Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Draven
The West Lands
The Marechal lad and his beast were annoyingly efficient travelers. They made it to the guard’s hut before the worst of the storm made the trek impassable to all but the most sure-footed. Draven had hoped to find them still there, settled into spending the solstice. No. That would be too convenient for him. They had the impertinence to be elsewhere, which was considerably rude. At least their cart left a trail in the snow.
They hadn’t gone far, having reached an abandoned hunter’s lodge halfway down the mountain. In normal conditions, it was an easy day’s journey. In the grip of winter, it might as well have been on the other side of this blasted planet.
Snow drifted across the frozen ground. The wind had settled down. In the sun, the temperature was comfortable. From the grumbling and chattering teeth of his minions, Draven was the only one who thought the weather pleasant. Still, he understood their complaints. There were places he’d rather be. Someone he’d rather be with.
“You’ll be back in your beds soon enough,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed ahead on the farmstead in the distance. The grumbling ceased.
The beast waited outside the lodge—barely more than a hovel if Draven felt the urge to be unkind. Dark circles hung under his eyes. He looked gaunt and feverish. Draven would expect a beast with an anchor to not appear so sickly. He did not express this because, once again, he was not unkind and in a generous mood.
The beast tipped his head in greeting.
Draven drew the horse to a halt and held up his hand. The guards behind him fell into place alongside him, creating a wall of horseflesh and steel.
The Marechal lad emerged from the hovel, sword on his hip. His gaze swept over Draven and his guards. The color drained from his face. “Has something happened? Is Charlotte well?”
Draven stiffened at the familiar use of Charlotte’s name. Leather creaked as he tightened his grip on the reins. Only he should be allowed to speak her name. She was his woman. His anchor.
As if sensing the turmoil brewing inside Draven, the beast growled a warning.
The horse shifted nervously underneath him. He relaxed his hold and gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck. “Mrs. Wodehouse is well, but there was an incident.”
“I knew she shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”
The generosity of his spirit had expired.
Draven very much doubted that Charlotte would allow anyone to forbid her from grasping what she desired. “ You do not dictate Mrs. Wodehouse’s actions,” he said in a cutting tone, as cold as the winter air.
The beast laid a hand on Marechal’s shoulder, causing the man to stop his prattling. “Tell us what has happened,” the beast said, his voice thick and barely human.
“What has happened is irrelevant. What is happening is that Mrs. Wodehouse is convinced I’m holding you prisoner.”
“Why would she think that?” the Marechal lad asked.
“Do not waste my time with annoying questions. Because she cares, I imagine,” Draven said, waving a hand. A guard stepped forward.
The beast flashed his teeth and growled again. The guard paused, glancing back to Draven for guidance.
“Such theatrics,” he sighed. This was tedious. “My man carries a letter you will sign attesting that you are well and enjoying your liberty, not being held captive.”
He snapped his fingers, setting the guard in motion. He hurried forward, holding the paper out like a shield.
Marechal read the script out loud. “ Dear Mrs. Wodehouse, I wanted to reach out to you and assure you that I am not being held captive…” He made a noise of disbelief. “You expect me to sign this? It sounds fake.”
“Yes. I would very much like you to be agreeable in this matter so I may return to the Aerie. I do not mind the cold, but my companions are human, and they want a warm bed and a hot meal. Sign it without delay.”
Marechal shook his head. “She won’t believe anything I write. We need to go back.” He turned to speak to the beast, who fidgeted with nervous energy.
The calendar neared the winter solstice. Draven felt the pull of the Nexus energy fluctuations, but he was old enough to ignore it. Mostly. Occasionally it made his skin crawl and filled him with a hunger that nothing could slake.
Charlotte could. I never should have left her. The thought came unbidden, but it rang true.
Judging from the wan, sweaty appearance of the beast, he felt the same discomfort and more.
“Returning to the Aerie would be ill-advised. Write the letter in your own words. We shall wait,” Draven said, before nodding in the beast’s direction. “If that is agreeable to you.”
“As long as you don’t come near Luis.”
Marechal smiled at the beast, genuine affection lighting up his face, and he patted the man on the arm. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
The beast huffed, placated.
Draven rubbed the center of his chest. There was no reason in the world for this spark of jealousy to lodge itself in his chest, yet there it was. “Hurry then,” he said, frowning. “I want to be far away before we make camp for the night.”
Charlotte
The Aerie
The Greenhouse
The next day arrived with a pleasant surprise that she was not locked in her rooms. Still, she kept Stringer’s gift close, hidden in her skirt pocket. The hiding spot was not ideal but she had the feeling the key was the kind of thing Madame Lemoine would confiscate when spotted, so Charlotte kept it close.
Lord Draven did not send for her that night. Or the following night.
A week passed. Charlotte drew the obvious conclusion that she had somehow displeased Draven and he ignored her as punishment. Why else would he vanish? They spent one night together. Not even an entire night. She felt they had a connection, and she thought he felt the same, but his disappearance said otherwise.
The more she thought about the situation, the angrier she grew. She traveled all this way, went through a farce of a wedding ceremony, to be used and cast aside like an old plaything…
She tried not to think about it.
In Draven’s absence, Charlotte acquired a permanent guard, Orianne from the chapel. She was decent enough company, entertaining Charlotte’s questions even if her answers were less than forthright.
The abandonment of her vampiric husband notwithstanding, Charlotte used the time to explore the Aerie with Orianne trailing behind. If Miles were held captive, she would find him. She started by retreading the corridors that Lemoine showed her in the initial tour, then branching out into areas not highlighted on the tour. She never got a closer look at the door with the electronic lock, though. Orianne blocked all her efforts, turning her around before they came too near.
Charlotte felt certain there was something beyond that locked door. Only a handful of people had the code. She’d need to get close enough to study the code being entered, and she’d rather fixate on that problem than Draven’s absence.
She needed to lose Orianne. Somehow. There were only so many times she could send the guard off to fetch forgotten items and become “lost” while on her own before her freedom of movement was curtailed.
Perhaps if she behaved badly enough, Draven would lock her in the same dungeon as Miles.
Well, that was a dire plan which would be her last resort.
Until then, she had the entirety of the Aerie to familiarize herself with. She spoke with Madame Lemoine to determine any duties she had as the Aerie’s new mistress and was informed that she should not trouble herself.
She took her meals in the mess hall with everyone else. Yes, an uncomfortable silence fell the first time she entered, but conversation eventually resumed. Other than Orianne, no one dined with her or spoke to her. While Orianne was an amiable enough companion, Charlotte felt the cut.
The more she saw of the Aerie, the more she realized it did not make sense. Perhaps she was explaining it poorly. As she explored, taking the seldom-used corridors and smaller staircases, Charlotte understood that Madame Lemoine had given her a very selective tour. She took Charlotte down the corridors with fresh whitewash and functioning lights. Their tour happened at the end of a shift, so the corridors filled with people, giving the illusion that the Aerie had a larger population than it did. That dining hall that served two hundred souls? Well, as it happens, only about two hundred people lived in the Aerie; Charlotte had been given the impression that there were far more.
Now that she knew, she saw the signs everywhere.
The less-frequented corridors were in a sorry state of repair. Grime marred the whitewash paint, turning it dingy. The light panels did not work and probably had not worked for years, if Charlotte had to judge from the candle soot along the ceiling. Water seeped in through the stones, collecting in puddles and making the floor a slippery hazard. The air was stale and frigid.
Charlotte found a wing of deserted barracks. Neglected furniture collected dust in the unused rooms. The rooms were damp and uninviting. At least there were no rodents. The Aerie’s cat population kept that in check.
The Aerie had been built to host more people, Charlotte could see that, but now it was divided into areas fit for habitation and areas that were abandoned. Even the sections currently used were worn and in need of maintenance. Charlotte got the impression that there just weren’t enough people to keep the massive place running in top form.
Workshops were busy, of course. Lemoine showed Charlotte how the Aerie kept itself armed. She had no doubt that Draven had plenty of soldiers, but a fortress needed more than pistols and swords. It required food, clothing, blankets, shoes, soap, razors, paper, pencils, and a hundred other small things she had never thought twice about sourcing because her village market had plenty.
There was a tailor. Just one. For two hundred people. Yes, most people wore the same set of bluish-gray garments. They were a far cry from fashionable, but they were functional. Simple, much like the food served at mealtimes. Still, even if the tailor only made the same basic items, two hundred was a lot for one person to keep outfitted. One would expect to see wear on the clothing, patches to make do, but there were none. Orianne’s uniform was pristine, but Charlotte did not consider her a good measurement. Her escort was most likely outfitted to impress. However, all the other people Charlotte encountered wore garments in good condition. It didn’t make sense.
The same problem applied to the cobbler and shoes. Everyone wore the same basic boot. While every pair of boots she saw did not look new, none looked to be tattered.
Soap? It came from the storerooms, which Madame Lemoine controlled. Cloth, candles, matchsticks, paper, ink, even needle and thread were under her control.
Fair enough , Charlotte thought. Resources were limited. They had to be rationed to get through the long winter months. Perhaps traveling merchants came in the summer months, but that did not explain how everyone wore the same pair of leather gloves. Leather gloves that all matched the pair Draven made her take in Sweetwater Point. No one would discuss the magical storerooms with her, much like they would not discuss what was in the lower levels beyond the locked electronic door.
Prying out the secrets of the Aerie proved more vexing than anticipated. Novels, especially the frothy, overly dramatic ones Solenne favored, made it seem so easy. Histories, which Charlotte preferred, were written after the fact and were hardly instruction manuals. Still, she reasoned that she had a natural curiosity, so she never struggled to speak with a stranger. However, directing the flow of the conversation to tease out information in a natural manner while remaining undetected was a struggle.
Either Charlotte completely failed in her subterfuge, or the denizens of the Aerie were completely loyal to Draven. It was admirable that no one would gossip about the vampire’s business.
Admirable and frustrating. The Seventh Evil and other novels of its ilk misled her.
Regardless, Charlotte was not so easily deterred. She had not traveled across the civilized and uncivilized parts of the known world to be thwarted by a lack of tittle-tattle and poor guidance from gothic novels. She was a historian. She excelled at digging up clues from the past in dusty tomes.
First, research. She scouted the physical layout of the Aerie. Done. Next, she needed to understand the social forces within the Aerie. To do that, she learned names and faces.
Orianne proved surprisingly helpful. She appeared to be friendly with almost everyone. She introduced Charlotte to Philip, the head cook. Jane also worked in the kitchen, along with Mary, Hattie, and Martin. Between the lot of them, they kept the Aerie fed. Charlotte wouldn’t have called the cuisine astounding, it tended toward blandness, but it was hearty and plentiful.
Then there was the curious incident with the handsome young man who left Orianne tongue-tied, but Charlotte wasn’t a gossip. A woman was allowed to admire a pleasing face.
Jane—another Jane, not to be confused with Kitchen Jane—kept the greenhouses running.
“You’ll ruin your fine dress,” she warned Charlotte, who currently kneeled to inspect a leafy green specimen.
Charlotte straightened, shaking out the bit of dirt that the hem of her dress collected. The pungent aroma of mint clung to her fingers where she touched the leaves. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ve lived in the country. I’m not frightened of a little mud.”
Charlotte enjoyed the greenhouse, perched at the top of the Aerie and exposed to the winter sky. The structure kept the air warm and humid enough that plants grew even as snow-laden wind howled. Practical plants filled the greenhouse, rows and rows of green vegetables and medicinal herbs. Not an ornamental flower in sight.
Charlotte had never much considered what grew in a greenhouse, despite having one at Vervain. Flowers, she assumed, although she had difficulty believing that her late husband cared about decorating his house with fresh flowers all year long. She never visited the structure and neither the groundskeeper nor housekeeper had asked for her guidance.
The only negative she could say about the greenhouse was the looming presence of Lord Draven’s tower. Stark gray, the tower nearly blended with the miserable winter sky. Windows were dark, creating the impression of a half-dozen eyes watching.
The tower was another thing about the Aerie that did not make sense. Such a structure would, if Charlotte recalled correctly from her readings of Old Earth architecture, be used for observation and defense. Yet no one entered the tower. Ever.
Lord Draven’s private rooms, then. Again, no one entered or left the tower. Surely servants would come and go, keeping the tower in pristine condition for the lord of the, well she didn’t want to say manor , but that was the general idea. From just a week of residing in the Aerie, Charlotte had an inkling of the constant labor required to keep the fortress running. Some of the lower levels were neglected and worse for wear, true, but Lord Draven’s private rooms? Impossible.
The tower—and whatever mysteries held within—remained locked. Stringer’s key weighed heavily in her pocket, but she resisted temptation. He had said she was free to go anywhere but she had no good reason to poke around his rooms, other than burning curiosity. It would be rude, after all.
There was plenty to explore and learn. She did not need to violate the vampire’s personal space. Her husband would come to her when he was ready.
Charlotte turned her attention to the greenhouse and her back to the tower, determined to ignore the prickly sensation of being watched.
Jane, a gardener—horticulturist?—tolerated her endless questions with good humor and patience during her daily visits. Today Jane smiled amiably as she stripped off her gloves and stuffed them in an apron pocket. “What are your questions today?”
“I do not have a list, but I was curious about the medicinal plants. I recognize a few, but there are some I do not know.” Charlotte was hardly an expert, but she had foraged with Solenne often enough to spot the most common plants.
“Not surprising.” Jane waved for Charlotte to follow and disappeared down a crowded, leafy aisle. She stopped in front of a short plant with thick, fleshy green leaves. The leaves were smooth but a ridge ran along the side with a serrated edge. “This is an aloe vera plant, and you’ll only find them here.”
“It looks fearsome.”
“It’s harmless.” She ran a finger down the edge to demonstrate. “They’re succulents, so they hold water, and the inside is a gel. It’s useful for moisturizers and ointments.”
“Fascinating.” Charlotte crouched down to have a closer look. “I have a friend who would give her right arm for a cutting.”
“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Lord Draven will not allow any of the unique specimens to leave the Aerie.”
“If it’s medicinal, surely it should be shared.”
Jane shrugged her shoulders, implying it was a problem beyond her control. “We trade aloe vera gel, not the plant itself.”
“Understood.” Next time she visited the greenhouse, she’d have to bring a notebook to make a sketch for Solenne.
Jane enthusiastically showed Charlotte the Aerie’s other rare plants, taking clippings as she went. The pineapple was particularly intriguing with its spiky shell and thick frond on top. Apparently, the inner flesh contained an enzyme that tingled the mouth when eaten because it broke down proteins. Orianne followed, a silent companion.
Charlotte collected specimens as they went. Milk thistle had broad white leaves with green spotting and a fluffy purple bloom. The seeds of the castor bean plant could be made into a useful oil.
“I’m trying my best to remember, but without my notebook, I’ll forget.” She had a rather good memory, but the last week had overwhelmed her with new information. She’d inevitably forget something. Madame Lemoine barely tolerated her questions once. Charlotte did not want to experience the woman’s disapproving frown when she asked the same question twice.
Jane waved a hand holding a pair of gardening shears. “Don’t trouble yourself. There won’t be a test.”
The ease of Jane’s answer warmed Charlotte. It was almost friendly, and she desperately needed a friend. “You’re correct. I’ve been trying so hard to learn everything that I’m bound to forget something, and I dread asking twice.”
Jane scoffed, snipping at a plant with white blossoms. Chamomile. “That woman. Nothing is good enough for her.”
“So it’s not just me? I did wonder why she took such offense to me. Monsieur Stringer has been very helpful, though.”
“I’d take bitter Lemoine over that snake any day,” Orianne said, breaking her silence and joining the conversation.
Jane nodded in agreement. “Those two play games. You’d do well to keep yourself out of it.”
“I didn’t intend to put myself in it,” Charlotte said. After Lemoine’s rudeness, Stringer appeared friendly, but was that an act to vex Lemoine? “May I inquire what you mean when you call Monsieur Stringer a snake?”
Jane shook her head and said in a playful voice, “My, may I inquire? You’re such a lady.”
Despite the teasing tone, Charlotte felt herself blush. “Hardly.”
“True. I misspoke.” Jane shoved the shears into an apron pocket and dusted her hands on her hips. “You’ve the hands of a scholar.”
Charlotte held up a hand to the weak sunlight filtering through the snow-covered roof. Ink stained the tips, and she had a distinctive callus on the middle finger of her left hand from her pen. “I suppose that is fair, but I suspect you’re flattering me to distract me. Very clever.”
“Nah, I don’t have time to play games like that. Lemoine is unpleasant but she’s straightforward. You know exactly where you stand with her.”
“Slightly above dirt, I imagine.”
Jane laughed. “The only person she cares about is the Master. Everyone else is—”
“Dirt?”
“Exactly. But Stringer, he’ll lie to your face. Don’t trust a word out of his mouth.”
“I see.” The key hidden in her pocket suddenly felt heavier. It no longer seemed like a gift but more like a trick.
A person pushing a cart entered the greenhouse, knocking the cart into a raised garden bed.
“Careful,” Jane snapped.
“It’d be easier if I didn’t have to do it all myself,” he grumbled, loading the day’s harvest into the cart. He paused in his work, taking off his knit hat to reveal a head of coppery red locks, and swiped his hand across his forehead.
Orianne stared at the young man, clearly entranced. Now Charlotte recognized him. The young man from the mess hall who left Orianne flustered.
“Leo, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked, handing him a basket. “Orianne will help you take those to the kitchen.”
Orianne gave her an uncertain look. “I will?”
“There are too many steps for one person to navigate alone,” Charlotte said. “Imagine how upset the cook would be if all these potatoes tumbled down the stairs.”
Leo, Jane, and Orianne all visibly flinched.
“The help would be appreciated,” Leo said, causing Orianne to blush.
“I suppose, as long as you stay in the greenhouse,” she said to Charlotte. They loaded up the cart and went on their way.
Charlotte was free of her minder. Finally.
She looked down at the dirt across the front of her dress. “Oh dear, I think I’ve ruined this. I should clean this up before Lemoine has my head,” she said, trying her best to sound distressed. Acting was not in her skillset.
As appallingly amateurish as her theatrics were, they did the trick with Jane. “Hot water and baking powder will get that out. I’ll see you tomorrow, ya?”
Charlotte thanked her for the tip and retrieved her coat—Draven’s coat, actually—before exiting the greenhouse.
The brisk air slapped against her skin, making her eyes water. She clutched the collar of Draven’s coat, holding it closed against the wind as she headed across the roof.
Eyes watched her.
She turned around to face the blank stare of the darkened windows of Draven’s private tower that no one ever entered.
Or left.
Prisoners were also held in towers.
The thought floated up from her reading of Old Earth histories. She could cite one very famous tower and probably dig up another half-dozen examples if she had a few hours to spend in a library. Usually, one thought of a dungeon or oubliette when it came to prisoners. Perhaps instead of searching the bottom of the Aerie, she should have been searching the top.
No. It was obviously a trick.
Charlotte turned her back to the tower. Three facts ran through her mind.
Draven said she could go anywhere she pleased, except for the restricted areas.
Stringer gave her a key that opened any door.
Jane and Orianne said Stringer was not to be trusted.
The connections were not difficult to make. The key was a test to see if she could follow the vampire’s one rule. Whether it was a test of Draven’s design or Stringer’s plotting remained to be seen.
But Lord Draven never clarified what areas were restricted, and he certainly did not say she was allowed to go wherever she found an unlocked door. He said anywhere .
If there was even the slightest chance that Miles was being held captive in that tower, she had to investigate. She had a key, after all.
Charlotte hurried across the snowy rooftop before she could talk herself out of this clearly bad decision. Miles needed her. She had few friends in this world. Solenne. Her books. Miles. Luis. And now Jane. Precious few. She couldn’t afford to abandon any of them.
With trembling hands—from the cold, she told herself, not nerves—she slotted the key into the keyhole. It turned easily. She pushed the door open and quickly stepped inside.