When Twilight Burns

She wouldn’t allow it.

The fact that Wayren hadn’t responded to a message sent by pigeon caused Victoria even greater trepidation. Wayren’s pigeons were trained to find her anywhere, and always seemed to do so, and to provide a response within twenty-four hours regardless of where she was. Thus Victoria began to fear that the wise woman had abandoned her as well.

Late that afternoon she sat grumpy and fidgeting in Lady Melly’s parlor, listening to the three cronies discuss the details of George IV’s coronation ceremony, which was to be held in a matter of days.

It was no surprise that the topic dominated their conversation, for the coronation of the man who’d been known as Prinny, nearly eighteen months after he’d ascended to the throne, was to be the greatest, most expensive and flamboyant crowning of an English king.

“What will you wear, Victoria?” asked Lady Nilly, leaning forward as if in anticipation of some great fashion secret.

“I don’t believe I’ve been invited,” she replied tartly, unconcerned with civility today. “And I do not plan to attend.”

“But of course you have been invited! The only person of Quality in all of the land who is not to attend is the queen herself,” Lady Melly chided her. “And if you stay away, you may be aligned with her in the eyes of the ton. That would not be fitting for the Marchioness of Rockley, Victoria, to take the side of Queen Caroline.”

“It is abominable that the working and trades cheer that disgusting creature whenever she goes about the City, giving her false support,” Lady Nilly said, her nose raised as if she smelled something objectionable. Perhaps it was the bouquet of daisies on the table near her tea. Victoria had always disliked the smell of the sunny flowers.

“It’s only because they despise Prinny—er, His Majesty—that they love her. Or claim they do, which I freely doubt. If any of them got within a king’s yard of that smelly sow, they should run the other direction and reexamine their thoughts,” Lady Melly said primly.

“If the woman would wash or change her undergarments, or even comb her hair, perhaps His Majesty would allow her near him . . . but she does not.” Duchess Winnie’s multiple chins trembled, but she was not in danger of being accused of living in a glass house. “It’s a simple matter of grooming,” she said, smoothing her perfect skirts pointedly. The duchess, who was also a woman of large proportion, was always supremely clothed and coiffed before she stepped from her chamber. “I vow the queen’s goats are better groomed than she.”

The other ladies laughed, and even Victoria couldn’t hold back a little smile. The gossip about the queen wasn’t completely mean-spirited. The woman had made no friends from the moment she arrived from Germany to wed the man who at the time was the Prince Regent.

Victoria remembered the story of Caroline of Brunswick’s first meeting with Prinny, in which the prince had come face to face with the sloppy, putrid woman and said, quite loudly, to the Baron of Malmesbury, “Harris, I do not feel well. Pray get me a glass of brandy.” He’d not ceased drinking for the three days up to and including the wedding. He’d passed out on his wedding night, and Caroline had left him on the floor.

It was no wonder there was enmity between the two.

A knock came at the parlor door, and Lady Melly straightened expectantly. Victoria tightened her fingers around an innocent teacup, knowing that her mother’s anticipation could bode no good for her.

But then she recalled that it couldn’t be James. He’d been turned into a pile of dust and would no longer be at the mercy of her mother’s machinations.

Thus, Lady Melly was bound to be disappointed—in more ways than one. The Grantworth House butler entered the room on command, carrying a silver tray, on which rested a thick white paper, folded and sealed with a blob of yellow wax and an unidentifiable crest. “This missive for Lady Rockley,” he intoned.

Victoria nearly knocked over a vase of sweet-smelling lilies in her alacrity to seize the message. An excuse to leave, she hoped, before the droves of afternoon callers began their never-ending influx.

The message was simple, and in an elegant hand that Victoria recognized with relief: Your carriage awaits without.

“I must go,” she said, without sitting back down.

“What is it?” asked Lady Nilly. But she was overrun by Lady Melly.

“Surely not now!” exclaimed that genteel lady. “It is too early.”

Victoria fixed her gaze on her parent. “I’m sorry, Mother, but it is of an urgent nature.”

“But you cannot,” Lady Melly started, but this time Victoria was more firm.

“I must.”

Her mother stood. “Surely it has nothing to do with that Monsieur Vioget you insist upon allowing to stay around,” Melly said, her voice sharp. “He is no better than those clinging vines that we have to cut away from the chimney top.”

Victoria blinked in astonishment that her mother was even aware of such a mundane occurrence.

“I must say, Victoria, that it is just too ridiculous that you encourage him! Why he has no title and isn’t even British, and rather a bit slick in the tongue, if you ask me.”

That was one way to describe it, Victoria thought as her lips threatened to twitch.

“His tailor is quite excellent,” Lady Nilly offered. “And he does rather remind me of a kind gentleman who once saved me from a vampire . . . or at least, I dreamed he—”

“Do hush, Nilly.”

“Mother, I suggest that you become used to seeing Sebastian about,” Victoria said firmly. “For it is quite possible—quite possible—that he will someday become your son by law. And now,” she continued rapidly, shocked that she’d actually said those words, let alone thought them through, “I really must leave. Don’t try to stop me.” Why had she said that?

“Victoria Anastasia!” Lady Melly shot to her feet. Teacups rattled and brown liquid slopped merrily. “How dare you take that tone—”

“Good-bye, Mother. I’ll be in touch soon.” And with that, Victoria whirled out of the parlor, fairly sprinting down the hall to the front door.

The sounds of screeching voices and gasping breaths faded as she darted out the front entrance in a most undignified manner. Her carriage was indeed waiting, its midnight blue paint sleek and shiny under the late-afternoon sun. Gold and silver trim gleamed when the coachman opened the door, and Victoria climbed in.

She didn’t expect to actually find Wayren in the carriage, but there she was. The woman was of an indeterminate age—she appeared older than Victoria, but younger than Lady Melly. Yet she had been there when Aunt Eustacia had taken up the vis bulla. The satchel that always seemed to contain more books and manuscripts than appeared possible sat like a lumpy toad next to her.

A brittle brown-spotted scroll open on her lap, Wayren looked up from behind perfectly square glasses, squinted, and then removed them as Victoria settled in her seat. “Hello, Victoria. How are you?”

The words, so simple, and often spoken—and responded to—without regard to their real meaning, were said with such sincerity, and the expression in her gray-blue eyes was so kind, that Victoria felt the threat of tears sting, and the inside of her nostrils tingled with emotion. She blinked hard, and then answered with pure honesty. “I don’t know. I don’t think . . . perhaps not so well.”

Wayren nodded. Gravity rendered her face smooth. “Aye, I can see that is so.”

The carriage started with a gentle lunge, and Victoria looked at her companion. “You received my message. Can you tell me . . . is Lilith correct? Will I . . . am I . . . ?”

“The reason I did not arrive sooner—for I received your missive yesterday, of course—was that I spent some time with Ylito to see if he was aware of anything that might stop . . . or slow . . . the effect of the undead blood. That would, you see, give us more time to determine a cure. If there is one.”

“And?”

Wayren shook her head slowly. “There’s nothing he can do. But Victoria,” she said, and to her surprise, the older woman reached across the space and clasped her fingers around Victoria’s wrist. Her hand was bare, and her grip closed over the skin above Victoria’s gloves. The touch sent warmth and ease flowing through her; Victoria felt steadier than she had in some time. “You have already shown the strength to fight back the impulse of the immortal blood that threatened to take over. You are well armed, and you are strong. Though Ylito has nothing in his laboratory that might protect you, I believe that it is possible . . . more than possible . . . that you are strong enough to conquer this trial.”

A deep wave of disappointment and fear washed over her, despite Wayren’s comforting grip. There was nothing. Nature, in the form of tainted undead blood, would take its course. There was nothing that could be done.

Victoria drew back, and in spite of the warm summer afternoon, her flesh felt chilled when Wayren released her arm. Nausea churned in her belly. She’d expected, she’d believed, that Wayren would be the answer to her problem—that the mystical woman who seemed to know everything, or at least where to find out about it, would arrive with a potion or a serum that would wash away the vampire blood.

But of course. How could she be so foolish? If there were such an elixir, she could have ingested it after her experience with Beauregard.

She could have given it to Phillip.

Victoria blinked hard. So it would come full circle then. Her mistakes, her selfishness back to haunt her. Her fate would be the same as Phillip’s, the innocent man. She just hoped someone staked her before she did something terrible.

The memory of Max, holding the stake when she’d awakened at the Consilium, refreshed in her mind. He would have done it without hesitation.

Wayren watched her with steady eyes, soft with worry. She didn’t speak, as though knowing that Victoria had to assimilate it all on her own. She merely waited as the carriage rolled through the streets. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">