A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  * * * *

  Being Shashavani, Ekaterine required only a few hours of sleep—for she still walked in the shadow of death—while Varanus required no rest at all, save for an hour or two of quiet meditation. Varanus had obtained a property in Mayfair for the duration of their stay in England, and it was a simple matter to slip in through the tradesman’s entrance and return to their rooms without notice. It was a ritual they had conducted nearly every night for months.

  Varanus was “awakened” in due course by her lady’s maid. She washed, dressed, and joined Ekaterine for breakfast. The curtains of the house were kept closed on account of Varanus’s sensitive eyes, which she had learned was a common complaint of her English cousins and which was accepted by her neighbors without a word.

  Silently, Varanus prodded the contents of her plate with her fork. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that breakfast was to consist of unreasonable quantities of unspiced meat, eggs, and scones. Cook was so unbearably proud of her cooking that Varanus simply did not have the heart to make her do anything different. Besides, the woman had come highly recommended, which meant that Varanus dreaded to think what might happen if she attempted French or Georgian cooking. Well, certainly not Georgian; Cook probably had no idea where Georgia was, let alone what was eaten there. And the continental half of Varanus’s ancestry would not allow her to trust French cooking to the English any more than she would trust English business to the French.

  “Shall we attend to the Jago matter tonight?” she asked Ekaterine.

  “We cannot,” Ekaterine replied. She ate a bit of sausage as daintily as one could eat sausage. “You will recall, we have the Earl of Twillingham’s ball to attend tonight.”

  Varanus sighed. She had quite forgotten, and she had little interest in any event. How tedious it was to be out of mourning and back into Society.

  “Yes, we do don’t we,” Varanus said. After a pause, she said, “Merde.”

  “Language,” Ekaterine admonished, though she smiled. “I do my best to keep you free from these things, but some are simply inescapable if we are to have a presence here. You aren’t in mourning any longer and to continually refuse social engagements begins to look like rudeness.”

  “Even so—” Varanus began.

  “We could always return home,” came a man’s voice speaking Svan from the direction of the hall.

  Varanus looked and saw Luka, Ekaterine’s cousin and Lord Shashavani’s…well, bodyguard, companion, and just about everything rolled into one. Like Ekaterine, he had been dispatched with her when she went to France for her late father’s funeral a year and a half ago. Unlike Ekaterine, he had so little tolerance for respectable society that they had continued to portray him as a servant long after abandoning the pretense with Ekaterine.

  Luka was tall, noble in countenance and bearing, with Ekaterine’s high cheekbones and dark hair. He wore an elegant and neatly trimmed moustache and dressed in the manner of a tradesman. He stood in the doorway and waited to be called into the room, a necessary conceit for the sake of the actual servants.

  “Yes, thank you, Luka,” Varanus replied in English. “You may approach.” She then switched to the Svanish tongue. “And no, we shall not be leaving for home any time soon. I cannot depart until the matter of my grandfather’s property has been sorted out. And, alas, my English cousins have not yet approached me about managing those affairs.”

  It was a conversation they had had for months now. Luka seemed to have been under the peculiar misapprehension that their visit to England would be only a few weeks, as short as their stay in France. He was quite mistaken.

  “Perhaps you should expedite the matter,” Luka said. He kept his tone polite and humble in case the servants were listening, but the forcefulness was there. He turned toward Ekaterine as if expecting her to confirm his statement.

  Ekaterine looked from one to the other and said, “Don’t look at me. I don’t mind staying. The whole visit has been rather fun, I think.”

  Luka’s moustache twitched a little, a sure sign that he was on edge.

  “You have become too enamored of the English, cousin,” he said.

  Ekaterine tilted her head and looked at him, replying, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “English customs then,” Luka said. “Afternoon tea and…and sherry.”

  “Yes, sherry is rather nice, isn’t it?” Ekaterine asked, smiling. She was taunting Luka, of course, and he was following right along with it.

  “And English fashion,” Luka added, looking disdainfully at his own suit.

  None of the Shashavani had ever quite become used to Varanus’s preference for European clothing. For Luka now to be surrounded by it must have been nearly unbearable for him.

  “Fashion maybe,” Varanus said, “but not hats or corsets apparently.”

  “Or boots,” Ekaterine added helpfully. She looked down at her pale gray dress and smiled. “But I do enjoy their gowns. All sorts of little…things.”

  She paused, searching for the word to describe the beading, buttons, and bows that adorned the garment. Quite to Varanus’s surprise, Ekaterine had taken an immediate liking to the intricacy of European dresses. In contrast to Varanus’s own simple and conservative garments, Ekaterine favored elaborate adornment and fussy details.

  “Froufrou,” Varanus said in French.

  “Yes, froufrou,” Ekaterine said, delighted at the word. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”

  “Yes,” Luka agreed. “Nonsense.”

  Ekaterine continued, “And this peculiar contraption at the back. It’s all very amusing. They call it a ‘bustle,’” she told Luka. “Have you ever heard of anything more delightfully absurd?”

  “I—” Luka began in reply.

  “Bustle,” Ekaterine repeated.

  Varanus drank some tea and said, “And yet, you take offense at having a bow on a hat.”

  “That’s entirely different,” Ekaterine said very seriously, though Varanus noted that she did not explain why.

  “Is there something that we may do for you, Luka?” Varanus asked, looking back at him. “Or are you here seeking a boiled egg?”

  The corner of Luka’s mouth turned up in amusement for the briefest of moments. He produced a sealed envelope from inside his coat and placed in on the table next to Varanus.

  “This was delivered this morning,” he said. “I noticed the seal and thought I should bring it to you directly.”

  “Oh yes?”

  Varanus raised an eyebrow and examined the letter. The seal was clearly marked with the emblem of the Earl of Blackmoor, Varanus’s cousin: two wolves rampant beneath a burning star. It was as striking as it was peculiar.

  She gave Luka a knowing look. No wonder he had prompted her about contacting her relatives: he knew that they had already contacted her.

  “Best to see what it is about,” said Korbinian from the seat beside her.

  Varanus glanced at him. She had forgotten he was there. Or had he been there at all until he spoke? His comings and goings were most enigmatic.

  Varanus broke the seal and removed the letter inside. It was written in a neat hand with elegant if forceful strokes. It included the usual pleasantries and salutations, a reiteration of the family’s sympathy for her no longer recent tragedy, and reassurances that the English Varanuses were eager to help however necessary.

  She glanced up and saw Luka reading over her shoulder. He was several paces away, but being Shashavani—even one who still walked in the shadow of death—his eyes were keen enough to read at a distance.

  “What does it say?” Ekaterine asked, buttering a scone.

  “My cousin has invited me to visit the family in Blackmoor,” Varanus said. “At my ‘earliest possible convenience.’ No doubt to discuss the inheritance and why I haven’t handed it over to them.”

  Ekaterine laughed and said, “What a shame they will receive the same answer in person that they have in writing. Still, a trip out of the city would be
nice.” She paused, her knife dangling between thumb and forefinger. “Where is Blackmoor?”

  “Um, Yorkshire, I think,” Varanus said.

  “Is that good?” Ekaterine asked. “What is Yorkshire like?”

  “I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful,” Varanus replied, “though of course I have never been there.”

  Luka clapped his hands and said, “Good, it is settled. I shall make arrangements for the journey.”

  “Not so quickly, Luka,” Varanus said, raising a hand. “If we are to go, you won’t be joining us.”

  “I…what?” Luka demanded.

  His tone was angry as well as surprised, and Varanus knew why. Lord Shashavani had sent him with her for her protection. However irritated he might be at their lengthy stay—and for the life of her, Varanus could not imagine why that might be—he was true to his duty.

  “My clinic, Luka,” Varanus reminded him. “If I am not in London to visit it, I will need someone to keep an eye on it for me. I certainly don’t want it being burgled or damaged.”

  “But—” Luka said.

  “Mmm, no,” Ekaterine said, quickly swallowing a mouthful of egg so that she could join the conversation. “No, Luka, she is going to be adamant about this. And I must say that I will be too. I have not spent months keeping that place in order only to have ruffians tearing it to pieces while we are away.”

  Luka hesitated.

  “If I remain behind and watch the place, you will settle your affairs, Doctor?” he asked. “Have I your word on that?”

  Oh, why did he have to be so difficult, Varanus wondered.

  “Yes, very well,” she said, not really meaning it. “I will settle the inheritance with my cousins if you remain behind and protect my clinic and my patients!”

  She stated the condition rather sharply, but all she could think of were Sally and the other denizens of the street whom she would not be able to look after while she was away.

  “Then it is agreed,” Luka said. He nodded. “Good. I shall look forward to departing this place. No offense to your countrymen, Doctor,” he quickly added.

  “No need to apologize,” Varanus replied. “They’re only half my countrymen, so I am only half offended.” She winked at him. “But tell me, Luka, why are you so insistent that we leave? Do you not enjoy London?”

  “I enjoy it,” Ekaterine interjected.

  “I do not,” Luka said. His moustache twitched again. “I find the climate disagreeable, the food inedible, the air unbreathable, and good wine nonexistent.”

  Being Georgian, Luka had extremely exacting tastes when it came to the quality of wine.

  “And what is more,” he continued, “we are overdue for our return. Lord Shashavani expected us to return from this excursion within two months. It has now been almost two years! I am surprised that he has not come here himself looking for us!”

  Varanus drew herself up. She did not appreciate Luka’s using her mentor to justify his own wish to depart prematurely.

  “Then if and when Lord Iosef arrives looking for us, we shall depart at once,” she said. “Until that time, I am in charge, and we will leave England when I am ready to do so. I have a great deal of work that must be done.”

  Luka made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, but after a moment, he bowed his head in acceptance.

  “That shall suffice,” he said. “For the time being.”

  “Good,” Varanus said. She added, “And you know, Luka, if you miss home so much—and I certainly understand longing for the fresh mountain air, the good food and wine—”

  “And women,” Ekaterine said with a knowing smirk. Luka’s romances with the village women and servants alike were famous throughout the Shashavani valley.

  “—then by all means,” Varanus continued, “depart forthwith. I have no wish to confine you in a land that you dislike, and Ekaterine and I shall be perfectly safe in your absence. You could go and inform Lord Iosef of our well-being, in case he is worried.”

  Luka made the noise again.

  “I cannot, Doctor,” he said, “as I have given Lord Shashavani my word that I shall watch over his apprentice—you—until such time as this journey is inevitably concluded. I cannot go back on my word to my sworn brother, now can I?”

  Varanus sighed. He did have a point. It was a pity, though. How marvelous it would be without him moping about the place.

  “Oh, do cheer up, Luka,” Ekaterine said brightly. “Try a boiled egg.”

  * * * *

  The ballroom of Twillingham House—the London residence of the Earls of Twillingham, as one might surmise—was something of a marvel. Lavishly decorated, impeccably designed, and constructed with the utmost care, the ballroom—indeed, the entire house—served as an attempt by the Earls of Twillingham to compete in prestige with their peers and superiors in Piccadilly and beyond. Varanus was quite astounded by the sight of it and impressed by the quality of personages in attendance, for the company was of a calibre one would have anticipated to throng about a duke, not someone with a lesser title. But, she reminded herself, her grandfather—an English exile in France, brother to an earl, possessed of no title himself—had made himself the toast of Paris through wealth, intrigue, and the manipulation of his alleged betters. Perhaps the Earls of Twillingham had done the same in England.

  Varanus was not one for balls or indeed for any form of social function. She much preferred quiet study and intelligent conversation, neither of which were much welcome among the well-to-do. But she acknowledged that Ekaterine was correct: she could not reside in London and yet rebuff any and all invitations presented to her. So it was necessary to appear at social engagements from time to time, and the Twillingham ball would do the work of three lesser events.

  And much to her pleasure, Varanus had spent most of the evening sitting alone, disturbed only on occasion when the hostess felt it a duty to impose the company of this or that notable upon her. Korbinian sat beside her, reading to her from Faust, and together they had made the evening a pleasant one. Ekaterine had vanished into the crowd shortly after their arrival, and Varanus caught glimpses of her engaged in dance and conversation with all manner of persons. She was doing her duty: keeping track of the latest social gossip and political maneuverings so that Varanus need not concern herself with them.

  Presently, Varanus laid her hand on Korbinian’s arm and interrupted his reading. He looked at her, smiling, and slowly raised her hand to his soft lips.

  “Do you know what I am reminded of?” Varanus asked. She spoke softly, scarcely above a murmur, lest someone hear and become curious.

  “No, liebchen,” Korbinian said. “Of what are you reminded?”

  “Grandfather’s ball,” Varanus said. “The night that first we met. Do you remember it?”

  “How could I forget, my darling?” Korbinian leaned over and gently kissed her. Looking into her eyes, he said, “No, I could never forget. Not it nor any of those precious moments we spent together.”

  “If only you had not died, my love,” Varanus said, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. She blinked a few times to disperse it.

  Korbinian brushed his fingertips against her cheek and said, “Do not cry, liebchen. I am still here. And I shall never leave you.”

  Varanus was about to speak, but she was interrupted by a gentleman in evening dress who emerged from the crowd and approached her. It was Doctor Constantine. There was nothing odd about his presence, of course: he was well established in Society, and all of Society was present. But having seen him just the night before and under quite different circumstances, the sight of him surprised Varanus.

  Constantine approached and bowed politely.

  “Good evening, Lady Shashavani,” he said. “I hope you will pardon the intrusion.”

  Why was he speaking to her? He had conversed with her in the guise of Doctor Sauvage many times, but had he ever been introduced to her as Lady Shashavani?

  But of course he had been, Varanus remembered. They ha
d spoken a few times a year ago when she had become a patron of the London Hospital.

  “Yes, of course,” Varanus said, making her voice sound as little French as possible. With over a decade of speaking the four Georgian languages and a lifetime of English, it was not very difficult. “Doctor Constantine, is it not?”

  “That is correct,” Constantine said. “You may recall, we spoke some months ago while, alas, you were still in mourning for your late father. I should like to thank you for your tremendous generosity toward the hospital. It is so difficult to find those who understand the necessity of the work that we do. But then, you yourself are a scholar of medicine. I suppose it is to be expected.”

  “Indeed, I studied medicine in my younger days,” Varanus said. “It has given me a great appreciation of its practitioners.”

  “Lady Shashavani,” Constantine said, bowing respectfully, “I am certain that you must be well engaged for the evening, but I wonder if you might grant me the honor of a dance.”

  A dance? Varanus wondered. But of course, it was a ball. She should have expected nothing less. She was fortunate to have escaped such approaches already. And there was something in Doctor Constantine’s countenance that caught Varanus’s attention. Something unspoken.

  “I think, liebchen,” Korbinian said, “he wishes to speak to you without being overheard. About what, I cannot imagine. But how better to speak amid the crowd than in the midst of the waltz?”

  He did have a point. And if Constantine had felt it necessary to resort to such a contrivance.…

  “Yes, Doctor Constantine,” Varanus said, “I think that shall be most agreeable. I believe that the next dance is a waltz, and I am particularly fond of the waltz.”

  * * * *