snow was collecting on the carpet, drifting blithely through the broken window. Something had…destroyed…the wine bottle. Pieces of glass everywhere and the stem sticking out of the wall. Her mask still in place, but the dress tattered along one side. Like it had been shredded by a drowning cat. No longer pristine, but a flower with half its petals torn. And a gong…the actual sound of dinner this time…waking her from the dark.
Time.
She'd lost time.
At least twenty minutes.
Also…
…there was an enormous bloodstain.
And a pool of urine.
Right where Erling had been.
Shit.
A/N: It has...been...ages. But in the interim, I wrote three chapters in full, so we can at least have a bit of cadence going for May. Thank you immensely to those who are still reading! I still have no idea if the notifications are going out, but I'll keep posting. Off we go again!
A/N #2: I could not help myself. I had to add another note. For those who think Erling the Heir's reference to Sabas is the ONLY reference we will have to Sabas going forward, please...trust...me. I will not let you down. The story is mapped out. Hold fast to your hope. HOOOLD the door.
Love in Halsey: I nearly cried when I got your review. Thank you for continuing to read the fanfic. I will not stop writing. (As to your question, I think Jacqueline understands her husband. But I doubt she is content or in love with him.)
Guest: You are absolutely on point about Reinette and her feelings about Wuthering Heights. She tragically would have fallen in love with Heathcliff, even though Lucian thinks it's rubbish.
Content Warning: This chapter contains a fade-to-black reference to an attempted sexual assault and a character finding their way through the aftermath of that moment.