“We mustn’t forget prayer, lass—it’s quite all right, I know how starving you must be. Will you do the honor?”
Lilac cleared her throat to stall. There were none she knew by heart. “My apologizes. Er—”
“I’ll do it,” Garin said quietly.
She shot a look at him. Vampires were deterred by religious artifacts and couldn’t enter hallowed ground. Weren’t they? Yet, there he was, offering a prayer.
They all joined hands and bowed their heads. When she was sure the couple’s eyelids remained softly shut, Lilac opened hers to observe Garin in wonder while he recited the Lord’s Prayer, first in French, then in perhaps his parents’ native tongue, sounding so foreign yet oddly familiar at the same time. With his back illuminated by the hearth, he looked like some celestial being bent on evoking world peace.
“Amen,” he finished, then opened his eyes. They were different. The pewter fire in them had dimmed. “Shall we?”
Dinner was beyond anything Lilac could have expected of the vampire to prepare. The coq au vin was a hundred times better than Hedwig’s, richly satisfying and savory. Maybe part of it was the fact that she hadn’t eaten a real meal since the castle, but she was pleasantly surprised at how such a simple, single-course meal could be so deeply fulfilling. The chicken meat fell right off the bone to soak in the steaming broth alongside wild carrots and potatoes.
Garin, to her surprise, scarfed down his bowl of stew while indulging in eager conversation with Sable over Cornwall. Sable had revealed, after hearing the end of Garin’s prayer, that her parents had migrated to Brittany from the around same area that his ancestors, Aimee and Pascal had. With bits of soft potato hanging from his mouth, Garin told the story of how they’d crossed the Channel in the summer of 1335—how they’d left their hometown before the terrible malady wreaking havoc in London could reach Plymouth. Despite the calmer season, the churning currents had carried their rickety vessel a few kilometers west of the Roscoff docks, where they’d originally planned to settle. Once arrived on land, Aimee and Pascal embarked south through the thick woodland and found the quaint market town of Paimpont, where they’d dropped their bags and made their lives.
Lilac listened intently through her hefty helping, disguising her awe with contentedness. It was the first time he’d revealed any detail of his family history, and for all Lilac knew, he’d told the story of his own parents, instead.
Or, it was all a lie. Just as good, just as convincing as the others he’d told.
Only after she’d scarfed down an entire thigh did she glance up to see Jeanare retrieving a half loaf of sliced bread and cheese from the kitchen. She eyed the wheel of soft cheese with chagrin; it looked and smelled incredible, but she had started to grow full. Garin, however, happily accepted a slice.
Lilac fought to keep her expression deadpan as she watched him in her peripheral. Despite the fact that they were among strangers, he had easily made himself at home. He complimented the couples’ abode and it’s fourteenth century architecture all while helping himself to a second slice of cheese-topped meslin. Lilac couldn’t help but smile at her faux partner; it was a side of him she’d never seen. Even if it was a facade, he played it well enough to be entirely believable, even for Lilac. And at least no one questioned her contented silence since she’d supposedly just been attacked by a vampire; there would not be much else to say. The whole story wasn’t too far off from the truth, she mused thoughtfully, chasing a small bite of potato around her plate with her fork.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Garin’s toe nudged hers. “Some blood, dear?”
She dropped her fork with a clatter onto the stoneware. “What?” she replied a little too hastily.
He held a beautiful, roughly etched glass out to her, filled halfway with a deep red liquid. Another like it, though empty, was tucked in the crook of his elbow. As she shrank back from him, he mirrored the movement, pulling the glass away. “Some Bordeaux, dear? Did I… is there something wrong?” The laugh that followed was light, but his brow furrowed concernedly above his eyes, which scanned her with minute scrutiny.
Just then, Jeanare returned from his second trip to the kitchen, both hands cradling a terracotta bowl of steaming golden liquid. “Or, if wine isn’t your cup, we have cider here.”
Breton cider was a local staple of the west coast and Rennes, she knew that much about her country. Her parents never kept it in the castle; it was too much of a commoner’s drink for her mother’s liking.
Lilac turned red as the liquid in the glass, then let out a flustered giggle. “I apologize. It’s just… the tire of our journey catching up to me, that’s all. I’ll gladly have a glass of cider.”
“You both should get some good rest today,” said Sable consolingly as Garin poured and slid her the glass of cider across the table. “We won’t bother you. Leave when you’d like.”
To be honest, she could’ve stayed in the cozy farmhouse for ages. The princess grinned to herself, realizing she would have a whole day to sleep in again. She wondered if Garin had planned it that way on purpose; they’d eat a nice meal together to build trust with their hosts, allowing them to excuse themselves upstairs without appearing suspicious. It probably should have intimidated her how adept he was at… whatever fooling the entire world was called.
He sipped his own glass while handing hers over. As she grasped the stem, his fingers lingered upon hers long enough for her to notice.
She cradled the cup and took a dainty sip. Absently brushing her fingers against the carved patterns, she froze, feeling something different. Removing the cup from her lips, she traced her nail along a lone letter, intricately woven into the crystal.
An unmistakable “T”.
18
Lilac stared at the insignificant detail. Something like déjà vu nagged at her memory, tugging from within her subconscious. The longer she studied the glass, the closer to the surface it floated. Garin held an identical glass while Jeanare and Sable drank from stone goblets.
“These glasses are stunning,” she commented. “Were they wedding gifts?”
Jeanare chuckled. “If only we had such acquaintances. They came with the house—in the aumbry, actually. They didn’t belong to the family who’d sold us the property, either.” He gave a mischievous smile.
“They must very old.” Lilac swallowed thickly.
“Might even be haunted.”
Sable shot her husband a warning glance, but he was already on his second hefty glass of wine. “Aye,” he chided teasingly. “They have a right to know.”
Lilac turned to Garin, but his eyes were locked on the old man. He picked at his nails, his otherworldly pallor changed to something even more akin to dire illness, which she’d previously thought impossible.
“A right to know what?” Lilac pressed, leaning forward in her seat.
Garin slumped further into his.
Emptying his glass and setting it down, Jeanare reminded Lilac of her father. The way he’d cracked his knuckles and burped just before telling her one of his bullshit stories after supper. But something twinkling in the old man’s eyes told her his story would wield a different sort of weight.
The weight of accuracy.
“You know how this town clings to their superstition like religion. The violent tragedy these walls have witnessed are real. Etched forever in time.”
Sable rolled her eyes. “Really, dear,” she directed at Lilac. “He enjoys scaring our guests.”
Lilac nodded. After all she’d witnessed, especially at the Mine, she doubted the story Jeanare was about to tell would rattle her much.
Garin should have been unphased. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably in Lilac’s peripheral.
“This house of ours is borrowed,” Jeanare began, fingers clasped and elbows propped on the table, to Sable’s evident dismay. “Aye, we own it now. But its exact origins are unknown. Rumor has it that it was built by English immigrants sometime in the early fourteenth century. Those first
owners supposedly died in the war. Anyway, the set of owners before us also met an untimely death, months after moving in.” He reached across the table to refill his empty wine glass; when he offered Garin more, the vampire only shook his head.
“You’ve heard of the Raid, haven’t you?”
As if they hadn’t been asked enough. Garin confirmed it with a sigh. “I have.”
“It was a family of witches who resided here before us. During the raid, they were brutally murdered.” Jean pivoted in his chair, raising his arms, then releasing them in a sweeping motion. “Right here.”
Cloth napkin to her lips, Lilac froze mid-wipe.
There was a thud against wood. Jeanare jumped, flinching and cursing. He glared at his wife and bent to rub his knee. “What was that for?”
“Look at how uncomfortable you’re making them,” Sable snapped, jutting her chin at Lilac.
“It’s not that at all,” the princess explained, eager to hear more. “It’s just… I’m confused, I suppose. I was always under the impression that the massacre took place in the town streets—at sunset. That’s what I was taught, anyway. How could anything happen here, in the kitchen? Had one of them been invited inside?”
Noticing Garin’s nauseated expression, her already uneasy stomach suddenly knotted. She couldn’t remember if they’d actually entered the house before or after Jeanare had ushered them inside. Maybe that was another untrue Darkling rule that humans had believed and passed on through lore.
Jeanare nodded vigorously. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “Ah. See, this is where it gets interesting. When we moved in a few years after the raid, the town outskirts buzzed with stories. According to old farmer gossip, the vampire who murdered them was obsessed with the couple’s daughter. He was completely mad for her. How he entered is as good of a guess as anyone else’s.” He clicked his tongue in pity. “That evening, everyone in town ran for cover and bolted their doors, but this house was cursed the moment he came barging in and—”
The low scraping of wood against stone erupted from Lilac’s right, jolting her. Garin was standing. “I’ll be heading upstairs for the night, if that’s fine right with you,” he said apologetically.
But Lilac didn’t pay him any mind. Not at all. In fact, her focus had shifted onto the oak aumbry—its aged wood and ancient lines of knowing. On the cold stone floor beneath her feet, once washed of tremendous bloodshed.
And on the fireplace mantle off to their left, from which a large chunk of limestone corner was evidently missing.
“Are you feeling ill?” Sable began to get up, but Garin stopped her.
“Not to worry. It was a rather heavy meal after our ordeal in the forest.” He burped and pressed a hand to his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve quite yet recovered. I’ll be in brilliant shape after I get some rest. Thank you again, the both of you. Darling, I’ll see you upstairs.” With a bashful smile, he bowed and clambered noisily down the hall, and up the staircase near the front door.
“Should I show him up?” Jeanare asked.
“I think he’ll be just fine,” replied Lilac distantly.
Jeanare and Sable exchanged puzzled glances. “Well. He sure isn’t bashful. He seems quite comfortable learning his own way around,” Sable observed, chuckling while emptying her glass of cider. She stood to collect their plates.
Now that Lilac had been sated with generous helpings of Garin’s stew and tangy cider, things were finally beginning to make sense. She shivered involuntarily. “He does have a way with making himself at home,” Lilac agreed, forcing a smile. “I think I’ll head to bed as well, if that’s all right with you?”
“Absolutely, dearest.” Sable reached over her to grab her plate, giving Lilac’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze on the way back. “We won’t bother you. Take as long as you need before heading back on the road, d’ye hear me?”
With a thankful half smile, Lilac excused herself to the staircase. She knew there was a possibility Garin was bathing, but she didn’t care. Waves of heat coursed through her blood, along with something else unfamiliar.
It felt like three springs ago, when the child duchess of Denmark visited with her father, and the doting queen gave her most of Lilac’s old gowns, as if she’d never have children of her own to pass them down to. It felt like last summer, when the handsome servant boy whose mother turned her down had welcomed a beautiful baby girl with his new wife.
Fury? Maybe she was overreacting.
The torchlight in the front hall cast shadows along the narrow stairway, like an ominous jury egging her on. At the top of the stairs, a thin sliver of flickering light peeked through a door left ajar. Lilac trudged up the steps, and with each her anger only grew. Her courtesy knock upon the doorframe was met by a loud retch.
She shouldered the door, creaking it open. In her haste, she took little time to observe the steaming wooden tub before her and fireplace behind it—or the large bed to her right.
In the opposite corner of the room, a crouched figure huddled over a rusting chamber pot. Ashen faced, Garin glanced up to see her enter. He nodded to acknowledge her before gagging, retching violently once more into the bin. Skin sallow and eyes sunken, he looked even more a monster than usual. When he opened his mouth to speak, he retched again and stopped himself, but not without effort.
She could have been more compassionate. Should have. But in the moment, her emotions surged through her like a destructive current.
“You.” Wisps of flyaway hairs escaped her ruined braid and blew into her slits for eyes.
He raised a finger as he bent over the pot and vomited one last time, upheaving the last remainder of his undigested chicken stew. Appearing to be done, he pushed his hair off his forehead and wiped his mouth onto his sleeve.
“I hate for you to see me like th—”
“Adelaide’s house?” Lilac’s voice trembled as she spoke. Standing there, she was unsure of what specific, valid reason she had to be quite this upset—there seemed to be none and many all at once—but his look of confusion only fueled her rage even more.
Like any other man who’d been caught in a partial lie, his jaw fell slack. He blinked twice.
“Out of all places, you took me to Adelaide’s house,” she whispered, shoulders quaking. “And you loved her.”
19
Perhaps this was her own fault. Perhaps she’d deluded herself into thinking Garin was different—a harmless, unprovoked Darkling who was more human than anything. But she was wrong, so wrong. How many times did he have to display his deceitful nature before she accepted that it was his monstrous character?
Not even a volto mask would have been able to disguise the mixture of shock and misery now lacing the vampire’s features. He rose to his feet and wiped his mouth once more before making his way slowly over to her. A mild buzzing in Lilac’s joints told her to run.
She fought the urge to retreat as he halted an arm’s length before her. She was almost sure—maybe even hoped—that he’d deny it. But instead he returned her gaze, his pewter eyes disarming as they studied her.
“You figured all of this out from Jeanare’s dinner story?” Though he looked reproachful, his voice was eerily calm.
“When we first entered, you crossed the threshold before they invited us in. I didn’t think much of it, but you stuck your foot in the door so they couldn’t close it on us. I saw.” She countered his question with her own. “Between what you said in the Low Forest and Jeanare’s tale… how much of it was true?”
“All of it.” He answered immediately.
She stepped back, reeling. Lilac tried to conceal the disappointment in her voice, but it still seeped through. She was foolish to think she could help it. She had grown dangerously close to the very kind of creature her parents had warned her against.
“All?”
He gave one nod, then bent slightly to dip his pale fingers into the steaming tub of water besider her. “Get in.”
“In case you were und
er any impression otherwise, you have absolutely no power to order me around that way.”
“I won’t look,” he offered warmly. “It should relax you—”
“Relax? How, pray tell,” she snarled, “when you brought me to the house where you murdered three people downstairs? I should tell Sable and Jean—”
“Tell them what?” he crooned. “That I’m the vampire that had access to the house? That I killed them? I’ll tell them who you are.” Despite the challenge, his sorrowed countenance told her the threat was empty—and so too, was hers.
She bit her tongue, eyes narrowing as he reached for her, preparing to explode on him if he dared man-handle her again. Gently, hesitantly, he gripped the shoulders of her cloak and peeled it off.
“Like I said, you should take your bath. Jeanare heated it for us. You’re the one who needs it most.” He looked her up and down, but his expression was softer this time. “And I still need to take care of your dresses before bed.”
Lilac blinked. She’d never been tasked with washing her own clothes; frankly, the job had always been beneath her. Somehow, Garin was still offering his aid. Beside the fireplace sat a round table flanked by two wooden chairs; her potato sack sat on one chair where Jeanare must have left it, and Garin’s baldric belt hung on its back. A washboard leaned encouragingly against one of the chair legs.
“There really isn’t much else for me to explain, princess, but it is quite obvious that something is eating away at you. I would like the rest of our journey to be at least a bit enjoyable, so I’ll talk. My past is yours—I’ve nothing to hide from you. So, please, do get in the bloody bath.”
They stared unrelentingly at each other. His gaze grew heavy on her and she finally broke. She rolled her eyes to stave the awkwardness. “I’m certainly not getting in with you staring on like that,” she snapped.
He quickly obliged and took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. He faced the wall as she hastily slipped off her belt, hanging it near Garin’s. The destroyed brocade and her undergarments followed. She undid her braid, letting her hair fall around her shoulders in loose waves. Nearly forgetting, she tiptoed across the cool wood to her sack and pulled out the bar of soap and damp towel. She spread the towel out across the table.
Disenchanted Page 26
