Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

40 - Chapter XL: Fireworks and Ivory

Nine hours later.

He woke to find himself still breathing. Alone with only a Ming dynasty tea bowl to suggest he was still unwell. His head pounding until he chose to silence it, searching for his drug until he realised how thorough Allegra had been with his quarters. Choosing then to accept the pounding in his head, he bathed, dressed, and by seven, somehow made his way to the dining hall without hurting himself. By eight, he was starting to regret his decision to sit near a china cabinet. By ten, any regrets that he might have had were now dying along with the faint hope that he might leave this room before midnight.

In a word, sublime.

He tried to focus on the present. Jacqueline. She was pacing between the wall and her quarry of porcelain, her dress barely able to keep up with her nails. By logic, this was a problem that needed rectifying. "Jacqueline..." He knew it would be a mistake to look at his watch. "...if we could just sit down and discuss this like ..."

Crash! An immaculate 17th century Japanese Imari vase hit the wall, shattering into eight concentric pieces, the point of impact suggesting an aim that required improvement. "Are you calling me a child, Alexander?"

Was he calling her a child, he wondered. No.

Yes.

Perhaps.

His eye twitched.

In previous years, he might have been good at this. Knowing what to say and how to say it. Knowing when to stand and flinch and drop his shoulders. Knowing how to demonstrate that this moment was as 'painful' for him as it was for her. But it was hard to flinch. Hard to engage, even with the graveyard of broken china; the most he could conjure being a vague sense of not regret, but cold awareness over how distraught Mrs Fulligan was going to be come morning...

...and even that was measured.

"No," he said. Hardly a point in masking his scent, but then he'd rather lie and spend three hours explaining himself than tell the truth and spend six. The dining hall was deserted save for themselves, the tablecloth soaked in blood, their meal long since abandoned in a field of war. Only a single glass standing. "I am..." It was taking all of his patience not to raise his voice."...merely indicating that if you sit down and listen to what I am saying..." Broken glass everywhere. He was running the palm of his hand along the table. Maybe he could cut something by accident. "...then perhaps we can come to some..."

A plate crashed to the floor. Wedgwood. 18th century. "...because I am not a child..."

He stared at the plate. "Hence the reason I answered in the negative..."

"Then why are you doing this?" Her voice was getting scratchy. The prim English accent marred by a stuffy nose. "...why would you say such things?" She moaned wretchedly, looking up at the ceiling with red eyes. "I am...always trying to connect with you...always...but you never give me a chance. You never want to talk to me."

"If you could sit down, maybe we could talk about it," he snapped.

"Sit down?" She made a sound, somewhere between a fuming sob and an incoherent whine. "Sit down, Jacqueline...slow down, Jacqueline...our lives are always about your pace..."

He never said that.

She was growing hysterical, pacing back and forth, the frenetic buzz riding on a wave of despair. The tears were flowing again. "And you think I don't know what you say behind my back?" she asked. "I try to be patient. I try to be there for you...and this is what I get?" With a sob, she sliced off her glove, holding her arm out for the world to see. "A bracelet," she sobbed. "A goldenbracelet, while some hag walks around this household with your ivory..." Another plate struck the wall. "...don't even try and deny it, Alexander. I know she still has it..."