all this has blown over? We would be much safer from prying eyes at Mondthaus.’
Hermione sighed. ‘Much as I’d like to, Otilia, I cannot,’ she said. ‘The queen would see it as dereliction of duty, but thank you for your concern.’
‘Of course, m’lady,’ said the housekeeper.
She stepped back again but, before she had closed the doors, a handful of exquisite dandies pushed them open again and strolled through around her. They were all graceful, handsome young men, all in the latest court fashions, and all with perfectly trimmed beards and moustaches. Their leader was as dark as a Tilean, but with piercing blue eyes.
‘They would not have left this house alive had they exposed you, m’lady,’ he said, putting a hand to the hilt of his bejewelled rapier.
Ulrika heard Rodrik snort from the drawing room door. ‘Lapdogs,’ he muttered.
A third door opened – a cleverly concealed panel in the left wall – and a timid golden-haired head looked out. ‘Have they gone?’
‘Beloved!’ Hermione’s pinched expression melted and she crossed to the secret door to lead out the most beautiful girl Ulrika had ever seen. She wasn’t a lush, dark beauty like Countess Gabriella, nor a pouty, sweet-faced seducer like Lady Hermione. She was tall and thin, with fair skin and straight golden hair that hung to the flaring skirts of her dark green dress, and the stately beauty of a queen. It was only as Hermione drew her to the centre of the room that the regal illusion was broken, for the girl walked with a coltish clumsiness and downcast eyes that made Ulrika wonder how old she was.
Hermione turned to Gabriella with a smug look. ‘Well, since you are here, I suppose I must introduce you to my household.’ She indicated the swaggering dandy and his men. ‘Lord Bertholt von Zechlin, my champion, and his men – the finest blades in the Empire.’
‘Your servant, madam,’ said von Zechlin, bowing and making a leg.
Rodrik rumbled something about ‘not being the finest blades in the room’, but Ulrika didn’t think the men heard him.
Hermione then turned to the housekeeper. ‘My chatelaine, Otilia Krohner, you already know, and…’ She put a hand on the blonde girl’s elbow and urged her forwards. ‘And this is Fraulein Famke Leibrandt, my… protégée.’
The girl smiled at Gabriella and Ulrika shyly, then, lifting her skirts, curtseyed deeply. ‘I am at your service, mistresses,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our humble home.’
Ulrika frowned. Lady Hermione was showing the girl off like a prize calf. Was she some favoured blood-swain? No. She had called her her protégée. She was a vampire! She was to Hermione what Ulrika was to Gabriella. But why so smug? Did Hermione mean to imply that she had made a better choice of apprentice than Gabriella had? The thought made Ulrika growl in her throat.
Gabriella returned the curtsey and gestured to Rodrik and Ulrika. ‘And allow me to introduce Rodrik von Waldenhof, heir to the Waldenschlosse, my champion, and a knight without peer, and Boyarina Ulrika Magdova Straghov of Kislev, my protégée.’
Rodrik executed a smart bow, clicking his heels together in martial fashion, but Ulrika, flummoxed by the thought that she was somehow on display, and confused by all the bowing and curtseying, first tried one, then the other, and failed at both, stumbling awkwardly on her petticoats.
As she recovered, Ulrika saw that Hermione’s smile had turned into a sneer, and she almost sneered back, but then she caught Gabriella glaring at her, and lowered her head respectfully, letting the long tresses of her wig hide her anger.
‘Your friends are obviously tired from their journey,’ Hermione said smoothly. ‘Let us repair to the drawing room where they can rest comfortably while we talk.’
Gabriella betrayed not the slightest notice of the subtle dig. ‘Of course, sister. After you.’
As they moved to follow their mistresses into the next room, Ulrika caught
Hermione sighed. ‘Much as I’d like to, Otilia, I cannot,’ she said. ‘The queen would see it as dereliction of duty, but thank you for your concern.’
‘Of course, m’lady,’ said the housekeeper.
She stepped back again but, before she had closed the doors, a handful of exquisite dandies pushed them open again and strolled through around her. They were all graceful, handsome young men, all in the latest court fashions, and all with perfectly trimmed beards and moustaches. Their leader was as dark as a Tilean, but with piercing blue eyes.
‘They would not have left this house alive had they exposed you, m’lady,’ he said, putting a hand to the hilt of his bejewelled rapier.
Ulrika heard Rodrik snort from the drawing room door. ‘Lapdogs,’ he muttered.
A third door opened – a cleverly concealed panel in the left wall – and a timid golden-haired head looked out. ‘Have they gone?’
‘Beloved!’ Hermione’s pinched expression melted and she crossed to the secret door to lead out the most beautiful girl Ulrika had ever seen. She wasn’t a lush, dark beauty like Countess Gabriella, nor a pouty, sweet-faced seducer like Lady Hermione. She was tall and thin, with fair skin and straight golden hair that hung to the flaring skirts of her dark green dress, and the stately beauty of a queen. It was only as Hermione drew her to the centre of the room that the regal illusion was broken, for the girl walked with a coltish clumsiness and downcast eyes that made Ulrika wonder how old she was.
Hermione turned to Gabriella with a smug look. ‘Well, since you are here, I suppose I must introduce you to my household.’ She indicated the swaggering dandy and his men. ‘Lord Bertholt von Zechlin, my champion, and his men – the finest blades in the Empire.’
‘Your servant, madam,’ said von Zechlin, bowing and making a leg.
Rodrik rumbled something about ‘not being the finest blades in the room’, but Ulrika didn’t think the men heard him.
Hermione then turned to the housekeeper. ‘My chatelaine, Otilia Krohner, you already know, and…’ She put a hand on the blonde girl’s elbow and urged her forwards. ‘And this is Fraulein Famke Leibrandt, my… protégée.’
The girl smiled at Gabriella and Ulrika shyly, then, lifting her skirts, curtseyed deeply. ‘I am at your service, mistresses,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our humble home.’
Ulrika frowned. Lady Hermione was showing the girl off like a prize calf. Was she some favoured blood-swain? No. She had called her her protégée. She was a vampire! She was to Hermione what Ulrika was to Gabriella. But why so smug? Did Hermione mean to imply that she had made a better choice of apprentice than Gabriella had? The thought made Ulrika growl in her throat.
Gabriella returned the curtsey and gestured to Rodrik and Ulrika. ‘And allow me to introduce Rodrik von Waldenhof, heir to the Waldenschlosse, my champion, and a knight without peer, and Boyarina Ulrika Magdova Straghov of Kislev, my protégée.’
Rodrik executed a smart bow, clicking his heels together in martial fashion, but Ulrika, flummoxed by the thought that she was somehow on display, and confused by all the bowing and curtseying, first tried one, then the other, and failed at both, stumbling awkwardly on her petticoats.
As she recovered, Ulrika saw that Hermione’s smile had turned into a sneer, and she almost sneered back, but then she caught Gabriella glaring at her, and lowered her head respectfully, letting the long tresses of her wig hide her anger.
‘Your friends are obviously tired from their journey,’ Hermione said smoothly. ‘Let us repair to the drawing room where they can rest comfortably while we talk.’
Gabriella betrayed not the slightest notice of the subtle dig. ‘Of course, sister. After you.’
As they moved to follow their mistresses into the next room, Ulrika caught
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