Chapter Three
THE COUNTESS WAS BUSY with preparations for a costume ball.
She ordered white powdered wigs and a set of white suits with gold embroidery in the shape of constellations.
She envisioned specks of gold around their eyes and lips, the tips of their fingers dipped in turmeric so that everything they touched would bear their mark.
Their lips would leave a golden halo everywhere they pressed.
Silvio allowed the tailor to take his measurements, not sharing in the excitement of seeing Madame dressed in breeches and a waistcoat once her costume was done.
Behind her back, he ordered a third suit in indigo, its pockets full of sea salt, the lapels and sleeves embroidered in white floss, cascading like a shower of stars.
No powdered wig, no ribbon to hold back the hair but silver balm for the lips and black kohl to rim the eyes.
If only Silvio could persuade Emerick to dip his hands in mercury, he would, but the fact that the majordomo was also to attend the ball, in costume no less, was scandalous enough.
Whatever effect Dulior sought to make by showing up in a gentleman’s attire would be all but undone the moment Silvio appeared with silver staining his mouth and streaming down his neck, while golden spice smudged Emerick’s cravat and shirt—his mouth a resplendent mess.
Having fulfilled the little that was expected of him for the preparations, Dulior dismissed Silvio, eager to have the house to herself for once.
If she was preparing to entertain guests or a lover, Silvio could not tell, nor did he care to linger at the door to find out.
Emerick was waiting for him in the stables, tending to their horses.
The carriage would only slow them down tonight; Silvio had a list of places he wanted to visit before the sun rose.
For a small fee the owner of the perfumery kept his shop open well into the night, as long as the Count gave him ample notice.
Sometimes the man’s thoughts would illustrate Silvio as a rake or poisoner, or a poisonous rake, who bought perfumes for both his wife and lovers.
Leaving the horses outside, they stepped into the building and away from the busy streets of Paris.
There was a garden behind the store with a discreet back entrance, but Silvio preferred to enter from the front.
The sight of the high polished shelves lined with bottles and boxes always excited him.
He was greeted by an assortment of sweet-smelling potions, tall flasks with amber-hued liquids and neat piles of soaps and creams. As a vampire he no longer enjoyed or tasted food but perfumes were where his senses relished.
The perfumer, Monsieur Beaumont, waited eagerly behind the counter dressed in his white apron, his spectacles catching the mellow light from the elaborate chandeliers. The drapes were pulled over the windows, granting them too much privacy for such a mundane transaction.
“Count di Flaviari, always a pleasure,” Beaumont made a bow, the tip of his nose almost brushing the counter.
Silvio nodded in the man’s general direction, his face turned towards the shelves behind the glass doors. Next to him Emerick sniffed loudly and wrinkled his nose, frowning. He looked like he had put something bitter in his mouth and could not get rid of the taste.
“My order, Monsieur, is it ready?” Silvio addressed the mortal.
“Certainly, Monsieur le Count,” Beaumont took out a small vial and placed it on the counter, twisting off the cap. His eyes shone with a satisfied gleam. “I trust the Count will be pleased with the result, the notes have blended beautifully.”
The perfumer dabbed a little of the fragrance on a piece of cloth and handed it to Silvio.
He raised the cloth to his face and inhaled, his lungs filling with the musky blend of worn leather, beeswax and incense.
The scent stirred memories of the past, of the mornings spent in a church’s sanctuary, eager to go and sit in front of a fireplace, where he and Rico spilled drinks, replacing the frankincense with wine and sweat.
The perfume unfurled with a trace of lilac, it made him suddenly hungry.
Silvio’s appetite grew the more he breathed it in.
“Exquisite,” his eyes flickered toward Emerick, as he nodded in approval at the mortal. Silvio offered the cloth to his lover to sniff. Emerick looked at him as if Silvio had lost his mind but humoured him nonetheless. “Do you like it?”
“It does have a strong aroma,” Emerick handed the cloth back to the perfumer. He looked like he was on the verge of sneezing. “I will let you know if I like it once I can tell one smell from another.”
Silvio laughed, shaking his head. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed a little of the perfume on it. Next he took off his gloves and dabbed some on the lining of each before putting them back on.
“Excellent work, Monsieur. I will take all the bottles from this batch.”
Beaumont nodded, beaming with pride and went to the back of the store.
“Planning to bathe in the stuff, Sil?” Emerick asked and leaned on the counter once the two were left alone.
“Oh, this is not for me. It is for you.”
Emerick raised his eyebrows.
“Then why are you dousing your gloves with my perfume? Isn’t this something humans do out of sentimentality?”
“It is so I can have something to remind me of you when you are not here.” Silvio explained, his lips curling in a smile.
“Sil, I am the first and last thing you see each night. The only time you are not seeing me is when we sleep.”
“And I suffer through it immensely—from dawn till dusk.”
Emerick rolled his eyes and made a face but the grimace quickly faded, replaced by a smile. As ridiculous as the answer was, it pleased him. He made to reach out and take the handkerchief from Silvio’s pocket, but the shopkeep returned, a small box of bottles rattling under his arm.
“This is all of them. And the perfume for Madame,” Beaumont explained, offering a round bottle to Silvio to sniff at.
“There is no need, Monsieur. I trust your craftsmanship.” The Count refused, his eyes narrowing at the bottle. His brow was furrowed in obvious distaste. “Wrap it as a gift, if you will.”
“Certainly,” the man bowed, a note of worry quivering his voice but he began to wrap the perfume in paper.
Dulior favoured the floral scent of roses.
Their stench sometimes stuck persistently to Silvio’s clothes and coats, like a ghost hand clutching at his throat.
The smell made him nauseous and every time the servants arranged a bouquet in any of the rooms, they were always overflowing with roses.
He hoped the shopkeep wrapped the glass bottle tightly so the cap would not leak in his pocket.
“You know,” Emerick said in Latin, still leaning on the counter and watching the man work.
He had picked up his own perfume bottle and was turning it between his fingers absentmindedly.
“Noblemen like to send their wives to the countryside—or the seaside, perhaps. The fresh air appears to do them good. Why not send Madame away? Let her enjoy the sea breeze, taste the local fare. Unburden her of the household.”
“If it were so easy to dispatch her, I would have done so already,” Silvio answered coldly.
“Then us—we could do with a change of scenery and a finer palate.”
“That she would allow even less. If we move, we move as one.”
“Why?”
The question was so simple, too simple. Silvio had asked himself the same thing over and over again. A great sadness clenched at his chest. He had asked Dulior why every time she dragged him to the altar. Every time she called him to her bedchamber, only to slam the door in his face.
“Why are we anchored to her, Sil?” Emerick pressed on.
“I do not know,” Silvio lied.
The words spilled out of his mouth. Admitting his own helplessness in the matter hurt. His pride could not withstand any more of this charade. For years he believed that without Dulior they would all perish. Yet no matter how desperate he was, Silvio never dared to test the theory.
He picked up the box of perfumes, and looked at them, reminiscent. Beaumont was counting his coins, doing his best to pay no mind at how sudden the mood had gone sour in the store. Silvio thanked him and turned towards the door, nodding for Emerick to follow.
“But come, I have more gifts.” His voice sounded small and hoarse. Tonight is not about her. There was no room for his wife in the plans Silvio weaved and stitched in the depths of his mind.
SILVIO, 1790
His first act as Regent was to choose where to establish his coven. His seat of power.
“Capitals are a safe bet,” Ingenuar offered, placing the candelabra so its flickering halo fell over Paris. “They are the easiest to find on a map, and the last to fall in times of war.”
Silvio recalled the image of his palm spreading over the map back home, the tips of his fingers reaching towards Berlin while his hand rested over the Kingdom of France.
Under the soft flesh of his palm, close to the shores of the Gulf of Lion he had seen a town, perched on top of a small bluff.
He had heard the name Béziers before, always in connection to its vineyards.
His father had mentioned the town, it used to export wine to Rome before it was threatened by the Muslims. Another time, a guest in his very home in Paris had bragged about the vineyard he planted there.
A southern town, sitting in the way of the mistral winds, with wet autumns and too small a populace to have ever heard the name di Flaviari.
And far from the court, French or vampire.
“What about Béziers?” he tapped his finger on the map.
Ingenuar narrowed his eyes, squinting to see what Silvio was pointing at.
“Montpellier not to your taste, Marquis? A bigger city means more people. Or do you and your family plan to hunt abroad?”
“Only as far as we need,” Silvio met the All Father’s gaze.