ChapterXCII: A Desire for Recompense

A day passed without news…

…and then a week.

Yet still…

…she remained at the window.

Though she could have broken her way through the door and forced her way to freedom, she remained where she was.

Waiting.

Only the twins thinking to wish her well in the new year, flicking a pebble at her window and giving a wave before they left with all the rest. The guests leaving in their cavalcade of automobiles…or motor-cars as Sabine had told her to call them, perhaps thinking it was a step better than her calling them 'horseless carriages' again. Allegra and Raze still to be seen walking the grounds. But leaving her unquestioned and uncertain of her future now.

The restriction to quarters stopping even Sabine from visiting her, though she could spot the red hair a mile away. On occasion gesturing in frustration during the winter walks…and if the curtains were drawn back, raising a hand quickly into the air…and hers to the window. Even as the string started to pull again. The girl reminding her of the old days, the sight of Lucian walking in winter with his hands grimly clasped behind him.

A memory holding her back each night from packing her bag. Instead drawing her hand back into her pocket, where it would linger until she found the Queen of Spades. Wondering at what point a black card, stained on one corner—by what she knew was vomit—had become a key to her future. The opposite of the silver key hanging from her waist. And a question now of what she waited for…

…and whether the pull was strong enough to keep her there. Another pull telling her to break the string. Break a window. Steal one of the motor-cars. Hope that Rena would come with her so she could find a safe haven before dawn. Each night giving her a reason to burn the card, but the fire still unlit by the following morning.

Like a mutiny against warmth…and comfort, she found herself avoiding the grate. Going so far as to pour water on the flames whenever Rena tried to light it. Her ability not to scream starting to feel like insanity. That every night, Rena came to her door with breakfast…and every morning, she found herself staring at the top of her bed-frame.

Until another week had gone and the fire was lit, and she could not bring herself to put it out. Knowing now why she'd been afraid to keep it alive. But too tired to go any further. So that by the end of that night, she had reached into her pocket, seating herself on the carpet, spending an hour memorising the form of his hand, before flicking the card away.

Finally.

So it could land in the fire…and burn.

And she could move on.

Packing a bag.

o…o…o

And yet it still took three more days. Like she was tearing off a limb, but the act necessary if she was to find herself again. On the first day, placing the bag ready on the bed, holding everything she'd need for an escape. Some of the items foolish, she realised, such as the flower pendant and the perfume. But most of them practical. Toiletry bag. Comb. Tooth rag. Two rolled-up dresses, including undergarments, that took very little space. A small container filled with the marrow she'd been saving from the tea tray in case she ran out of blood. Two empty flasks from the drinks cabinet, ready to be filled with blood the day before she left. Her photograph, the key, and her chatelaine.

Thankfully, Rena also had packed…

…so there was an unspoken consolation. She would not be alone. She had a better chance of survival…and though she would miss Sabine, she trusted the woman at her back. Though upon reflection, there was an immense difference between planning an escape and executing one. Particularly as an exile. Her life…her ability to feed…and survive…tied to the lycan Horde. So another day would go by…and as dusk would turn into night, they would sit in silence…and eventually…rather than breaking the window, Reinette would go to bed. Frustrated by her own ineptitude. That there was still nowhere safe beyond the hills that surrounded them.

Until the third day when the knock happened…

…and she became convinced now that Rena had indeed been communicating in secret with Weylan about her plans, for it seemed timely that a knock should arrive so soon after she broke the latch on her bedroom window. Not the glass, but enough that she could smell the fresh air. The snow. Pretend she was brave enough to leave without having a plan. And the act of pretending enough to make something happen in a household where everything was watched.

Breakfast only just served when the knock came. Rena answering the door in the other room, and she could only assume, silently conversing in sign with the guard rota—who numbered four now—before she returned. Slipping two items onto the table: a black leather folio and a very official Horde missive. An oddity in itself because Reinette did not receive Horde missives. Certainly, she'd seen them arrive…and she'd seen Lucian slice them open with his nail…and crumple them…and throw them in fires. On rare occasions, he even showed her one, assuming the contents affected her in some way.

But they were never for her.

As to the folio, she'd be more willing to touch a sun-trap, given the number of official documents that had been flying around the den over the past fortnight. The missive continuing to sit untouched for a further minute before Rena finally nudged her, without touch or sound, by pushing the missive closer. Like an owl pushing a dead mouse closer to her nest.

Only she did not want the dead mouse, decided Reinette. Getting up from the table, making sure to balance her breakfast tray on one arm, book in hand, so she could eat somewhere else—in peace—and then promptly returning to the table a few moments later, so she could snatch up the missive. Tearing open the edge.

Taking in its message.

Twice…

…and finding herself confused.

Before realising then that it was not confusion she was experiencing, but a profound state of shock. Then anger. Her ability to trust shaken by the missive in her hand, containing a receipt of payment for services rendered. An exorbitant sum of money, more than she could grasp, divided over the course of twenty-three years, plus interest, signed over to Miss Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche.

Her wages.

Each numeral like a stinging nettle on a wound. Unable to reconcile the notion that Lucian had just locked her up…for weeks on end…and then paid her. At first, struggling to form her opinion, knowing only that she needed to read the missive a third time without throwing the breakfast tray, so it would not be Rena dealing with the aftermath. About to throw the missive in the fire. And then changing her mind, she took the missive and folio, balancing her book and the breakfast tray on one arm, before carrying all four items to her bedroom…and slamming the door shut.

Bastard.

o…o…o

She heard the sound of a transport truck an hour later. Curiosity drawing her as far towards it as she could go, but unable to see beyond a row of hedges. Knowing only that it was pulling up to the front of the house. Out of sight, but causing a ruckus by the number of people running swiftly up and down steps in the interior of the house. Doors opening and closing. Her hearing greatly improved so she could now pick up the tone—if not the words—of what was being said several floors below. The upstairs servants too wise to raise their voices above an understated murmur, while the lower den—a space she did not frequent—gave the impression of militant barking.

All of it failing to connect at first. Until she put down the missive and focused on the second item she'd been avoiding. The black leather folio that filled her with confusion. Her years of mistrust making it impossible, the idea that her world could be filled with choices, now open and lying on her bed. An array of detailed property listings…and finely-sketched building exteriors. Each paired with blueprints showing the number of rooms, floors, windows, and luxury amenities. A comparison of said amenities suggesting that pools and golf courses were not an infrequent necessity for werewolves.

They also holidayed, if the pamphlets were to be trusted, in cottages along the moor. Seaside villas. Castles surrounded by mountains. And finally—she refused to touch the last stack of pamphlets—three-decked yachts, though as was often the case in lycan culture, there was a greater emphasis made on sailing away from the general populace rather than docking at the edge of a bustling city. In short, it was a confusing, yet familiar study in lycan opulence, but for the first fifteen minutes, she failed to see its connection to her.

The mystery only confirmed by a second knock on her door, this time louder, causing her to shift off the bed quickly, leaving the album where it lay, feeling like Sabine sprinting across a room, so she could peer outside her bedroom door. By habit, finding her veil and pinning it to her hair. Watching the far end of the room from a crack. Like a frame of unexpected consequences, the door to the outer hall opened by Rena and now swinging back to reveal not just her guard rota—still standing in the hallway—but also three men of various sizes wearing the working clothes of the den. One of them with an arm on a brass luggage cart, and the other two standing close, appearing to look bored, while simultaneously craning their necks.

Line-Runners.

She saw Rena sign something. Then step aside as the three men worked in a surprisingly cheerful silence, tipping their heads to Rena, then removing all the boxes she'd been living with for the better part of two weeks. The trolley carrying everything away, leaving only carpet, paintings and furniture.

Two of the longest serving maids, those who has been there in Oppenheim, entering the room next, transforming everything into a frozen landscape. Draping large swathes of cloth over the furniture. This followed by two men whose sole occupation seemed to be preparing paintings for storage. The Turner removed from the walls…and the wallpaper of Sabine with equal care. Each wrapped carefully for travel and labelled before they handled the rest of the art. The entire process taking an hour at most, while Rena kept them back from the bedroom door. And Reinette continuing to watch from her crack, like the door held a clockwork round of wooden puppets, stripping a face of all its numbers. Until they were done and the room was empty…

…and she released the breath she'd been holding. Pushing the door open slowly to peer at what as left. Wanting to feel nothing, but like Sabine, caught in her lies. By the shaking in her hands. The sight taking her back to that first time he sent her North. How swiftly they'd removed all trace of her before Denmark.

And the voice of Weylan Jones seeming to scratch as he entered her empty quarters, looking once again in his element, polished and keen, this time for the purpose of moving her absence forward. Informing her that she should prepare for travel in three hours. Prior to her departure, she was to be under guard, but would have right of movement in the den. A Horde-appointed financial advisor was waiting for her in the library, and she was to attend at her earliest convenience.

She nodded in a daze. Realising there was no reason to linger. The breakfast tray had already been cleared from the bedroom, and she could see the maids itching to get their hands on the sheets. The small bag she'd packed looking smaller still as she went back to retrieve it for convenience. Aware that things could change quickly in the Horde, and she might not have time to return for her trifles. The empty bottles seeming foolish now. But practicality telling her to step forward and accept this new reality, that in all likelihood, this would be her last night in Durness.

Weylan proceeding ahead and the guards falling in line as she stepped into the hallway, leaving the East wing, likely for the last time. Hearing nothing as she passed, giving her the sense of absence. Like the staff had been stripped to its bones. Rena staying close on her right side, but the halls feeling foreign though she'd walked them so frequently.

Until the library door came up faster than she expected. Her heart starting to throb, trying not to be thrown by the feeling of once again being escorted everywhere by guards. The four men taking their places by the door…

…and Rena taking one of the hallway chairs. Purposefully folding her hands in her lap. A means of showing it was safe. Yet she did not want to leave Rena in that moment. So Reinette held back, refusing to step forward for a moment. Weylan already through the door and stepping back for her to pass through, while she lingered at the chair, still looking at the woman. Who was still not looking at her. The constant silence and lack of reaction from Rena often seen as evidence of madness by those who surrounded them. When in truth, her movements were built on absence.

Her years not just with Lucian, but Rena having built a language between them. Rena continuing to sit as though she were not there. Unable to see anything in front of her, but the act of remaining in the hall as impactful as pushing Reinette through the door. And Reinette now forced to concede, rigidly drawing her coat closer and taking a step forward through the archway, seeking out this advisor she was supposed to meet. But once again finding herself thrown by circumstance.

For he was there.

Of course he was there. Yet she felt transported back in time. As though they were in that cave again. That hour he visited her in Denmark. Sleepless and gaunt with dark shadows on his face. And his people so used to his appearance…to his manner…that they could not see that he was drowning. A walking corpse with his hair an inch longer and no time to shave, leaning over one of the maps tables only a few feet away, the side of his profile towards her. Using a stylus to indicate one of the coastlines, before adding a pin to a separate location. He'd changed into different clothing. All of the blood gone, replaced by tones of brown and grey. And his presence mirrored by other shadows…

…an ambush of sorts.

Because he was very much not alone. The library positively teeming with people. A multitude of advisors who were briskly at work, overseen by a individual who seemed to take great pride in both his nose and his capacity to wield a very large stamp that signalled the difference between archiving a document or burning it. One she knew ranked high among the Southern advisors. Cromwell. He had been among the group that left the table shortly after the Hangrove dinner had started. All of them giving a sense of trying to solve something. Raze seated in their midst, reviewing each document and being the one to sign with wax. While Allegra seemed to have taken residence on the settee. Giving the impression of a chaperone. Hands folded in her lap and her dress suggesting a great deal of starch. She did not look over to the door…and her lips were looking very compressed.

"Miss…"

He faced her.

"…Jeanne Antoinette de la Roche."

She glanced back at Lucian. At his smile. Like a wavering candle in a mine, exceptionally bright until the air was gone. And she knew immediately that it was not Lucian that she spoke to, but his Horde. The mask that he wore in society. She knew from his manner…the way people in the room were avoiding his eye. That many were still afraid in that moment. Enough that he could gesture for her to come forward in this room filled with bureaucracy and behave as though a vampire belonged. Indicating that she should sit at this smaller table that held several documents, wax…

…and a pen.

"I'd like you to meet Mister Edward Yarley," he said. Brisk. Raising an arm in formal introduction, as though nothing odd had happened and he could still charm her with pleasantries. Saying nary a word about his absence. His lack of communication. His decision to put her under restriction. The three weeks she had spent waiting for him. Nor his choice to have all her things packed up…in earnest this time…with only three hour's notice and no sense of where she was going.

Her look enough to give Mister Yarley reason to put his hand down, the one he'd unfortunately thought would be of some use during his introduction. Instead forced to side-step, giving a short bow in place of the hand. His appearance suggesting there was entire army of short lycans with spectacles who'd spent their lives creating order out of chaos.

Which perhaps was the point, she thought, taking a seat at the table, feeling resigned as Mister Yarley explained each document. Focused more on the pen than the papers. Aware that she was looking at Lucian and he was not looking at her.

Even as he…fixed…everything.

Just as he'd promised.

All the things that she wanted…

…and more.

Mister Edward Yarley seeming to think it was good news he was imparting upon her. The contract now in stasis…and the Council requiring no more visions from her. No more sickness. Nor sleeping for entire days after the three drops. She'd been granted immediate citizenship, right of movement, and a full tenancy in a Lycan-approved green zone, including any of the properties listed in the folio she had received earlier. Or she could accept the invitation from the Lady Morrigan, as per the annulment, Lady Allegra as per the second amendment, or she could live in the North among Magnus's people as per the third. All she need do was sign…and she would have access to a new life…and her accounts.

A fortune.

The pen in hand as she continued to stare…not at Mister Yarley, but at Lucian. Knowing that he could smell the wave of rancour that was coming from her person in relation to that pen. Which apparently was the culmination of her life as a carpet…for his Horde. And she knew the room was watching. She knew, after twenty-three years, that every one of their arguments was bound to be the subject of much gossip and debate, and she also knew that she had reached her limit. That she could not do this…any longer. And she was trying to sign. Holding the pen so tightly…

…but it was her voice that came out rather than ink.

"Where did you get these funds," she asked.

In Latin.

"Does it matter?"

"You said all your money was tied in the North."

"It was."

"So how are you paying for this?"

He did not answer this time. Instead looking to his right and switching momentarily to English. "Yarley, can you give us a moment please?"

Part of her wishing it did not require privacy. A whole room watching them while actively not watching. But Lucian seeming to have given up on the pretence any longer. Taking the chair across from her and finally explaining himself. The lies that had been hanging between them since Hangrove.

His Latin taking on a methodical tone, as though it were a detached memory. "After the dance, Erling was taken to a safe-house…and it temporarily gave Freyja the authority to sign on behalf of her father. I offered her all of my shares in the Northern pass, and in exchange, she gave me the funds from her dowry."

"This is Freyja's dowry."

"It is."

The pen felt like fire.

She put it down.

"I cannot sign this."

"Wait."

His hand reached out…and then stopped, just shy of her own. "Think of it this way," he said. "…by giving her power over the Northern pass, she gains an advantage over her brother…and in twenty years, she…and I…will have a stronger foothold in the North."

"You kept the merge intact."

"I did."

It burned more than the pen. Her eyes finally able to pick up on the parts she was missing. The way the room had been stripped of some of the paintings already. A leather bag on one of the chairs, reminding her of the protocol they'd lived under in the days before Denmark. Close enough that he could take hold of it in haste. Giving her the feeling that like her, he was preparing himself for the unexpected. The presence of boxes. Flames in both fireplaces. The advisors working in haste…because it was all being packed up. Not just her quarters, but the entirety of his den.

"And Sabine?"

"She goes to Vienna."

She nearly reached forward.

A strange feeling of hope and fear.

"Will you meet her there?"

"No," he said quickly. Looking at her hand now…and then away, reaching for the pen instead. Holding it out for her take. "I am…still not sure…where they are sending me, but I've arranged for McNally to escort you and Rena to Inverness. You'll see a solicitor there…and he will show you…all of your options. The full range of what is available."

The full range, she thought in wonder. Confused how there could be more than what the folio contained.

"Or you can still go with the first annulment…" His face stated quite clearly what he thought about that. "…but this way…you…" He gestured with both hands now, seeming desperate for her to take the pen. "…you have a choice."

She was not speaking.

Nor taking the pen.

He went on. "It includes a property near Oppenheim…if you…" He lowered his arm. "…want it."

Oppenheim.

She felt…

…so unsure of what was happening.

"I threw in the cook as well."

"What?"

"She hates working for me…and she has an affinity for menus comprising entirely of blood…so…" He shrugged. "…she'll be part of your staff."

"Lyosha, I did not ask for this."

"I know," he agreed. "…but it is yours."

And he said it so simply.

So she understood in that moment. Why it would always be hers, his eyes finally showing the truth of why they were meeting in this place. Surrounded by his advisors…and Allegra…and Raze. So she could understand why it had to be that way. That she was not the only one trapped by walls. But the pen enough to give her freedom. While he remained trapped. No longer tapping his thumb against the edge of that pen, but the effort of remaining still taking its toll on the rest of him. He was itching to be gone. Eager to move onto his next house arrest…

…and her voice the only thing keeping him from bolting. "I wish you had warned me."

His expression grew pained. "Yes," he said. And then he looked down. "I am…sorry for that." He'd taken to smoothing the edges of the table. "…but I needed a catalyst that would force the Northerners to sign…and Magnus was certain Erling had no understanding of its connotations, so the mask seemed like a…good way to…" He considered the word…and then shrugged, as though coming to terms with a truth. "…stir up the chickens, I suppose."

"Not the mask," she said.

Breaking through his words. The copious explanations that he could give when left to his own devices.

And his brow creased.

"Erling?"

She nodded.

And to her confusion, he seemed relieved. At times so in tune with her thoughts, but in that moment, whether out of impatience or how far gone he was in his schemes, he missed the source of her displeasure. Instead searching for one of the documents on the table and bringing it forward for her perusal. As though it could all be neatly packaged away with a signature.

"You need not see him again," he said. Again methodical in his tone. "…I had a formal Blood-sweep done on the vial…and in light of their findings, the charges against you have been dropped. Any attempt at getting an unsolicited vision from your person is now grounds for self-defence…and other than Erling relieving himself on the carpet, you did nothing to harm his person."

His person.

Part of her relieved by what he was telling her. That it was a vision the boy had wanted in that hallway…nothing more. But it felt like there was a hurricane building in her chest.

She got up.

"I am not signing this."

"Reinette, this is…" He got up as well. Looking confused now. Even frustrated. Like she was the one behaving erratically. The pen still held out. Blocking her from passing him. "…if you are going to live in this society, without the Council's sponsorship, you will need funds. You have to sign this."

Another wall.

"No."

"But…"

She closed herself off.

Heading for the door. The subject of all their eyes, but the veil keeping them back. Refusing to listen any further. Missing the look that passed between Raze and Allegra. The relief on the latter's face, followed by a nervous change in the air, created by Mister Edward Yarley looking to Mister Weylan Jones for direction. And he in turn, looking to Cromwell and Raze, neither of whom had an answer. For it had not been discussed, the question of what would happen if the lady refused to accept the fortune his lordship had just created for her—by giving up all his shares in the Northern Pass. A decision that would affect…

…all of them.

Nor was it discussed how the room was to handle the aftermath. That is the lycan-master's reaction to the lady's refusal. Some of their number, Weylan for example, practiced enough to encourage ignorance by suggesting they break for a brief repast before handling the next stack of documents. And then gesturing for a few to move quickly as they filed out of the room, steadfastly ignoring the sight of the lycan-master continuing to keep his seat across the room…and then with a curse…shoving the papers off the table.

Perhaps regretting his choice to base all his plans on the notion that the lady—whose circumstances had been debated for the past three weeks in Parliament—would sign the document for which he'd fought so hard. Spending countless hours in court, alienating his Council, while simultaneously having his barristers negotiate the exact definition of the word 'feasting' as it applied to the Rules of Gathering. Afternoon tea now officially recognised as a feast, not only by his den, but in the highest court of lycan law.

So perhaps it was…maddening…that he should be sitting there, having failed to get the lady to sign…after successfully tearing down every bureaucratic brick of the walls surrounding the lady in question. The greatest irony that he could finally give her everything she needed to be free in his society…and have her spurn it. While his watch continued to burn itself onto his wrist. Time continuing to tick, leaving him with less and less options. The train leaving in three hours. But far less time passing before a decision was made, this time by the only one who seemed willing to make it.

The Lady Allegra.

The rift between them all—the Lady Allegra, Raze and Lucian—clear from the moment they'd all entered the room, forced to breathe the same air for the first time since Hangrove. And all of them refusing to speak to one another. But the most graceful among them still seeming keen to be the salve, looking to Raze before making the choice for both of them. She stood up from the settee, fully understanding the danger, but too relieved to take curses as anything but an act of acceptance.

"Alright, it's settled," she said. Already giving a nod to Weylan so he could start writing things down."We'll arrange a temporary transfer for her until a decision can be made regarding her accounts." She was sounding increasingly sensible. "She can spend the summers in Vienna. Winters up north with Magnus. Sabine can visit, Rena will be welcome." Her hand gestured towards her husband. "Perhaps a year or two?"

But it did not have the desired effect. The lycan-master continuing to chew on the situation like rotting meat. Ignoring both Raze and Allegra as though he could no longer see them. Instead looking over his shoulder at Weylan. "Do I still have signing authority over Miss de la Roche?"

To which, Weylan winced.

Still occupied with his task of burning Horde documents in the fire, but now feeling as though he'd rather be cleaning soot out of the chimney than answering the question that he'd known was coming. One that he knew would not go over well if Miss de la Roche were to learn about it.

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

Lucian picked up the pen, scrawled his mark on the financial transfer, the papers conveying right of movement, and finally, the application for citizenship. Shifting the pages over to Yarley, he stayed long enough for the man to witness…

…and then left.

To which Weylan thought…

Oh dear.

Feeling in awe at how quickly the two had gone from building a bridge to burning one. His instincts for self-preservation telling him to return to his post at the fire, so he could continue serenely burning Horde documents; while out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mister Edward Yarley doing his job. A man who was once again thrilled to be in the good graces of the lycan-master, after failing to attend a vote in 1901 that nearly cost Miss de la Roche her head. Perhaps thinking—as he had done two decades ago—that the head in question ought to be grateful for the funds the lycan-master was bestowing upon it.

A time when he began to suspect why the pair of them fought so much. And now starting to feel quite fed up with a scenario that he—and several other parties living in the den, including the cook—were fully aware of now. That regardless of what the Line Rumour printed, the lycan-master was not in tip-top form. Primarily because in three hours, Miss Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche would be safely transferred to Inverness. First in a box that would be waiting on her return to quarters, and then a motor-car that would bring her to the station. And as a direct consequence of her transfer, the lycan-master's mood was about to become increasingly foul.

So really…

…if he truly thought about it, Weylan was doing this for the good of the Horde, he decided. Finishing his work and retrieving another stack of Horde documents. Which he unfortunately dropped quite close to Mister Yarley, setting off a chain reaction of polite apologies. The two of them bending down to retrieve the fallen pages, only to realise that—oh no, some of the pages had been mixed up with the ones the lycan-master had pushed to the floor earlier. And Weylan only too happy to help Mister Yarley sort them out.

Like a mathematical puzzle of towers, one moving over the other until Weylan stood—again thanking Mister Yarley—before leaving the man with a stack of Hangrove Society Ball menus, covered with a single page conveying right of movement to Miss de la Roche. The rest of the pages, including the financial transfer and her application for citizenship, now firmly encased in the stack of pages that Weylan was holding. Something that would be noticed shortly, but which gave him the ten minutes he would require to catch up with Rena and Miss de la Roche. A transfer of knowledge which—for the sake of them all—was worth a court-martial, thought Weylan, bowing to Master Raze and the Lady Allegra before exiting the room…

…where instead of seeking out and serving the lycan-master as he was charged to do, he went left.

To the East Wing.

A/N: I was going to post this next week, but I realise there's no time like the present when FF notifications are working. Hopefully they stay working this time. Thank you to those who are still reading. As always, if you are enjoying the story and you wish to encourage, feel free to read and review. They do help me write faster and after sixteen years, I am very eager to get to some of those chapters that have been waiting years to see the light of day. On we go!

Wynter Phoenix: Thank you for enjoying the chapter! It always gives me a wonderful reason to keep writing.