My Love Lies Bleeding
Page 27
I touched his knee. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Don’t be.”
“Solange is really strong,” I said it again. “Stronger than everyone thinks she is.”
“I know.”
“What got you through?” I whispered. “Do you remember?” He nodded but wouldn’t look at me. When he didn’t elaborate, I turned to face him. “What? Is it a secret? Don’t I know all the deep dark Drake secrets by now?” He shifted uncomfortably. “I guess.”
“What then?”
“You.”
I swallowed, stunned. “Me?”
“Yeah.” He stood up and went to the door, where he paused for the barest second. “You got me through.”
CHAPTER 11
Solange
I was not enjoying this.
We weren’t even there yet and I just wanted it to be over.
We didn’t take the tunnels to Veronique. Her house outside of Violet Hill was completely independent of the Drake compound and Natasha’s royal courts in the caves and pretty much everything else. The house was perched on a hill and painted dark gray, with Victorian gables and stunted thorn trees all around. It was straight out of Wuthering Heights.
“I can’t believe she came here for this,” I muttered as Marcus turned into the lane.
It was miles before it wound through the woods and then out onto a clearing with a narrow driveway. “She never comes here.”
“You’re special,” Quinn told me. “She came here for you.”
“Great.”
We got out of the car and I tried not to compare the slamming of the doors to gunshots. Everything had a dark, final feel here. I shook it off . I was letting the melodrama of the house infect me. This was technically my great-great-several-times- great-grandmother. While I doubted she’d baked me cupcakes, I had to assume she didn’t mean me any harm either. Each of my brothers had survived the formal introduction. I would too. I kind of wished Lucy was here; I could have used some of her swagger. I’d just have to find my own.
“Come on, little sister.” Duncan nudged me up onto the porch. The door swung open before we could knock. Veronique didn’t have guards, but she did have ladies-in-waiting. The one who answered the door didn’t betray a flicker of emotion. She was dressed in a suit with a pencil skirt and wore her hair scraped back into a bun.
She looked competent and about as warm as winter at the top of a mountain.
“You’re expected,” she said. “Come in.” She stepped aside. “I am Marguerite.” We bustled into the foyer and then just stood there in a hesitant clump. Even Logan wasn’t flirting with her. London scowled but looked at the floor. There were chandeliers everywhere, made of jet and crystal drops. Oil lamps burned on wooden chests serving as tables. It smelled vaguely like incense. A shield with the Drake family crest hung on the wall with our motto: “Nox noctis, nostra domina,” which translated roughly to “Night, our mistress.”
“Only Solange was summoned,” Marguerite murmured disapprovingly. “The rest of you may wait here.” She pointed to a long church bench. My brothers sat obediently, without a word. That was enough to scare me, even without the whole matriarch thing. “You”—she turned to me—“may follow me.” I took a deep breath and trailed her down the hallway. There were several doors leading into drawing rooms and parlors and a huge dining room. She ignored them all and went straight back to a set of French doors, opened up into a long ballroom with polished parquet floors and tapestries on the wall.
“Madame.” Marguerite bowed her head. “She has arrived.” Veronique sat on one of those curved padded benches that were in every medieval movie I’d ever seen. She wore a long blue-gray gown with intricate embroidery along the hem and trailing bell sleeves. Her hair was hazelnut brown, her eyes so pale they were nearly colorless, like water. She was so still, she didn’t look real. There was something definitely not-human in her face. I swallowed convulsively.
I was so nervous I thought I might throw up on her. When she moved, just an inch, I jumped.
“Mon Dieu,” she murmured in a voice as distant and mysterious as the northern lights. “Your heart is like a little hummingbird.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing, only that it seemed best. Some instinct inside me trembled, like a rabbit under the shadow of an eagle. For all her porcelain beauty, she was a predator.
“So you are Solange Drake,” she said, considering.
“Yes, Madame.” I curtsied, putting every detail Hyacinth had painstakingly taught me into it. This was no courtesy bob a la Jane Austen; this was a full court curtsy. I stepped my right foot behind my left and bent my knees out and not forward. I went as low as I could without toppling over or sticking my butt out. I bent my head slightly.
I prayed really hard that she’d be impressed.
“Very good,” she said. “You may rise.”
I stood back up and wobbled only a little. Thank you, Aunt Hyacinth.
“I am gratified to know your family has taught you proper etiquette.”
“Thank you, Madame.” Could she tell I was starting to sweat? It was hard to just stand there under her scrutiny. She was so composed, so hard.
“I understand Lady Natasha has summoned you to her court.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“She is not to be trusted, that one.”
“Don’t be.”
“Solange is really strong,” I said it again. “Stronger than everyone thinks she is.”
“I know.”
“What got you through?” I whispered. “Do you remember?” He nodded but wouldn’t look at me. When he didn’t elaborate, I turned to face him. “What? Is it a secret? Don’t I know all the deep dark Drake secrets by now?” He shifted uncomfortably. “I guess.”
“What then?”
“You.”
I swallowed, stunned. “Me?”
“Yeah.” He stood up and went to the door, where he paused for the barest second. “You got me through.”
CHAPTER 11
Solange
I was not enjoying this.
We weren’t even there yet and I just wanted it to be over.
We didn’t take the tunnels to Veronique. Her house outside of Violet Hill was completely independent of the Drake compound and Natasha’s royal courts in the caves and pretty much everything else. The house was perched on a hill and painted dark gray, with Victorian gables and stunted thorn trees all around. It was straight out of Wuthering Heights.
“I can’t believe she came here for this,” I muttered as Marcus turned into the lane.
It was miles before it wound through the woods and then out onto a clearing with a narrow driveway. “She never comes here.”
“You’re special,” Quinn told me. “She came here for you.”
“Great.”
We got out of the car and I tried not to compare the slamming of the doors to gunshots. Everything had a dark, final feel here. I shook it off . I was letting the melodrama of the house infect me. This was technically my great-great-several-times- great-grandmother. While I doubted she’d baked me cupcakes, I had to assume she didn’t mean me any harm either. Each of my brothers had survived the formal introduction. I would too. I kind of wished Lucy was here; I could have used some of her swagger. I’d just have to find my own.
“Come on, little sister.” Duncan nudged me up onto the porch. The door swung open before we could knock. Veronique didn’t have guards, but she did have ladies-in-waiting. The one who answered the door didn’t betray a flicker of emotion. She was dressed in a suit with a pencil skirt and wore her hair scraped back into a bun.
She looked competent and about as warm as winter at the top of a mountain.
“You’re expected,” she said. “Come in.” She stepped aside. “I am Marguerite.” We bustled into the foyer and then just stood there in a hesitant clump. Even Logan wasn’t flirting with her. London scowled but looked at the floor. There were chandeliers everywhere, made of jet and crystal drops. Oil lamps burned on wooden chests serving as tables. It smelled vaguely like incense. A shield with the Drake family crest hung on the wall with our motto: “Nox noctis, nostra domina,” which translated roughly to “Night, our mistress.”
“Only Solange was summoned,” Marguerite murmured disapprovingly. “The rest of you may wait here.” She pointed to a long church bench. My brothers sat obediently, without a word. That was enough to scare me, even without the whole matriarch thing. “You”—she turned to me—“may follow me.” I took a deep breath and trailed her down the hallway. There were several doors leading into drawing rooms and parlors and a huge dining room. She ignored them all and went straight back to a set of French doors, opened up into a long ballroom with polished parquet floors and tapestries on the wall.
“Madame.” Marguerite bowed her head. “She has arrived.” Veronique sat on one of those curved padded benches that were in every medieval movie I’d ever seen. She wore a long blue-gray gown with intricate embroidery along the hem and trailing bell sleeves. Her hair was hazelnut brown, her eyes so pale they were nearly colorless, like water. She was so still, she didn’t look real. There was something definitely not-human in her face. I swallowed convulsively.
I was so nervous I thought I might throw up on her. When she moved, just an inch, I jumped.
“Mon Dieu,” she murmured in a voice as distant and mysterious as the northern lights. “Your heart is like a little hummingbird.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing, only that it seemed best. Some instinct inside me trembled, like a rabbit under the shadow of an eagle. For all her porcelain beauty, she was a predator.
“So you are Solange Drake,” she said, considering.
“Yes, Madame.” I curtsied, putting every detail Hyacinth had painstakingly taught me into it. This was no courtesy bob a la Jane Austen; this was a full court curtsy. I stepped my right foot behind my left and bent my knees out and not forward. I went as low as I could without toppling over or sticking my butt out. I bent my head slightly.
I prayed really hard that she’d be impressed.
“Very good,” she said. “You may rise.”
I stood back up and wobbled only a little. Thank you, Aunt Hyacinth.
“I am gratified to know your family has taught you proper etiquette.”
“Thank you, Madame.” Could she tell I was starting to sweat? It was hard to just stand there under her scrutiny. She was so composed, so hard.
“I understand Lady Natasha has summoned you to her court.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“She is not to be trusted, that one.”
