Chapter LXXXIX: Circumstance and Diplomacy
Ten minutes later.
Sabine's expression had gone from helpful to confused. And to be fair, there was…again…good reason. Instead of meeting in the foyer, Reinette had made a hissing noise from the top of a winding staircase. And Sabine, still in a panic over the quadrille, had missed the first hiss. Unable to hear beyond the hubbub of masked couples milling towards the Great Hall. Most of them chattering away as they prepared to join a reception line…
…the first half of the ball.
Dinner.
Twelve excessively long tables decorated in the style of the night. Each swathed in white with lanterns and wreathes interwoven along its centre. Royal bone tableware, golden cutlery and crystal glasses. Christmas taking a step back, while dozens…possibly a hundred people…made their way to their seats. Not just the guests staying in the house, but the ones who'd travelled for the occasion. The pinnacle of lycan society. And perhaps once, the Hangrove Society Ball had been a calm affair…
…even benign, the kind of engagement approved by a more traditional generation.
But it did not feel like it.
The theme still holding a fairytale quality in its tone. Every gentleman a beast of winter and every lady a belle of spring. But an underlying horror to the occasion. As though in demanding a masquerade, Erling had added a dangerous note to the symphony that surrounded them. A cacophony of masks formed out of porcelain, velvet or papier-mâché. Feathers on some. Gold on others. Even silver for those who ordered it. Their joyful expressions full of movement, yet unnaturally still. Making it difficult to see who was in the hall. Some changing their voices as they spoke, trying to remain anonymous, for the night involved an added layer of amusement for those with privilege, those who found it delightful to guess who they were talking to depending on their scent.
And Reinette incapable of following the game, let alone her next choices…without Rena. Able to see the clock in the Great Hall and reason that Rena had already started her shift…and was therefore out of reach. An ironic circumstance heavily formed out of lycan culture, that which assumed a guard was unnecessary, as long as she was escorted by someone as esteemed as Erling, the heir of the North…
…who might be lying dead on the south-eastern side of the house for all she knew. Any footprints or blood already covered by falling snow by the time she'd peered out the broken window. Her plan to quietly signal Sabine taking an additional minute before the girl followed the hiss. Creeping up the staircase…and nearly yelping as Reinette pulled her to the side. Leading them to a shadowy corner, so she could whisper.
"I need Rena…"
"Why," the girl started to ask. As usual requiring a copious amount of detail before she would move. "…what happened?"
She was…
Trying to get more words out…
…and suddenly breathing too fast. Sabine looking shocked. But it was…not the time…for questions, she thought. Trying to say it out loud. But it felt like her throat was starting to close. The panic setting in because… She needed Rena …and blood, could the girl not just…
…listen.
"I don't…"
Remember.
And it was awful.
The strangest…most benign…thoughts starting to surface. Because they ought to have been talking of benign things. The precision of the girl's movements. That in the two minutes before she'd called her, the steps had seemed perfectly fine and unlikely to make the front page of the Line Rumour under the headline "Lycan-master's Wanton Ward Fumbles Again" as Sabine had so eloquently put it earlier.
Instead—for the last ten minutes, she'd been frantically avoiding people. Too afraid to go back to her quarters. Afraid that she'd left a dead…lycan…body somewhere. As though a shame was trying to take hold. Unable to tell whether she was lying to Sabine…whether something had indeed happened. Something involving a bottle, a stabbing motion…
…and a body.
Feeling the fear.
And now…
…worry.
She might have killed him.
The words on the edge of her tongue.
Sabine…
…I think…
I may have…
"There you are."
She breathed.
Cat blood.
Relief…
…and trepidation.
Erling striding up to them, taking her hand and leading her smoothly away from a stunned Sabine. Down the staircase. So quickly that before she could catch the railing, they were on the first floor, his arm around her back and her hand being swiftly escorted towards the Great Hall. As if everything was as it should be, even though he'd changed into a different suit. A shade of off-white that made him seem…unnatural…beside the other gentlemen. His boutonnière missing. His hair slightly damp as though he'd just washed it.
"Now you threatened...me," he whispered in her ear as they walked. Pausing to wave at someone as he spoke, teeth wide and smiling at the room. "…so if you say anything about what happened earlier…to anyone…I will make your life a living hell."
And this was how it started, she realised. This was how power could shift. A series of moments, one after the other, that would determine who she told…and how she told it. Whether in time she would shut a door…
…or open it.
Wishing she had told Sabine.
But it was too late.
They'd reached the dining hall…
…and nothing could have prepared her for that moment. The feeling that a change was occurring. A monumental shift in all that was and had been before. And for those behind them, it might have looked benign as it once should have. A couple entering a room. Next in line. One of dozens. Yet there was…a difference. Some of them eager for it. Others disapproving. But no one saying anything as the change moved forward.
All the lycans milling before them drawing back, suddenly aware of the tension that was about to ensue. The shock as Erling, the son of Gottfrid, slipped a mask over his face and entered the hall. Like a dance, the crowd stepping back…and they forward with Erling holding her hand up.
And the horrific truth of his nature coming to the surface as she saw what he'd planned. How well he'd watched them over the past six weeks. His mask—for it was the mask that was the problem, she realised—no longer loose around his neck. Allowing her to focus on its countenance for the first time that evening. The style. Painted to appear like wood, but its scars reminding her of a night, over two decades ago. An old seer surrounded by wolves…and Lucian standing as their king. Not just reminding her of the mask…
…but nearly identical.
A perfect parody of the scarred mask Lucian had worn that night, only formed out of papier-mâché. Which made her part of the costume. Erling pretending on this night—the greatest night of the year—to be the lycan-master…
…which made her…the plucked flower at his side, she realised. The mistress. The whore. Suddenly hearing the rhyme in her head again. The king of hearts…with his golden tarts. Aware that they were getting closer to the high table…and trying to decide whether to run.
Or face it.
And she nearly baulked.
But again…
…too late.
She stepped forward…
…and it was a ripple before her feet. Sweeping through a crowd, backing away until the high table revealed itself at the end of the hall. Grandiose ice sculptures of beasts and flowers mirrored at their backs. And like the night when the Council first saw her, she could not say for certain who sat among them. But she could suspect. A masked bear on the left, Magnus, too tall to hide his presence. And beside him the mysterious Morrigan—or perhaps one of her decoys, for there were many throughout the crowd who looked like her. Each costume identical to the other, as though she'd brought a dozen of her daughters, each dressed as a three-petalled orchid. On the right, she saw Raze and Allegra, one wearing the gilded mask of a stag, and the other dressed in the vibrant pinks of an oleander. Neither spoke, but their faces followed her. The oleander in particular. Allegra perhaps seeing what had occurred to the dress, even regretting it…
…but doing little to stop it.
For they were in deeper water now.
People of wealth and power. The nature of the Hangrove Society Ball allowing little in the way of conflict. No fighting in the hall. No silver in the eyes. So that a woman could walk from one end of a room to the other, wearing a dress that had been ravaged by claws, without issue. Leading them finally to the centre of the high table to pay their respects. The royal couple in a kingdom of wolves. Like a mural painting had broken free from the ornate paneling, a tableau of extravagance with Lucian and Freyja at its centre. A golden wolf, the only such mask in the hall, holding court with the tall rose at his side…and the two of them surrounded by the cream of lycan society.
And there was an air of merriment to the table. A side of lycan culture that she knew was there…but did not always trust. Yet he was entirely in his element. A captivating aura to his charm. Appearing to recount a tale that involved him pointing at himself and the gargantuan man on his left before making an explosive gesture towards the ceiling. The full-throated laughter of Magnus, masked as a snarling bear, giving license to the rest of them all to laugh in turn, for there was a hierarchy to such things in lycan society. An old guard of warriors. But as their costumes passed into his sight, she could swear that the wolf's eye met hers. Only a glance but it carried weight.
For he saw it.
She knew he saw it.
The dress.
The tear along the right side. While Erling stood by her side, still wearing the scars of his false mask, making a pantomime of their lives as he smiled triumphantly at the lycan-master. A tense moment as they stared at one another…until the last creature of the tableau, the uncrowned queen at its centre—her face covered by silk and lace—moved swiftly to temper the insult. Rising to her feet, Freyja took her glass and raised it high, causing a flurry of motion, a hundred hands also raised high, joining her in the toast.
Honour to the lycan-master.
Who took it in…and then stood, raising his glass as well. Acknowledging their allegiance and saying nothing of the insult. Instead leaning over to Freyja, whispering something in her ear…
…so that she laughed softly.
Allowing the room to breathe. The glorious tinkle of glasses and chatter resuming as people again meandered towards their seats. Sabine looking tremendously uptight as she sat at the table, escorted by a guest of the lycan-master, the elusive Benoit. Almost three hundred years old, but appearing as a pale youth in his early thirties, his eyes, seemingly stripped of all colour, perceptively taking in the play beyond his crow's mask. Rena on the far side of the hall, too far away to rescue her from the cold.
And the final gong ringing out.
Dinner about to be served. Reinette taking her seat, feeling a glacier start to build. As though the cold had soaked into her bones. The cold of being left outside. Telling herself it did not matter, that she'd chosen this path the moment she'd asked him to sign. But it hurt to see it happen. How quickly he moved on. Leaving her behind for the sake of circumstance and diplomacy. A general on the front.
One who'd chosen to win the war.
Not the battle.
o…o…o
Fifteen minutes later.
The battle was paused.
The first sign that things were amiss occurring shortly after the first soufflé was served. A sequence of events, starting with the Lady Morrigan rising to her feet and heading for the doors, followed by at least six of her decoys, the masked women who mirrored her. In her wake came six from the Northern delegation, three from the Southern side, and one from the Lycan Merchant's Bank. This was then followed by Allegra and Raze, moving as one…and then Magnus…
…but not the lycan-master, who continued to keep his peace, conversing with those closest, while steadfastly ignoring the matter at hand. Allowing them to reach at least the second course before a servant appeared with a golden platter, holding a missive out to the man, who upon reading it, signalled his guard rota to remain and finally took his leave. Laying a hand first on the wrist of his lady who—a diplomat to her core—took the disturbance with ease, turning to converse then with the remaining parties. Who in turn began to converse in lower and lower voices the farther along the table they went, some turning in their seats to follow his path with their eyes.
But unable to follow behind closed doors.
Where six Northerners, three Southerners, one accountant, and four Council members sat in a room off to the side of the Great Hall. Lucian having gone to the lone drinks cabinet in the corner, pouring himself a brandy, his second of the evening, only then taking a seat across from them, bottle and glass in hand…before waving for the first to speak.
And it ought to have gone in the manner that he expected. His plans hinging on the presence of this mask that Erling had received…in an ornate box…earlier that evening…and likely assumed was part of his costume. Unaware that the mask he ought to have received had been switched…and was instead now rotting in the household compost. He ought to have been receiving supplications on the floor. Grandiose apologies. But it was the hour when things were going wrong, so as far as grand expectations were concerned…
…all bets were off.
It began on the Northern side.
One of the longest serving advisors, a man by the name of Jensen, stepping forward with his nose in the air. Explaining that it had come to his attention that Lord Erling had been the victim of an egregious assault on his person. That they had been led to believe that his lordship would be safe while escorting Miss de la Roche. They requested that she be removed from the floor immediately, going so far as to suggest all Northerners would need to leave the premises…and report back to Lord Gottfrid.
"Assaulted?"
"Yes, milord."
"In what manner?"
The man's nose twitched. "The details are…disturbing…and we would rather not…offend…the finer sensibilities of our present company."
The ladies.
Morrigan sighed.
One of the southern advisors, an equally high and wide-nosed individual—though it was not a competition—by the name of Cromwell, immediately stepped forward, brandishing the one advantage at their disposal…and seeking the higher ground. "It is our understanding that Lord Erling is young…and may have misunderstood this offence."
It was a lifeline.
Jensen stepped forward. "If his young lordship has misunderstood this offence, perhaps there is some guarantee as to the…collective…misunderstanding of other offences."
The mask.
They knew it was a problem.
Cromwell was feeling agreeable. "Perhaps if the lady and his lordship were to…apologise…for these perceived misunderstandings, then we…" It was an elevated word. "…might see fit for his lordship to retire for an hour…and refresh himself."
The mask had to go.
And yet Jensen required assurances.
He was no stranger to negotiating with the Southern dens…
…and he did not step back.
"It is yet to be determined," said Jensen. "…where…certain misunderstandings originated, for we have it on good authority that the…box…his lordship received…contained its contents in its present form."
"Are you suggesting the Lady Allegra gave him that mask," interjected Lucian. Looking around him as though confused as to why he was the only one speaking plainly.
The man paled…
…and seemed to lose his courage. Less subtle in the glance he gave Lady Morrigan who by that time had turned away, content to leave the man out in the cold. And the man now desperately looking towards any other assistance he might receive from the council. Starting with Raze, who out of grim solidarity, glanced from the man to Allegra…who in turn, returned his glance and that of the man with a slight shake of the head. Which the man then quickly took as his lifeline, taking a step back, having realised now that no one…
…should try and answer that question.
Morrigan finally being the one to take pity on them. "We hear your plea, gentlemen." Her voice was neither warm nor cold, simply stating facts for those who must now wait. "Allow us to reflect…and we will advise you on our judgment."
It was a statement met with profound relief. Each of the six Northerners stepping forward, dropping to their knees. And then going a step further, lowering their heads to the floor. All wishing to avoid a perceived insult to the Lady Allegra. Before filing out of the room, one by one, followed by the three Southerners and the one accountant. Leaving the four Council-members: Raze, Magnus, the Lady Allegra, and the Lady Morrigan.
Naturally, the walls came down.
Some of them.
It started with Allegra.
Immediately getting to the point.
"Aleksey, did you put that mask in his box?"
He snorted.
"Yes."
She gave an uncharacteristic groan of disapproval, crossing as well now to the drinks cabinet and pouring herself a sherry. "What on earth were you thinking?"
"That the boy is a shit," he said, leaning back comfortably. "…and in six weeks, he has spent too much time ingratiating himself with powerful people."
"And you too little," she replied.
"I overslept."
She appeared to be tiring of his excuses. Practically chewing on glass as she returned to her seat.
"You could have told us."
"Would you still have delivered it?"
"Of course not."
"Well, there you have it."
She nearly broke the glass, setting it on the table. "This is not a game, Aleksey."
"I think you will find it is precisely that," he said. Keeping his glass away from the table lest it get caught up in the moment. "…and as long as the Northerners are panicking about that mask, they're not focusing on the number of investors trying to back away from their fucking lord."
"Who is going to be your brother-in-law."
"Not for twenty fucking years."
"Language, please."
She might as well have said Company. Magnus and Raze knowing better than to interject when Allegra was on a rampage. But the four of them so used to speaking with ease, that the presence of Morrigan was like that of a spider. Patiently listening. Adding another dimension to their words. Because yes—the three of them could see through his mood. That he felt like shoving Erling off a cliff…
…and it was not the balance of power making his blood boil in that moment. He was not feeling annoyed or irritated by the politics of the situation. By the notion of Erling ingratiating himself with investors or diplomats. He did not care if the boy sought to insult his people…or his council.
No.
It was the dress.
Again.
And the three of them—perhaps even the four of them—knew it. Because they had seen it. The three-foot length of fabric that had been shredded on the one side. Making him certain that whatever…assault…had occurred upon the boy was warranted. And if Reinette had not had an iota of the self-control that she did, things might have turned out differently.
Which meant it was exceedingly important for him not to think on that dress…and what Erling…the shit-forsaken…heir of the North…had been trying to do. Lest he lose his scent-mask. All the deals…and cards he had on this table. Because whatever Allegra might think, this was a game…an end-game…
…and if he wanted to win, he needed to remain focused. So that despite feeling…so much more…than he ought to be feeling, he allowed that portion of his mind, the one that had no pity…no emotion in times of war…to take precedence upon his brow.
A shield against questions.
Curiosity.
So that when Morrigan coolly murmured, "And what of the assault?"
He could find himself responding in kind.
"What of it," he said.
Honestly.
And without much feeling, other than a mild relief that they had indeed missed the bulk of the salad courses, if his inner clock was any clue.
Which it was.
Allegra had started fussing with the lining on her gown. "Can you not see how precarious our situation is?"
"Only because the boy decided to run with a pen."
"He did not start this."
Neither of them was looking at Morrigan. Who had sponsored the annulment. But there was no sense in dwelling on lightning and thunder when one was about to drown. "Look," he said, putting his drink down…finally…and indicating the door with two fingers. "…if that boy deserves signing authority over his sister, then he should be ready for the consequences."
"I doubt Gottfrid will see it that way."
"Then he should have thought of that before sending him south."
"Oh for heaven's sake, Aleksey, he was simply trying to rile you."
"And with good success," he said, seeking out his brandy bottle and tipping it over his glass again. "I am riled."
Morrigan gave a soft purr of laughter. Like an invitation to her presence, Lucian taking the opportunity to now glance in her direction. "I amuse you, Lady Morrigan?"
"Always," she said.
Still purring.
His instincts quick enough to return the sentiment, raising his glass in her honour. Curious now to see if she'd favour him with her honesty. "And was it you, Lady, who planned the annulment or Freyja?"
The lady gave a sidelong look towards him. A pillowing crown of black hair surrounding her hidden face. Everything soft, perfumed and feathered. Yet dangerous. Still as sharp as that first night Raze had broken her chains. Still as bitter for the years it had taken him…the both of them…to fulfill that promise. Helping her climb…she and those whose skin was black…and whipped…and broken until a bite changed her fate.
When a hand like hers reached out…
…and gave her an axe. One that she used for centuries, carving her territory out of that burning, sinking ship, choosing to build her throne on the very grave of the family she once served. Until they were dust…and she remained. Alone. Unchanged. But forever marked by the axe that had scarred her face before her changed blood could heal it.
One who inclined her head in acquiescence, despite being the only one in the room to rebuff his offer of truce…and camaraderie…all those years ago. "Freyja," she admitted. "…but only to keep the peace, Aleksey—you know I wish only for peace."
And that was all.
Her words always heavily guarded in his presence, leading him to wonder how exactly Allegra and Morrigan had managed to use over half the secure Line minutes solely between the pair of them. The telephone usage something he was actually starting to request reports on, considering its presence was the only reason he was entertaining this entire debacle.
"Magnus?"
The man shrugged, seeming tired of the entire business. One could only imagine given how much time he'd spent in the past six weeks, ensuring the boy did as little harm as he could without stepping on the toes of his father. "The boy is unconscionable," he stated. His choice to use the word 'unconscionable' rather than 'shit' saying much for the respect he felt towards Morrigan. "…and the longer we say nothing, the greater the harm."
"Raze," said Lucian.
For there were four on his Council…
…and it would not do to hear only three.
But still Raze said nothing.
Though he had been sitting there, brooding over his fists like a great king without a kingdom. Absorbing and pondering each word. His silence growing in stature and weight. Until he abstained, the fingers passing his judgement in place of his voice. His decision not to speak seeming like an abscess in the room. For out of all of them, Raze could read him like a book. Possibly even knew what he planned. But still the man said nothing. Because they both knew, when Raze did finally speak, it would be to say the right thing.
At which point…
…it would fail.
His plan.
His mask and all his secrets, thought Lucian, considering his audience…and their own masks…before gesturing his drink haphazardly towards Allegra. "Has the boy signed for Vienna yet?"
"No."
"Then make him."
"How?"
Allegra's voice had risen in its wariness. Her scent poised, but her glance, towards Raze, showing the depth of her discomfort. Their history forever tainted by half of his gambles. But in turn…
…their lives saved by the other half.
And it was his duty this time to pay the same service for another, he decided, pointing his glass at the doors. "It comes down to that mask," he shrugged. "I have something he wants…and he has something I want." He downed the third drink, already feeling a need for more. "We have him sign…and in exchange, both sides forget about the mask…and the assault…and as an added bonus, I will not break anything."
"How generous," said Allegra with some rolling of the eyes. "But there are rules in this hall, Aleksey…you cannot court an older generation without forgetting a new one is also watching." It was the same look she'd given him in Morocco. "They do not value force…or breaking things…especially…when those things are tied to your finances."
"Then a show of unity."
Allegra looked highly suspicious now. The words 'show' and 'unity' often used in his vocabulary, but rarely without cynicism.
"In what manner?"
It was his last die.
"I gave Freyja the knife," he reasoned. Like his voice had become his mask. At ease with the situation. When three of them knew what it meant. To have left his soul on that rooftop. Taking every part of his…need…and smothering it for the sake of duty. His knife on the belt of another.
Uncarved.
Because he did not want this.
And yet he said it nonetheless. Holding his glass. His lifeline for the decades to come. "What if we do the ceremony as well?"
"Before the people?"
Even Morrigan had leaned back to look at him.
For it was an old gesture.
Long set aside…
…from the days when they were homeless. Childless. Their society constantly on the run. No time to fulfill any commitments to marriage…or safety. There were no priests in that time. Just a few words spoken over a knife. A bowl. The musings of warriors planning to be dead within an hour. Promising themselves to each other in the dark.
Their trust lacking…
…but in this, he did not have to mask his scent.
"The first half," he offered. "…before the hall. This evening. We keep the contract intact. We have Erling sign the necessary paperwork for Vienna, and the people will have reason to believe this display of…idiocy…will have no effect on the merge…or my finances."
And it seemed too good to be true.
Allegra trying to scent him out.
His belief.
That it would be true.
And trusting it.
"Very well," said Allegra. Looking to Raze, as though even now, she needed his stability. Still unsure about the words she was hearing. "I believe the Northerners…and Freyja…would be…amenable…to that suggestion."
"Good," he said, making the obligatory signal for them to get on with things. "Tell me as soon as they agree."
And that…
…was that.
All of them filing out of the room, one by one, until it was just Allegra and Raze. One looking troubled by something and the other still content to wait out the situation. His scent completely unbothered. Still waiting for him to say it first. And Raze could go centuries waiting for him…
…but he was not saying it, he thought, getting up from his chair…and instead waiting for Allegra…who was about to say…what she ought not to say. Because out of all the things they had just discussed, the mask was the least pressing to Allegra. A lady who was…as they stood there…measuring the level of indifference on his face and weighing it against the amount of time she had spent preparing for this ball. And in that moment, refusing to let things get out of hand. Stopping at the door and abruptly turning for the sake of her point. "You do realise the boy will be gone in a week?"
"I do."
Happily.
Her lips tightened. "So you can be civil?"
"Am I not always?"
"No."
"Then yes," he said. Attempting to express his delight without showing his teeth. "…I will be civil."
"And dance," she added. Unafraid to press him. For unlike Erling, the Lady Allegra had spent the last six weeks…not…being a shit…and instead actually planning things. Drawing as many investors as she could to this ball. Ensuring that everyone knew what was coming…except for him. Preparing for a singular moment. The event of the century…when the lycan-master…who did not dance…would take to the floor with Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter.
A fact that Weylan had fastidiously explained the previous evening after nervously sliding one of the official Hangrove Society Ball dance cards upon his desk, so he would be forced to sign his name prior to the ball. The single L that signified both his name and title. The rest of Freyja's card filled with very specific names, chosen for their capacity to invest, engage or improve the state of the Lycan Horde. But his name…most definitely…at the top.
So yes…
…he was doing the fucking dance, thought Lucian, getting up and smiling grimly at Allegra before nodding.
Once.
Because that was the full extent of what they would receive that evening, he decided. Already wary of how much alcohol would be required to get through it. Balance notwithstanding. The answer swiftly calculated and a fourth glass of brandy poured, downed…and set on the table in the space of ten seconds. Realising his drinking might have escalated for more reasons than one.
His refusal to dance…in public…something that Allegra assumed was…and had always been…a simple case of obstinacy. Raze entirely aware of the reasons, but like him, keeping his peace when necessary. For at this point, Allegra was done with his problematic behaviour. She no longer cared if he danced backwards…as long as the appearance was there…and she had her numbers. The lady making a precise note in her black book, adding a flourishing check to one of the names—the last he could only presume—and snapping it shut.
Beaming.
A second time.
See, he thought, tempted to glance at Raze.
Even throw his hands up.
He was being accommodating.
And if the man's wife asked him one more time…about the fucking quadrille…he was going to destroy the ice sculptures behind the head table, he decided. Aware that he could only win so many battles…and this was not one of them. Leaving his dignity at the door, he strode past the both of them and prepared himself to enter the hall again.
Back into hell, as far as he was concerned.
A/N: Email notifications are completely down. Someone ought to start writing fanfiction stories told from the perspective of writers living in a world without notifications. BUT...I am still posting. For that one person who HAPPENS to get here. I don't care if it's three years from now. Hopefully they add a review letting me know they're there. If not, I am STILL posting. This one is for you, Eileen (see Chapter 57 for details). That slap in the face is often the reason I keep writing, saying to myself "Eileen would want you to keep going! Finish the story. Do it for Eileen..." On that note, please feel free to read and review...and on we go!