Blood Prophecy
Page 16
Sleep refused to come. She counted her breaths, counted the spiders on the wall, even the embroidered leaves on the ribbon of her nightshift. When sleep still refused to be caught she pushed out of her warm nest of woolen blankets, bare toes curling over the cold stones. She’d find her mother, who always told her thrilling tales of giants and ancient kings. She’d just have to be careful not to disturb her nursemaid or her father, since they were both so cross.
She crept out of a small window, swinging easily over into the lilac hedge. It concealed her movements until she felt brave enough to dart around the back to the outside staircase leading to her mother’s private solar. The oak door was locked, as usual, but Viola had long ago learned the trick of opening it. She used her hairpins and remembered the one time she’d asked her father why the door was always locked. He’d looked so sad, running a big hand over her pale hair and telling her it was so that no one would steal her mother away. Viola liked the idea of her mother always being safe, even though she herself could never have slept all locked up like that.
She pushed the door, opening it only enough to give her space to slip inside. The room was warm and lit with candles in iron lanterns. It always had a curious unused smell, like burning dust. A fire crackled in the hearth, too big and too hot for such a fine evening. But her mother was always cold, shivering when others were sweating. Viola crept closer, watching the flickering light gild Lady Venetia’s face.
Lady Venetia shifted, opening her eyes. She smiled slowly, as if she’d forgotten how it was done. “Viola,” she said hoarsely. “You’ve grown so tall.”
“I can get on a horse all by myself now,” Viola bragged, scrambling onto the bed. “Even though Richard still needs help.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a great and mortifying secret. “I’m taller than he is.”
“He’ll outgrow you soon enough,” Venetia murmured, touching the end of one of her daughter’s braids. “Is he kind to you?”
“Sometimes. I still want to set fire to his tunic.” She bounced on the bed until her mother winced. “Mama, are you ill again?”
“I’m afraid so, poppet.”
“You look pale,” Viola said. “But you have a sunburn on your nose.”
Venetia just smiled wearily. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Viola told her about the beehive she’d found, about the baby bunnies in the gap in the orchard wall, and the way Richard thought he was better than she was. Her mother listened attentively, and when her eyelids flickered, Viola didn’t take offense, though she would have shrieked herself blue in the face if her nursemaid had behaved that way. Everyone knew Lady Venetia was delicate and distracted. Viola snuggled closer when her mother shivered violently.
“I’ll keep you warm,” she promised, sleepily.
She pulled the blankets up, frowning at what looked like bloodstains, like tiny red beads. The firelight caught the strange scars on her mother’s arms, some raw and pink, others faded and shining like silk embroidery. They were puncture marks, clustered in pairs like berries and scattered over her arms, along her collarbone and even under the laces of her neckline.
The image flickered, leaving me disoriented. I knew exactly what those marks were.
Bite marks.
Chapter 7
Lucy
Monday
The only reason I didn’t miss my first class was because Sarita stood over me after lunch and cleared her throat annoyingly until I groaned.
“You’re going to be late,” she informed me disapprovingly.
“I don’t care.”
“Attendance is mandatory.”
I rolled over, scowling at her through one eye. “Did you really just say that? Are you, like, fifty? We need to get you pierced or tattooed or something.”
“Lucy.” She sounded anxious. I knew being late and breaking the rules made her sweaty. We were like the worst pairing of personalities ever. She’d probably have a breakdown because of me before the Christmas holidays.
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I swung my feet over the bed. Mud crumbled off my boots onto the carpet. This time, Sarita sighed. I had to laugh. “Poor Sarita. Think Theo will diagnose you with PTSD for having to deal with me?”
“If you think it will help,” she muttered.
I laughed again. More mud fell off my clothes. “I’d better hop in the shower.”
“Okay, but hurry.”
I grabbed my shower caddy and my bathrobe. “Don’t wait for me. You’ll just give yourself an ulcer.” I was tempted to skip classes altogether but I couldn’t afford to lose the access I had to Helios-Ra information. Not to mention that no one was going to let me stay at the Drakes’ now and if I went back home, my parents would enforce their 5:00 p.m. curfew. No thanks. So I had to go to class and stick to my routine and pretend I wasn’t plotting.
Sarita left, shaking her head and looking as if I’d just kicked a puppy in front of her. Honestly, the school administration was diabolical. I kind of felt bad for her. Especially when I saw how red her cheeks were when I rushed into class ten minutes late. The teacher looked unimpressed, Sarita looked downright nauseated. Jody smirked. I resisted the urge to throw a pencil at her. But only barely.
I spent most of my waking moments going through the books. I wrote in the margins on one, detention be damned. It was just so blatantly wrong. The Drakes didn’t lure drunk college students out of the bars and compel them to forget being fed on. Well, maybe Quinn used to, but I could guarantee none of those girls needed to be compelled.
She crept out of a small window, swinging easily over into the lilac hedge. It concealed her movements until she felt brave enough to dart around the back to the outside staircase leading to her mother’s private solar. The oak door was locked, as usual, but Viola had long ago learned the trick of opening it. She used her hairpins and remembered the one time she’d asked her father why the door was always locked. He’d looked so sad, running a big hand over her pale hair and telling her it was so that no one would steal her mother away. Viola liked the idea of her mother always being safe, even though she herself could never have slept all locked up like that.
She pushed the door, opening it only enough to give her space to slip inside. The room was warm and lit with candles in iron lanterns. It always had a curious unused smell, like burning dust. A fire crackled in the hearth, too big and too hot for such a fine evening. But her mother was always cold, shivering when others were sweating. Viola crept closer, watching the flickering light gild Lady Venetia’s face.
Lady Venetia shifted, opening her eyes. She smiled slowly, as if she’d forgotten how it was done. “Viola,” she said hoarsely. “You’ve grown so tall.”
“I can get on a horse all by myself now,” Viola bragged, scrambling onto the bed. “Even though Richard still needs help.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a great and mortifying secret. “I’m taller than he is.”
“He’ll outgrow you soon enough,” Venetia murmured, touching the end of one of her daughter’s braids. “Is he kind to you?”
“Sometimes. I still want to set fire to his tunic.” She bounced on the bed until her mother winced. “Mama, are you ill again?”
“I’m afraid so, poppet.”
“You look pale,” Viola said. “But you have a sunburn on your nose.”
Venetia just smiled wearily. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Viola told her about the beehive she’d found, about the baby bunnies in the gap in the orchard wall, and the way Richard thought he was better than she was. Her mother listened attentively, and when her eyelids flickered, Viola didn’t take offense, though she would have shrieked herself blue in the face if her nursemaid had behaved that way. Everyone knew Lady Venetia was delicate and distracted. Viola snuggled closer when her mother shivered violently.
“I’ll keep you warm,” she promised, sleepily.
She pulled the blankets up, frowning at what looked like bloodstains, like tiny red beads. The firelight caught the strange scars on her mother’s arms, some raw and pink, others faded and shining like silk embroidery. They were puncture marks, clustered in pairs like berries and scattered over her arms, along her collarbone and even under the laces of her neckline.
The image flickered, leaving me disoriented. I knew exactly what those marks were.
Bite marks.
Chapter 7
Lucy
Monday
The only reason I didn’t miss my first class was because Sarita stood over me after lunch and cleared her throat annoyingly until I groaned.
“You’re going to be late,” she informed me disapprovingly.
“I don’t care.”
“Attendance is mandatory.”
I rolled over, scowling at her through one eye. “Did you really just say that? Are you, like, fifty? We need to get you pierced or tattooed or something.”
“Lucy.” She sounded anxious. I knew being late and breaking the rules made her sweaty. We were like the worst pairing of personalities ever. She’d probably have a breakdown because of me before the Christmas holidays.
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I swung my feet over the bed. Mud crumbled off my boots onto the carpet. This time, Sarita sighed. I had to laugh. “Poor Sarita. Think Theo will diagnose you with PTSD for having to deal with me?”
“If you think it will help,” she muttered.
I laughed again. More mud fell off my clothes. “I’d better hop in the shower.”
“Okay, but hurry.”
I grabbed my shower caddy and my bathrobe. “Don’t wait for me. You’ll just give yourself an ulcer.” I was tempted to skip classes altogether but I couldn’t afford to lose the access I had to Helios-Ra information. Not to mention that no one was going to let me stay at the Drakes’ now and if I went back home, my parents would enforce their 5:00 p.m. curfew. No thanks. So I had to go to class and stick to my routine and pretend I wasn’t plotting.
Sarita left, shaking her head and looking as if I’d just kicked a puppy in front of her. Honestly, the school administration was diabolical. I kind of felt bad for her. Especially when I saw how red her cheeks were when I rushed into class ten minutes late. The teacher looked unimpressed, Sarita looked downright nauseated. Jody smirked. I resisted the urge to throw a pencil at her. But only barely.
I spent most of my waking moments going through the books. I wrote in the margins on one, detention be damned. It was just so blatantly wrong. The Drakes didn’t lure drunk college students out of the bars and compel them to forget being fed on. Well, maybe Quinn used to, but I could guarantee none of those girls needed to be compelled.
