Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

69 - Chapter LXIX: The Ticking of the Clock

And so it was...

...the last day of the festivities came upon them. That final day of Midsummer, one that was to be fraught with the bustling aura of an apiary swarming before winter. The full day of scheduling laid out from dawn to dusk: the feasts, the games, the dancing, the endless frivolity of a people whose skills lay in all manner of outdoor escape. The last century having long since drawn the upper-class tenants of his horde from duels and wrestling into pastimes such as cricket, tennis, and rowing matches.

The night set to culminate in a dazzling spectacle. A vision from the last of the blood-seers. That priceless commodity, her gift of speaking in tongues, to be paraded before his guests. The investors of his war. All of them silent and waiting, wearing the masks of the ball, save for the ones whose forms were swathed in the black robes of the council, their wooden faces covered in scars...

...and their emperor leaning against the wall. A stranger to her. Cruel and callous, holding his reserve when she drank the three drops and keeping his distance when she fell forward. The words gushing forth like poison, each syllable built on murk and ambiguity. The masque, that of a bird circled by beasts, ready to gorge themselves on the tide she saw in blood. In such a moment, forcing her to confront how far above her he stood.

Or so it would have been...

...if not for a glass.

The moment passing yet vivid in the memory of all despite having started so innocently. Breakfast occurring at seven, early but without incident, followed by foot races and light refreshment. A small minority choosing then to play lawn bowls, while the majority of guests headed for the orangery, their faces basking in sunlight as they dealt cards, surrounded by glass windows, citrus trees and pomegranates.

The annual lycan whist tournament providing just enough balance that one could pretend for a moment that they were nothing less than the height of gentility. Twelve tables and a further six for those who wished to watch. Tie matches to be played off, but a mantlepiece clock-brought down from the main house and placed at the far end of the room-providing a visual reminder for those who needed more than just etiquette to encourage timely play.

Naturally, talk was meant to be kept to a minimum; but there was a general consensus that for most, it was a chance to gossip over the past few years, if not decades and once one table started, the rest might as well follow suit.

Unfortunately for Lady Forsythe, this meant her partner, the wife of Colonel Arlington, and the other two ladies at the table had a great deal upon which to catch up. The hand requiring an obligatory moment before she again had to notify Lady Corbyn that it was her turn to deal. Hard to hear oneself think through all the noise.

Seventy-two voices talking at once, while the Colonel's wife prattled on and on without a care in the world. Regaling them with her good fortune as though a gold mine had fallen into her lap. The prestige of moving into a former home of the lycan-master evident without her having to parade it in front of their faces. Blithely unaware that for some of them-Lord and Lady Forsythe in particular-the last few years had been an exercise in downsizing. Their lives now closeted in a house that was filled with white sheets and dust. Blood, if they could all just focus on the game...

"Windows everywhere," said the Colonel's wife who could barely contain herself. "...and the library."

Lady Corbyn finally started dealing. "Do the books come with the house?"

"Indeed," the woman said, taking her cards up. "...though it'll be a trial getting things in order without the old housekeeper. Mark my words, Rosemary, the house will be in chaos by the time we get back..."