Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kolfina
The rest of the Alilovi? family arrives a few hours before our scheduled dinner, dismounting from a single carriage as our small party waits at the base of the front steps. While I have not met them before, I recognize each of them from the drawings in Azizi’s sketchbooks.
Dorian Alilovi? is perhaps the only one who needs no introduction, though Azizi gives one anyway.
He is the spitting image of his father, with his dark hair and sharp cheekbones, bearing the same thin, sloping nose and bloodstained cotton eyes.
If not for the shorter cut of his hair, the lack of white at the temples, and the handsome curled mustache in place of a beard, I would be hard pressed to tell them apart.
He pauses just outside the carriage doors, holding out a hand for the two women who follow after him, each of equal beauty to the rest of their family.
If Lord Dorian is the image of poise, Lady Carmilla is that of grace and dignity.
All sharp angles and porcelain skin contrasting perfectly with her dark hair and black striped evening dress.
She has a more distant sort of air to her than I’ve grown used to with Jonas and his father, her eyes sweeping over our small company with mild interest, at most.
And finally comes who I can only assume is the youngest of them, the Lady Ana-Lucia. She is a tiny thing, shorter even than myself—though the body Azizi presented me with only an hour ago is a bit taller than I am used to—with wide, green eyes and lovely copper hair.
The sapphire-coloured dress she wears is normal enough, but in place of the ruffled bustle I’ve grown accustomed to, she wears a strange layering of peacock feathers that fall to the hem of her skirt like a tail of her own.
More feathers poke out from the fanciful hat she has pinned in her braids, and her short capelet is held together with a large glass brooch crafted in the shape of a familiar moth.
“Azizi!” she cries, and as soon as her feet hit the ground, she is dashing up to us, throwing her arms around Azizi’s waist with a laugh.
“I have missed you terribly! You are in great trouble for hiding away from us for so long, you know. You missed one of my shows. I made an entire line of gowns just for you.”
Azizi’s face softens in that way I have seen it do so often this week around her father and brother, and she returns the hug with equal strength. “My deepest apologies, Lucy. You’ll simply have to show me when I come visit soon.”
“Show you,” she scoffs when she pulls away. “You will be wearing them for me when next you visit.” She twirls around to press a kiss to her father’s cheek and says, “Ciao, babbo,” before threading her arm through Jonas’ and dragging him inside.
The scene has something tugging in my chest that I cannot name.
A longing for something missing, maybe. Can you miss something you have never had?
While my memories have not all returned yet, I remember no siblings who teased or embraced me as Azizi’s do her, no close family at all to tell me they missed me and are happy I am well.
The Alilovi?s are close in a way I do not remember being with even my parents. Close in a way that only comes with the passage of time, bonds forged in blood and death, tied together with red strings that all connect back to one man.
And even if I did not know they were related, it becomes all the more obvious when we gather in the parlor to wait for our final guest to arrive.
There is a singular otherness to this family that is distinctly the same.
Something I have only observed in Azizi before.
They move in a way that does not beget attention unless they desire it, walk in a way that does not make a sound.
They prowl, even when they are not on the hunt, and it raises hackles in me that I did not know where possible to raise at first.
It feels odd, having my home be invaded by predators, and yet…
I do not find it uncomfortable. Perhaps it is due to my prolonged exposure to Azizi and Theodore and the beasts that dwell within them, but instead of being frightened of these people who all but rule the night, I find only comfort in their presence.
How long has it been since so many people have filled my home? Not just to flutter in and out like the village workers when Azizi and Mr. Allard moved in, but to simply gather together and enjoy each other’s company? To converse over drink and music, to laugh at stories shared and arguments had?
Has it ever seen such life within these walls?
Warmth blooms in my chest, and I can feel the walls expanding around us. As if my home itself cannot contain the bouquets of joy and contentment that fill the space my heart once sat in.
Could I have this? Is this sense of community, of family, something I might be allowed one day?
Is it something I can be given, or something I must take?
I imagine, for a moment, being welcomed in as if I am one of them, prowling through the darkness in silence. I imagine feeling powerful for once in my life, no longer a songbird trapped in her little cage, but a corvid scouring the forest floor for the weakest prey.
“Pardon the interruption,” Mr. Allard says from the parlor entrance, his voice cutting through the low din of conversation with ease. “Lord de Klein has arrived.”
I imagine sharpening my talons.
And then I dive.
There hadn’t been time at Lord Macabre’s party to truly take in my widowed husband. Between the ocean of blood that flooded my lungs, and the invasive vines trying to drag me home, I only remember glimpses of him between the dripping red.
He holds himself with the air of someone older, more refined, but it is a different sort of refined than Azizi’s father.
Babbo Alilovi? has a confident poise that can only come with time and age, a wisdom in him that comes with experiencing life in every aspect—both the good and the bad.
His grace and elegance is as much a part of him as the curl of his hair or the slope of his shoulders.
Walden de Klein, however, looks more the kind of man who wears his confidence like an expensive suit.
Bought and paid for with the express intention of showing it off.
He puts on a mask of wisdom and propriety, lifts his chin as if to appear taller and more important, but the suit is ill-fitting all the same.
A fumbling foreign dignitary in the presence of a king.
Watching Mr. Allard lead him into the parlor is nearly enough to send me cowering back into my walls. The vines that finally began to feel more cradling than constricting grow sharp thorns and slice into my borrowed skin like Azizi’s knife through canvas. A warning and a promise wrapped in one.
If not for Theodore’s hand squeezing mine, I might have let them steal me away again.
Does he recognize me when Azizi begins her introductions?
Does he look at me, with this face that is not my face, and see the woman he once pretended to love?
A part of me wishes he does. A part of me, as terrified as it is angry, desperately hopes he can see the vines writhing beneath my skin and the barnacles growing atop my bones.
Even if he doesn't, I wonder if there is something inside him that can tell that something is wrong. I wonder if his heart skips a beat when our eyes meet, wonder if he can feel the way the air becomes chilled between us.
I want to wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze. I want to lose myself in the death of him like Theodore and his priest. Clawing and scraping until he is nothing but ribbons hanging from bone, until there is barely anything of him left to sacrifice to the ocean in thanks.
Instead, I smile, small and shaky, when Azizi gestures to me and Theodore. “And of course, my partners, whom you might remember from Lord Macabre’s dinner party, Theodore and Kolfina.”
Walden blinks in surprise at the name, his polite smile twitching at the corner before recovering with a smooth bow.
“Ah, yes. I recall my appalling manners causing the young lady to faint,” he says with a chuckle.
“And what a coincidence, my wife’s name was Kolfina as well, though she passed many years ago now.
She even wore that same necklace. I’d thought it lost, so I am happy to see it being worn again, and on such a lovely neck too. ”
“Lord de Klein is the one who sold me this house,” Azizi informs her family, though they are well aware already of the details. “You must allow me to thank you again. It’s been a wonderful home so far, and I do not see myself ever parting with it.”
Walden’s cheeks darken, and he offers us a laugh that grates at my already fraying nerves.
“Well it is good then that I have no intentions of purchasing it back,” he jests.
“Though I admit to having fond memories of these halls. Perhaps I could convince you to give me a tour after dinner. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the place, I’d love to see what you’ve done with it. ”
Babbo Alilovi? smiles with his teeth and nods. “Oh fret not, we will make the most of your time here,” he says before gesturing to where Mr. Allard still waits in the doorway. “You’ve arrived just in time. Shall we move to the dining hall?”
Nerves rattle my stomach as we move our way into the dining hall and take our seats, Azizi and her father at the ends of the table, myself and Theodore on either side of her.
I am grateful when Jonas takes the seat beside me, leaving Walden to sit beside Theodore and the others to fill into the rest.
It feels entirely too easy, too simple. We have a plan, of course, and Azizi assured me that her family is perfectly happy to allow the events to transpire uninterrupted.
Yet still, my hands shake around my spoon when Mr. Allard places a bowl of soup in front of me, and the food, delicious as it is, sits heavy in my throat.