Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

34 - Chapter XXXIV: A Plague of Thought

The East Wing. 20th November, 1899. 7:45 pm. The next day.

Seated at her desk, Reinette adjusted her veil, using her pen to demurely work the gauze and in doing so, attaining a better view of her book. Honestly, she just wanted a better bite on her pen, but she was being watched, so some form of dignity must prevail. She had been learning English all morning. Half of the evening too. In a word, her memory was proving 'faulty,' and in several, the words were losing their meaning before she finished them. One she almost recognised...travel...it looked like travail.

'To work' in French.

Within moments, her head slipped onto the table, her cheek coming to rest near a blotch of ink. Dried already...a remnant from last week...or was it yesterday? Hard to say with the majority of her time spent working at this desk.

Yet some things changed...

The subject. Her sheets. Her bathing water. The spine of her latest book, the initials 'j.v.' stamped on the cover. She frowned, pulling it closer, opening it to the frontispiece and studying the English title for the fifth time. 'Journey...to the interior of the...Earth' ...could that be right? How could one journey inside the earth? Unwilling to admit the rise in her interest, she casually closed it. Lucian had dropped it on her desk...

...and for that, she would spurn it.

Crossly, she began picking at the frayed cover. Shocking the way he believed everything could be solved with an object. 'My apologies for kidnapping you. Have a pendant. Angry because I bled you? Have a book.' It was like throwing meat to a wounded dog. Her nails began making ridges in the cloth. And of course she had screamed that night...how was she to know whether by some sick hand of providence, her position had changed? How was she to act when he, an enemy, her captor, approached her with a drawn knife?

At the last thought, she closed her eyes. She would not think on it. The sooner she learned their language, the sooner she could arrange passage to the North. She must remember all she had forgotten. She must escape this household. This godforsaken isle...

Without warning, her teeth sank into the crease of her lip. Memories of English cruelty etched into her mind. The legs of eight women swaying in the breeze. Their necks hanging from trees. No memory of names, only thoughts of grief, horror, and loss. Anger over what this land had taken from her... Blood dripped onto the table, mingling with the dried ink. Distantly, she felt pain. Her thoughts balanced on the one question she had not factored into her plan.

Could she still poison him?

"Daydreaming will not help you learn," a stern voice said behind her, interrupting her thoughts. Singe. He was getting up. "Adequate rest and good diet have no impact on lazy bones and sleeping on books," he added. "We stop for today."

"No, wait," she said, hastening to keep him there. She stood, folding her hands. "I am sorry, Master Singe. I will do better." Pay attention.

Learn the English.

Escape.

o...o...o

Ten hours later.

With the dogs snapping at his heels, Lucian walked briskly down a hallway, slipped through his bedroom door, shut the door behind him, and for the first time in hours, let his head rest on a surface that was not surrounded by people. Escape, he thought. All he wanted was an escape. Meetings, dinners, drills, paperwork. Even the blood-forsaken murder investigation was getting under his skin. He was tired, and his limbs were aching. Ignoring the bath and the dinner, he stumbled towards the bed. All he wanted was to sleep. His boots off, his shirt thrown the side, and the trousers having to make do with staying on. He collapsed on the bed, curling into the blankets like a grave, reminding himself to take a dose before he slept...