Of Consorts and Cabals

copyright 2005 by

Anne Fraser and Jean Hontz

 

 

Genevieve had been having a telephone conversation with her dear friend

and “adopted” daughter Adele.  Adele was currently spending the summer

in Venice with Alexander, and had met Carmine, the vampire Prince of Italy. 

Carmine had apparently, half-seriously, proposed marriage to Adele.  Gen

had not laughed, as Adele had expected her to, but had replied that Carmine

had also once proposed marriage to _her_.

 

When Adele hung up, Genevieve stood up and pocketed her cell phone.

Nobody was about--Jean was out with Owen, doing the rounds of assorted

occult hangouts looking for Gardien recruits.  Nyree was helping Mme

Bertrand with the assorted little ones, and Bertrand himself was

somewhere about fixing something or other.  The chateau was old, there

was always something that needed doing.

 

Adele's phone call had stirred up memories.  Gen took out her

chateleine and walked down to the locked room she had shown Adele and

Nyree, back in the spring.  She opened it and went in, giving Claude's

portrait only the briefest of glances.  She uncovered the long portrait

of the Council members instead, gazing intently at Carmine.  How well

she remembered...

 

_____

1525:

 

At the previous Vampire Ball, Carmine had still had a consort, and

Claude de Monet had not.  Blaine of England had been mercilessly teasing

his French counterpart, telling him that France needed a woman's touch. 

Blaine himself had been comfortably married to his consort--chosen for

political reasons--for sometime then.  Carmine, not on as friendly terms

with Claude, had confined

himself to advising the French Prince to choose his consort

carefully.  The idea of love as a factor in choosing a consort was one

that seldom occurred to anyone on the Council.  If you wanted love, it

was available; a consort should be chosen for their political acumen not

how well they performed in bed.

 

And now Claude had gotten himself a consort.  A wife, indeed--he'd

married the girl.  Chosen her for love, and turned her on their wedding

night. He'd been grooming her as his consort since the wedding.  Not

just his consort--his successor.  Not always were they one and the same.

 Not one Prince on the Council, not even dour Spain, thought that Claude

would need a successor for many centuries to come.  He was a good

Prince, secure in his reign; there were no cabals forming against him, no

usurpers in hiding--save Corbeau, and he was exiled.

 

But his choice of consort had the Council in a minor uproar.  They

were all anticipating meeting this child.  Genevieve.  Pretty name; and

by all accounts a beauty to match.  The Ball was to be at the chateau,

so that Claude could show off his bride in her natural setting.

 

Blaine of England and his consort were the first of any of the

Princes to arrive, so eager was he to congratulate his old friend and

set his eyes on the bride.  There was an instant connection when he

looked at that tall, blonde, blue-eyed young woman, standing proudly at

Claude's side, welcoming him with grace.  Within an hour, she was

calling him Uncle, which tickled him and pleased Claude.  Blaine called

her "Gen" and "my girl", making her laugh.

 

"I'll steal her off you, old man," Blaine offered Claude, after

several other Princes and their consorts had arrived, paid their

respects to the host and hostess, admired the new bride, and begun to

mingle.

 

"Oh, you will, will you?" asked Blaine's consort, amused. Her name

was Olivia; and she had the sense of humour necessary to be consort to

England.

 

"But I do not wish to be stolen," Genevieve replied.  The look she

gave Claude would have taken Blaine's breath had he had any.

 

The room fell silent and every eye turned toward the doorway.  Many

had not expected Italy to even appear.  It hadn't been that long since

Carmine had overcome the bloody coup attempt.  That in itself was

unusual. Generally speaking, such coups were successful.  Instead it was

Carmine's consort who lost her head and a not insignificant number in

his Court with her.

 

Reports regarding the coup were sketchy. Every Prince had spies in

everyone else's Court. This was something that was expected. Some of

those spies suddenly went missing during the hours after that coup

attempt, their fates not really in doubt. So knowing little of what had

happened, the Council was understandably curious regarding the incident

and what it would do to the Italian Prince.

 

Carmine had shown open affection for Ruffina, so it was assumed he'd

suffered for this betrayal. He'd even shared power with her, so that

would be an interesting dynamic, seeing how he adjusted his Court and

his reign to deal with such a personal betrayal.  And so they all stood

there, gawping, wondering. Did they dare show him understanding or would

he repay such with a cold and distant regal disdain?  He could do so when

he so chose.  On the other hand, Carmine's moods could be mercurial.

 

And then he was there, standing straight and proud in the doorway,

knowing every eye in the room would be on him.

 

He was dressed simply for the times and for a ball, especially a

Vampire Ball where most came wearing jewels worth more than the

treasuries of half the countries of the world.

 

He wore the tight trousers of high fashion, which agreed with his

figure, and a short surcoat of a deep rich crimson.  His hair, long as

was the fashion, fell in dark ringlets.  Those eyes of his, smouldering

blue, swept across the room, seemingly catching every eye of importance

looking his way.

 

He was alone.

 

He made an ironic bow to no one in particular, yet to all of them at

once, then crossed the room to greet his host and his new bride.

 

He sketched a bow to Claude, then eyed Genevieve.  That animal

magnetism of  his hadn't abated, at any rate.

 

She bowed, rather than curtsied, as Claude had taught her.  She was

a Prince's consort; her gender was beside the point.  She eyed the

handsome Italian Prince with interest, but Claude didn't even bother

frowning at either of them for this.  He was secure.

 

"Congratulations, Claude," Carmine said, and he almost sounded

sincere. "And to you as well, Madame de Monet."

 

She looked like she would have liked to blush at that.  "Genevieve,"

she corrected him and held out her hand.

 

He kissed it.  "I am corrected.  Genevieve."

 

She knew of the recent troubles in his court, but could not imagine

what to say to him about them.  Claude hadn't given her any hints.  She

looked at her husband for some sort of direction on how to handle

Carmine, but Claude--damn his eyes--had actually wandered off to speak

to the Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

 

"I ..." she began, then decided to drop courtly formalities and

speak to this disturbing man directly, heart to heart.  "I hope to make

a better consort to Claude than Ruffina was to you," she said.  "But I

fear that I have already lost my heart... my head is certain to follow."

 

He hesitated only a moment then replied, "What a shame it would be

to see that lovely head bouncing on the cobblestones.  I advise you to

keep it."

 

Then Blaine joined them saving her from having to come up with a

rejoinder to that troubling response.

 

"Carmine, dear fellow. You look well."

 

"Scars of the body heal."

 

"Yes, it's the other ones that trouble us.  I was sorry to learn

about Ruffina. But would have been sorrier if it had been you who died."

 

Carmine eyed Blaine as if he was uncertain of the truth of his

statement. But he nodded his head in acknowledgement of the comment.

"Not nearly so sorry as I would have been.  So, may I steal Olivia away

from you? For an intimate tete-a-tete?"

 

"Ho, no stealing necessary. Here she comes."

 

Olivia bowed to Carmine and allowed him to steer her off to a more

private spot in the chateau.  Blaine watched them, an expression

Genevieve couldn't read in his eyes.

 

"Uncle?" Genevieve asked tentatively.

 

The British Prince shook himself.  "My dear girl," he said, taking

Genevieve's hand as if she was about eight years old.  "Come along with

me, I want a dance from you."

 

She smiled and let him lead her onto the dance floor.  Claude,

standing side by side in deep conversation with Hans of Austria-Hungary,

looked on with approval.

 

"You chose well," Hans said.  "Already she knows how to conduct

herself and speak to Princes.  How fortunate to find a bride and consort

you love in one."

 

"Very fortunate," Claude admitted.  "Though the circumstances in

which I found her were not."

 

"I thought you were a friend of her father's," Hans raised an eyebrow.

 

"Oh, yes.  I've known her since she first toddled; and an adorable

little bratling she was.  But she did not look upon me with love until

her first husband died."

 

Hans looked startled, and received a shortened version of the story

of Gaspard's death and Corbeau's exile.

 

"He will thirst for revenge, that one," Hans warned.

 

"Let him," Claude replied.

 

____________

 

1615:

 

And by the time of the next vampire ball, Corbeau had taken his

revenge, and Claude was dead.  This time, noone expected France to come

to the sumptuous castle in the Austrian mountains, but she did, head

held high, unaccompanied, her grief bottled within her and the ice

already forming around her heart.

 

Blaine smiled at her as she entered, proud, unafraid.  But it was

another who spoke to her first.

 

"Genevieve," Carmine said, giving her a deep bow. "I grieve for your

loss. But I've no doubt that France will be well served.  You do Claude

great honour. Will you allow me to escort you across the room?"

 

He hesitated until she nodded, then gave her his arm.  And with

dignity the two Princes entered the festive ballroom.

 

When she faltered a moment he said, sotto voce, in French,

"Courage, Geneieve. Some here hope to see signs of weakness. For

France."

 

If this apparent friendship worried anyone it was Rodrigo most

obviously. He frowned.  Hans, standing next to him, commented, "Lucky

for us Carmine is even more paranoid than the average Vampire Prince.  A

union between those two..."

 

Rodrigo snorted, delicately.  "I would behead them both myself if I

thought such a union were possible."

 

"A pox on you," Blaine, who'd heard this, said.  "Have you no respect

for the dead, or for the grieving?  Genevieve is hurting, anyone with

eyes can see that, she will have no interest in another man."

 

"Ah, si," Rodrigo muttered, "who could possibly measure up to

Claude?"

 

"Claude was my friend," Blaine said quietly.  "I grieve, as well."

 

"Perhaps _you_ think to claim his young widow, then?"

 

"Were it not the ball, and the Rules in force, Rodrigo, I would call

you out," Blaine hissed, his usual bumbling demeanour gone.  "I have no

designs on Genevieve.  Or on France.  I hold Claude's memory in too much

respect."

 

"One wonders what Carmine's designs are," Hans murmured, watching

said Italian Prince fetch first a chair, then a glass of wine, for the

grieving widow.

 

If the Italian Prince had any designs on France he did no more than

offer Genevieve a kindly arm.  He paid attentions to Olivia and Kalonice

of Greece, flirted with Monique and in general seemed to do no more than

respect Genevieve's grief more than some of the others did, particularly

who found such displays by  vampires, especially Vampire Princes, 

demeaning.

 

At one point when Blaine and Monique were standing together, Rodrigo

within easy hearing distance,  Monique commented,  "Is it me, or are the

widow's eyes wandering often to a certain single Prince?"

 

"Jealous, Monique?" Blaine asked.

 

She shrugged. "I hear no one has been in his bed since Ruffina.

I've no interest in that cold a fish."

 

"I believe she looks kindly upon him because he is being kind to

her," Blaine said.

 

"Compassion is weakness in a Prince," said Monique.

 

"You are wrong," Blaine told her quietly.  "Damn you all.  Claude

was a good man and a good Prince.  They loved each other.  Where is the

weakness in allowing his widow to grieve, and showing her the hand of

friendship?"

 

"She should not have been confirmed as Prince," Rodrigo said.  "She

is too young."

 

"The Council confirmed her," Monique's voice was flat, as one ending

an argument.  "Even in her grief, Genevieve reigns well.  Her

assumption of the Princedom was seamless."

 

"She is not yet a master," Rodrigo pointed out.  "She has only one

fledgling!"

 

"Rodrigo," Olivia had come looking for her husband to urge him to

dance and overheard this, "do shut your mouth, please, you are tedious. 

Go mutter in a corner with Germany."

 

Rodrigo shot a look at Ingrid, the German Prince, who was blithely

ignoring them all and deep in conversation with Switzerland.  He bowed

to England and Belgium, and went to join the other grouping.

 

"They all despise me," Genevieve said to Carmine, "save Blaine, and

perhaps Hans. It is unPrincely to show emotion."

 

"Do you think so?" Carmine asked, meeting her eyes.  "I should say

it is far more that you display an emotion that they fear. There is a

belief that Princes must be above such things as love - or perhaps

beyond them.  That all decisions must be made in cold calcuation and

with no loyalty or love. Although they seem to have no problem with

making decisions based on hatred and spite."

 

"Rather they read your emotion as a weakness. But then had you shown

up here with a handsome vampire lover they would despise you and say you

never loved Claude and see your coldness as your weakness.  Any choice

you might make will be read as weakness by those who search for it."

 

"Yet no one thought you weak after Ruffina," Gen countered.

 

"You need better spies, Prince."

 

Genevieve considered one of Monique's comments regarding Carmine.

And her spies had reported that his Court had been roiled again

recently. Perhaps another attempt at assassination? This time at the

instigation of another Prince?

 

"Why do some Princes hate you?" she asked.

 

"Because they do not understand me and thus I upset their plans. And

I keep my own counsel.  I suggest you do the same."

 

"I have heard they tried to keep you off the Council when it was

first formed," Genevieve commented.

 

"And so they did. I would not have minded. But several Princes

decided they'd rather have me on it than be an enemy of it."

 

"Claude told me you were not to be trusted."

 

Carmine looked at her fully then. "He was right." With that he

walked away.

 

____________

1656:

 

Another heated Council meeting, this time in Germany, had concluded.

France was being pressed to name a successor or obtain a new consort. 

The Council disliked instability... although they'd actually given up

pressing Italy on the same issue.  But Carmine was a wild card and

unpredictable; Genevieve was seen as vulnerable.  She surprised them

all at the meeting by being icy cold and practical about the whole thing.

 

"I am not yet a master vampire," she had told them calmly, refusing

to be bullied.  "I have as of yet but three fledglings made.  Of those

three, none are of the correct fabric to be molded into a Prince.  There

are only a handful of Claude's turning left, and of all those, I was the

only one he chose as successor.  You granted him far more time to choose

his consort than you are granting me."

 

"Claude chose for love," Rodrigo sneered.  "Are you hoping to do the

same?"

 

She held her head high and met the Prince of Spain's eyes.  He was

the one who looked away.  "And why not?" she asked.

 

Carmine, Prince of Italy, shot her an unfathomable look.  Genevieve

wondered what it meant.  Carmine was here to flaunt his very

presence--he had survived an attempt at deposition from the Council at

the last meeting. Rodrigo was looking at him with open hatred. 

Fortunately for Italy, the motion had not carried.  The Council was

full of such intrigues; cabals and secret committees with their own

agendas.  Claude had once expressed the wish that the whole rotten

lot of them would be consigned to Hell.

 

Claude.  How she missed him, even half a century after his murder.

Grief had turned her to ice and steel; the Council respected her for the

most part. Blaine, Kalonice and Hans could be counted as actually

sympathetic; Rodrigo and Ingrid as enemies.  The others were as shifting

sands in the wind... as Carmine had discovered last meeting.

 

"Perhaps, Genevieve," Monique spoke up, "it has escaped your notice

that your husband's murderer has returned to Germany..  With yet another

new fledgling."

 

Her head did not waver.  "It has not escaped my notice, Monique.  I am

well aware of it." She glanced sharply at Ingrid, who completely ignored her.

 

"Now there is a master vampire," said the Swiss Prince, and was

quickly hushed by a sharp jab from Blaine's elbow.

 

"There is a monster," Blaine corrected, pretending that his arm had

merely slipped.

 

"I see quite a few monsters before me," Carmine drawled, making

himself quite unpopular.  Again.

 

"We have departed from the question at hand," Ingrid said, probably to

redirect the attention that had focused on her at the news of Corbeau. 

"You asked why you should not choose a consort for love, France.  I suppose

that there is no reason save that love does not always see wisely.  Claude was

fortunate in his choice. He did not allow his love to blind him to the qualities

within you that make you a Prince.  You may not be so fortunate should you

choose for love."

 

"A consort does not have to be a successor, Ingrid," Genevieve

replied, using the German Prince's name to infuriate her.

 

"No, but they must rule in your stead in some cases."

 

"For short terms only."

 

The meeting concluded eventually with the decision that Genevieve

would be allowed to choose a consort and appoint a successor in her own

time.

 

----------

 

Genevieve was at the Chateau brooding over the meeting in Germany.

She resented the Council's attempts to force her hand to name either a

successor or a consort. Yet she seemed unable to end the constant

carping. How had Carmine done it, she wondered.  Stoic silence and that

glare that could freeze lava. He hadn't argued, hadn't justified, merely, for

the most part, defied them.

 

Even Blaine and Hans seemed to think she ought name someone, if only

an interim someone. That need for stability, she expected. Still, there

was Carmine. His very presence at the meeting whose sole purpose had

seemed to be to pressure her, arguing against the motion.

 

She was wishing for the solace of tears, denied to her since the night

Claude had died, when one of the little cousins arrived to

announce a visitor. "I do not wish to see anyone."

 

By way of answer Eldrich held out a note.

 

She examined the envelope but it revealed nothing.  She ripped it

open determined to reject it regardless. What was written there

surprised (and alarmed) her.

 

"Genevieve,

 

I beg a private audience.

 

Carmine"

 

It alarmed her because she'd had no intelligence he was even in

France.  He must have been just behind her on the road from the Council

meeting.  The Gardiens ought to have seen him and reported his entry

into France.

 

Damn him.  A private audience?  With the most unpredictable Prince

on the entire Council?  Here in France without her knowledge and

permission?  How _dare_ he? She would grant him this audience just to

have the satisfaction of slapping him.

 

"Do not trust Carmine."  She could hear Claude's voice in her

memory.  How she missed him!

 

Still, curiosity burned in her, overriding her caution and anger.

The Gardiens would hear about this later... really, they needed a strong

captain to command them; they missed Claude, too.  She tucked away that

thought for later examination.

 

"Show Prince Carmine in, Elrich," she requested of the hovering,

waiting ghoul. "Then leave us."

 

Elrich bowed, showing no signs of what he thought of this order. How

much rational thought the little cousins _were_ capable of was something

of a mystery to their mistress.  Claude had felt sorry for them and

allowed them to live. She had promised to protect them.  They made

faithful, useful servants,though their sharp grins tended to frighten

humans.

 

Shortly the cousin returned, bringing Carmine, still dressed in high

Jacobean fashion from the Council meeting, in his wake.  The Italian

Prince bowed to Genevieve and waited to see what she would do or say.

 

She itched to slap that slight smug look off his face, but that

would scarcely be a Princely response.  "Carmine," she bowed, and

extended her hand.

 

He lifted her hand to his lips but his eyes were on her face as he

kissed it.

 

"I beg forgiveness for breeching all Princely protocols, but as you

seem to be in nearly as much disfavour with the Council as I am (he did

not look as if that admission pained him) I thought perhaps you would

prefer not to have to explain a private tete-a-tete with me."

 

"You never beg forgiveness," she said tartly, as she walked over to

the drinks table.  "Brandy?"

 

"If you would be so good, please."

 

She poured him and herself a drink and carried his to him.  Their

hands touched for a moment as she handed it to him.  It took all her

presence of mind not to react to that touch.  She motioned for him to

take a seat across from her. Once she was seated he did so.

 

"Now. What are you up to?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully

modulated to indicate nothing.

 

"Three of my bloodline have been murdered recently. Several others

were set upon.  One of the lost ones was a mere fledging, of no

importance and certainly no threat."

 

"And this is of concern to me?" she asked carefully.

 

"I believe Spain and Germany are attempting to force me into open

warfare with them. Were I to fall into their trap ...."

 

He did not really need to finish the sentence.  If they could accuse

him of attacking them they could take it to the council and further

isolate Carmine. Yet, how angry would she be if her own dear ones

were killed.  And a fledging..

 

"You have no proof it is Spain or Germany," she replied.  It was not

a question. If he had he would have brought it up at the Council

meeting.

 

"I am sorry for your loss, Carmine, but fail to see why it is of

consequence to me. I am in a weak position in the Council myself. 

I can hardly be of much use to you in this."

 

"Unless," he replied evenly.

 

"Unless?" she echoed him.

 

"Unless we named each other as consort or successor.  A merger

between Italy and France.  It would silence them with regard to your

vulnerability. It would give me an ally to stand with against Spain and

Germany."

 

As she sat there, too astonished to respond, he added, "I am hardly

the cold fish Belgium claims."

 

She looked at him, the oddest expression in her eyes.  There was a

longing for affection there, a deep loneliness.  But her natural caution

overruled it, and common sense told her she would not find the love she

ached for from Carmine. Oh, Claude.

 

"You propose a merger, then," she said calmly.  "France and Italy."

 

"Yes."

 

"You want me to be your consort."

 

"And I yours.  An equal standing, Genevieve, I do not propose to

subjugate France."

 

"And how long would that state of affairs last?" she asked, and the

tone of  her voice actually made him back away.   "You beheaded your

last consort, Carmine. I have no wish to share her fate when you decide

you wish sole Princedom over both countries."

 

"I would not..."

 

She turned on him, eyes flashing.  "And what if I wished the same,

Carmine, and staged a coup to match Ruffina's?  We are Princes! 

Politics runs in our blood as surely as the taint that makes us

vampires.  A hundred years from now, two hundred, and the Council

alliances will have changed ten times and we will be enemies rather than

allies. No, Carmine.  I will consider a merger only when Hell freezes over."

 

"Yes, of course. You're quite right. My apologies for suggesting

such a thing. I ...."  He met her eyes then.  "It would not have

been...I thought perhaps you felt something for me, Genevieve.  I

apologize for feeling something for you."

 

He swallowed the rest of his drink and turned on his heel.

 

She knew it would be a mistake to end this conversation on that

note.  She would lose an ally--possibly a friend.

 

"Carmine, please," she said.  "I spoke as Prince."

 

"And how do you speak as Genevieve?" he asked, stopping just at the

closed door.

 

She walked to his side.  "I... I do feel something for you, Carmine,"

she admitted.  "Friendship.  Gratitude for your kindness to me

at the last ball, so soon after I lost Claude."  The emotion in that

name was not lost on him.   "Do not let us end this conversation on a

sour note and part unfriends."

 

They were nearly of a height, and a well-matched pair.  He dark, she

fair.  Fire and ice.

 

He kissed her, and not on the hand or the cheek.  Her eyes widened

at the presumption, and then suddenly closed and her arms went around

him. Had she been human, she would have trembled, but she was vampire,

and still as a rock.

 

When that kiss finally broke he lifted a hand to touch her soft beautiful

hair. "Do not let Claude's death turn you cold, Genevieve.  I

do not recommend decades spent in an empty bed."

 

"You need not fear I will be your enemy because of this," he added

before she could respond.

 

"Carmine, that wasn't.."

 

"Of course it was. At least in part. Take care of yourself." With

that he was gone.

 

______

Date: 1790s

 

All the Princes had spies in each others' courts.  This was accepted

practice.  Sometimes the spies died.  This was also accepted

practice. But information was a commodity; and nobody on the Council

could afford not to know something vital about another Prince.

 

So it was that the news spread throughout Europe--to Switzerland, to

Germany, to Russia, to Austria, to Belgium, to England, to Italy, to

Spain, to Scandinavia, even to Greece--that the Prince of France had

recently made a new fledgling and brought him home to her court.  Found

him dying on a battlefield during the Seven Years War, right after the

Council meeting (and what a meeting that had been, with everyone

shouting at France as if Genevieve had caused the war...she had borne it

with her usual icy calm). She had made him one of her precious Gardiens.

 

All very well.  She had done as much before, and this brought the

official number of her fledglings to a healthy ten, truly establishing

her (as if there were any doubts now, any at all) as a master vampire.

 

But the information did not stop there.  Many masters had sex with

their fledglings before and during the turning; it was not all that

unusual. Some still slept with the fledglings after the turning.  Still

accepted practice... but, as far as anyone knew (and the information on

who was sleeping with whom tended to be quite accurate), Genevieve had

not ever taken one of her "children" to bed with her.  She had taken

lovers, yes, in the nearly two centuries since Claude's death... but she

had not turned these lovers nor taken any of her turnings as one.

 

Until now.

 

Blaine of England was disturbed.  He had a great fondness for

Genevieve, his friend Claude's widow.  He regarded her as a beloved

niece.  He had a somewhat unfortunate tendency to think of her as being

much younger than she actually was, but she tolerated this and called

him "uncle" with affection. As a result, his judgement was perhaps not

quite as unbiased as it might be when it regarded the affairs of the

comely Prince of France.

 

From all reports (and even Blaine had his spies in Genevieve's

court, as she had hers in his), this new fledgling of hers was a most

unsuitable fellow. Handsome enough, yes; but ...

 

"He looks like a great pirate," Blaine's spy had reported in a

carefully coded letter, sent through secret channels, "rough and

bearded; he swaggers and is too ready with a fist or a blade. He was in

the cavalry, and you know what they are, even the officers--braggarts,

swearers, untrustworthy men. His eye roams over any comely lass; I fear

he is unfaithful to his Prince."

 

"Oh, Gen," said Blaine sadly, rereading this report.  "Are you so

lonely that this bully-boy somehow stole your affections?"  He was quite

prepared to actively hate Jean de la Mare.

 

Carmine's spy delivered the news to him when he was vacationing on

the Amalfi coast. Being the Prince and master of Italy had its

advantages.

 

Court was in session at the time, a silly game entertaining the

sillier of the members of the Italian court.  Carmine had been reclining

on a chair on the balcony, one eye on the hijinks going on, and one on

the moonlight glinting on the water.

 

The spy waited patiently until his Prince called to him.  Even if he

was travel weary, hungry and still covered with the mire of the journey,

he knew his Prince expected to be appraised of his information, and had

little patience with members of the court who insisted on proprieties

some other courts found essential.

 

Finally, after what had seemed a long time to Tomas, but was in

reality not very long at all, Carmine lifted a hand and motioned him

forward.

 

Tomas hurried over and fell to one knee.  "My Prince.  I bring you

news from France."

 

"Tell me," Carmine said, as he sipped his wine.

 

"The Prince of France has taken one of her fledgings as a lover."

 

Carmine's elegant shrug informed Tomas that that news was hardly

earth-shattering.

 

"I do hope you've more," he finally said, since Tomas had not

withdrawn.

 

"Si, my Prince.  He is not faithful to his Prince. And is reported

to be a bit of a rogue. Former military man. Brash, or so I am told."

 

Carmine sat up a bit at that news.  "Is the Prince aware her lover

strays?"

 

"Si, my Prince."

 

"Ah...." Carmine breathed.  "Please. Go. Refresh yourself. Rest. I

will call you again if I need you."

 

"Do you not wish the details?" Tomas dared to ask.

 

Silence stretched for a time before Carmine replied, "No. It is

enough. Be sure to include all details in your report. But for now it is

enough."

 

Once the spy had withdrawn Carmine stretched much like a cat and

rose in a graceful motion.  He took his wine and walked out onto the

beach. Barefooted - he was habitually barefoot in his own court - he

walked along the cool wet sand, just at the edges of the waves.

 

So. She hardly needed advice. She was too good a Prince not to be

aware her lover strayed, yet she tolerated it. Only one thing explained

that. Love. "La povera ragazza."

 

He himself was still loveless. Sexless, really. Still not quite able

to trust at the level necessary to allow someone to share his bed.  A

few of his more rebellious courtesans whispered about the oddness of his

habits. It mattered not at all to Carmine. What did matter to him was

his tendency to cut off and ignore his loneliness and his pain. Not

wise. A Prince ought to feel. To be passionate and whole, not shrivelled

on the inside.

 

"Mannaggia!" he muttered to himself.

 

When he returned to his villa the party had pretty much broken up,

no doubt to games in bedrooms.

 

He withdrew to his library and found the report there awaiting him.

 

He read it through carefully.  Both what was written and what

wasn't.

 

The Council wouldn't like it.  They'd be offended and horrified that

their silly rules were being ignored. Perhaps now was a good time to

take revenge on Germany. He'd been awaiting the proper sort of

distraction to deal with Ingrid.  And if his plans proved as good as he

believed them to be, not even Rodrigo would be able to tie the deed back

to Italy.  And if Rodrigo suspected, but could not prove it, all the

better.

 

At least she hadn't declared de la Mare as her consort or successor.

From the report, the man had no interest in politics and no skill at it.

Carmine rather envied him that.  How to meet this cavalry captain, he

wondered; perhaps Genevieve would make him one of the two retainers she

was allowed at Council meetings.  Now that would be an interesting move.

 

_______

 

She knew, indeed, that Jean strayed.  In those first few years after

she had turned him and brought him home to her court, he had

demonstrated the fact that he thoroughly enjoyed the company of women. 

She wasn't even sure that she'd been thinking when she'd taken him into

her own bed for the first time... she already knew by then what he was.

 

But he'd surprised her by being tender as well as passionate.

Genuine affection sprang between them, taking them both unawares. 

Genevieve was, yes, very lonely; but she was also certain it was not

merely loneliness that made her take Jean as her lover.  He was

certainly more than satisfactory in bed, and quite handsome in a fierce

sort of way... yet there was, despite his tomcatting, a certain rapport

between them.  They suited one another. And he always came back,

sometimes looking slightly hang-dog, sometimes boasting to Benoit

and the other Gardiens of his conquests.  He infuriated her.

 

She loved him.  But to placate the Council, who were once more

pressing her to name a successor (they did not dare ask her to choose a

consort, because she likely would have named Jean to spite them), she

chose one of her own fledglings, Maurice, and began to groom him to be

Prince.  Maurice was one of her two retainers at the next Council

meeting, so that he could get the feel of it.  The other, and sheer

devilry made her do it, was Jean. She was showing him off.

 

The Council meeting was in Italy this year. She and her retainers

were already on the road to the meeting when she received the news that

Ingrid of Germany had been murdered.  The word she received was sparse,

there seemed to be few details available, or at least conflicting

details which made it clear that not very many individuals had the true

story.  But from what she could piece together Ingrid was found dead the

evening she herself was to leave for the Council meeting.

 

The German Court was in an uproar. There had been bloodshed.  Many

of Ingrid's Court had set upon each other, either in an orgy of revenge

or, more likely given it was Germany, in an attempt to supplant Ingrid's

chosen successor, Lothar.  There was speculation Lothar had removed his

Prince himself. Another theory was that it had all been planned by

Carmine of Italy, in revenge of the murders of several of his

fledglings. Far more likely it was a coup. But Gen knew Rodrigo would

blame Carmine no matter how impossible it would have been for Italy to

have engineered this.

 

Who would appear at the Council meeting to represent Germany was

anyone's guess.

 

Normally she would have travelled with only her two retainers.

Instead many Gardiens appeared to accompany herself and Maurice.  It had

apparently  been Jean de la Mare who arranged this the moment the

word of the assassination of the German prince had been brought to

them.  Good idea, except he'd arranged it without bothering to

inform her.

 

Sometimes, being a Prince was an inconvenience.  What she really

wanted to do to Jean was give him a slap and tear a strip off his hide

verbally... but there were too many witnesses, too many spies.

Maurice was also in the carriage, so she turned it into  a Princing

lesson.

 

"Maurice," she said.

 

He'd been looking at Jean, obviously wondering what was going to

happen to his Prince's favourite. "Madame?"

 

"Let us say that you are a Prince.  You are on your way to a meeting

of the Council of Princes, and receive word that there has been a bloody

coup in another country.  A Prince is dead, and there have been many

other deaths in that court.  The balance of power has not yet been

decided; nor is it known how far this unrest will spread.  Extra security

would not necessarily be a bad idea; yet you have discovered that the

captain of your guard has ordered this without consulting you.  Do you

punish him for his presumption, or praise him for his perceptiveness?"

 

"Madame," Maurice said, considering carefully.  "Whilst the Prince

must have control over her court, one wishes one's security detail to

act quickly. Best should it have been that de la Mare informed you

immediately he thought of it."  He frowned some more.  "One does not

wish to give the lesson that smart initiative is discouraged.  I would

suggest a private dressing down, and public support."

 

"Very wise, Maurice.  I myself will handle the private dressing

down."  She managed to say it without even a twinkle in her eye.

 

------

 

They were met at Italy's border by a security detail from Carmine's

Court. A rather taciturn female lead the squad, one Siena by name. She'd

obviously had much exposure to military action before being turned as

her face was marked with a nasty scar that twisted the left side of her

face into a perpetual sneer.  But she was polite, if a bit short.

 

When she was introduced to Genevieve she bowed brusquely and began

reeling off a detailed report of the current situation regarding the

Council members.  All were progressing safely to Florence.  She herself

was detailed to ensure Genevieve's safe arrival.

 

Jean looked at her with some respect, after he'd gotten over her

ruined looks. Siena didn't much look at him at all.  Perhaps she felt

she looked more like a pirate than the handsome de la Mare did.

 

The journey to Florence continued without mishap, other than one

horse going lame.  They were not attacked, although whether this was due

to the extra guards, Siena, or the lack of further plots on the part of

any enemy Princes, was impossible to guess.  They stayed one day at a

reliable in n--owned, naturally, by Carmine and run by hand-picked

staff. But, Genevieve noticed, no Nameless Ones.  She herself had two of

this odd warrior race in her Gardiens, and was friends with several

others, but Carmine did not trust them.

 

Of course, there weren't many people that Carmine did trust.

 

Siena would answer almost no questions, though she did impart that

to the best of her knowledge, there was no contingent from Germany

coming to this Council meeting.  Things were too unstable in the court.

 

Jean de la Mare came in for his private dressing-down in the rooms

reserved for the Prince of France and her personal escort.  He took it

stoically, claiming that Gen's safety had been his only concern and he

had not thought to consult with her.  He was briskly informed that he

should do so in the future.  He apologized quite nicely and offered to

bunk for the remainder of darkness and the following daylight's

deathsleep with the other Gardiens.

 

"Do not compound your error," Genevieve told him.

 

At times she really wondered what had attracted her to him, beyond

the obvious answer of his good looks and performance in bed.  He was

totally unlike Claude... perhaps that was the answer right there.  She

did not want someone who reminded her too much of her dead love.  And

yet... there was something there, with Jean, an accord... it was why she

forgave him his strayings and maintained him as her favourite in court. 

Favourite was, of course, a dangerous position, but the French court was

relatively free of such intrigues.  Unlike Italy or Germany.

 

Poor Carmine, she thought, to be so alone all the time, to be unable

to trust anyone even long enough to seek comfort in their arms.  Should

she have accepted his offer, now given more than a century ago?  Had he

asked even two decades later... she had still been deeply mourning

Claude when Carmine had proposed his merger.

 

No, she had been right to refuse.  He had almost certainly ordered

the death of Ingrid, the German Prince.  She wondered if the scar-faced

Siena had done the deed... no, surely  Ingrid would never have allowed

Siena near her.  But Genevieve would have wagered her chateau, her house

in Paris and her villa in Nice that Carmine had been behind Ingrid's

death.

 

When (if) the court returned safely to France, she would take them

all to Nice as a treat for surviving this trip to Italy.

 

And oh, Dieu, the vampire ball would be next year again.  Jean was

utterly unsuitable to take as a partner.  She was certain there would be

objections to her even bringing him to a Council meeting.  She started

to smile even as he helped her undress.

 

"Cherie?"  Only in private was he allowed to call her that.

 

"Jean," she said as her garments were shed one by one (a

down-dressing, perhaps?), "how would you like to go to a

vampire ball?"

 

"Moi?" he looked startled.

 

"Oui.  Toi.  I shall take cher Gideon, too, to socialize him."

 

A slow grin crossed his features.  "You shall confuse them utterly,

My Prince," he said, "taking two men, one of whom is..."

 

"Tais toi," she ordered sharply.  "Gideon cannot help being what he

is, and among vampires, there is no shame in it."

 

"I did not say there was, Genevieve.  There were men like that in

the cavalry.  They fought just as well as those of us who love women."

 

"You love too many women for my peace of mind, Jean."

 

"I shall try to be more faithful, cherie."

 

"See that you do."  And then his clothes were off, and other matters

arose.

 

 --------------

 

It was the turn of the nineteenth century, so travel was slow and

unreliable. Yet Princes could... arrange things. Nearly all of them

arrived at more or less the same time at the Italian court in Florence,

no matter how far they had had to come and how inconvenient it

was to journey there. Naturally, the talk was all of Germany and

the reports of what spies had survived the purge. Not many had.

 

It seemed, however, that Lothar was now firmly established as the new

Prince.

 

Carmine himself opened the door of Gen's carriage as they pulled up to

the steps of his villa in Fiesole. He smiled at  Genevieve. "Welcome to

Italy, Madame."

 

"So formal?" she asked.

 

He laughed. "I'm attempting to confound my enemies by keeping to all the

proper princely proprieties."

 

Thinking back, she wasn't sure she'd ever heard him laugh before. He

looked even more handsome when he did so. She remembered his kiss...

then quite firmly stomped on the memory. She had been right to refuse

him.

 

Once Gen had been handed down to the portico and Jean and Maurice were

with her, Gensaid, "Prince Carmine, my successor, Maurice Roger, and my

..retainer Jean de la Mare.".

 

Carmine hadn't, of course, missed the slight hesitation that Gen had

placed there. Purposefully. Nor could he not know of Jean de la Mare's

present position as her court favourite and her lover. He had very good

spies.

 

Carmine acknowledged Maurice in his role as successor Prince and then

turned his attention to Jean. He had a rather worrisome look on his face

as he considered the French Prince's pirate.

 

But whatever Carmine might be thinking all he said was, "Welcome to

Italy, Capitaine."

 

Jean made the proper bow from retainer to foreign Prince--he had been

quite carefully coached. "You honour me, Prince Carmine," he replied.

 

Carmine waved the formality off. "Please, this way." Carmine led them

into the luxury of a Medici 'villa.'

 

Far more palace than humble villa, but not quite so huge as most palaces

were. Carmine handed them off to a member of his Court Genevieve had

never met and they were escorted to a suite.

 

Their escort was not the chatty sort but he did make it clear the

remainder of her party and her horses and carriage would be seen to and

offered sustenance and whatever other luxuries they

desired. Then he bowed his way out and informed them they would have the

choice to rest or to join the Prince of Italy and the other arrived

guests in the gardens for an informal gathering.

The Council meeting was slated for the next night.

 

"Of course we must go out to the gardens," Maurice said, looking a bit

anxious at the thought. He was beginning to wonder if being named

successor was an honour... or a death sentence.

 

(Alas for Maurice, his death sentence came because he was a Gardien, not

a Prince-in-waiting, but it was not to strike him until the 20th century.)

 

"Am I correct, Madame?" he asked Genevieve.

 

"Yes, Maurice," Gen sighed. What she would have dearly liked was a bath

and to curl up with Jean, but of course it was impossible. She dreaded

this moment--bringing Jean with her now struck her as foolish rather

than amusing. What had that expression on Carmine's face meant? How

would "Uncle" Blaine react? Monique of Belgium was sure to be scathing;

Hans of Austria would do his best to accept Jean because he was

Genevieve's choice.

 

The others... none really mattered, save Greece, and how Kalonice would

treat Jean was open to question. She was not worried about how they

would treat Maurice--she had trained him well, and the Council had

already approved him as successor.  But she had brought Jean, and must

deal with the consequences. She spared him the lecture on behaving

himself... he knew without being told, and was already acting as if he

were merely her trusted retainer and captain of her Gardiens.

(Astoundingly, not one of the Gardiens had objected to this brash boy,

a mere stripling vampirically speaking, being made their captain. They

all liked Jean and respected his military experience.)

 

"Maurice, Jean, attend," she said to her retainers. "We will go out to

the gardens for this 'informal' gathering... but do not be fooled by

that word. Every move, every word, will be watched and weighed. The

Council is upset because of what has happened in Germany. Pray

take care."

 

They both bowed, Jean more deeply than Maurice, as was proper. "Yes, My

Prince," they chorused.

 

Back ramrod-straight, Genevieve, closely followed by her retainers, went

out to join the others in the gardens.

 

The gardens looked quite magical. Candles were everywhere, including in

holders in the trees. A vast expanse of beautifully displayed food and

beverages were available on one patio, and another provided vampiric

sustenance. Since the vast majority of guests did not indulge in food,

the display was a bit surprising. Or perhaps not. Carmine did rather enjoy

being a bit flamboyant.

 

All the guests, and especially the Princes, were dressed to the nines.

The women, including the Princes, were buttoned up, girdled up, in the

heavily fabriced clothing of the time with jewels sparkling. The men

ended toward military or a sort of faux military look. High boots,

swords at many waists (the military look a good excuse to carry a

handy weapon given the recent events in Germany).

 

Gen was greeted with a smile by Blaine and Olivia. And a bit more

guardedly by others. Maurice found himself drawn immediately into

conversations with Blaine's other retainer, Lucas, and Kalonice's

successor, Stamos. Gen waved him off to go mingle. Everyone was

trying hard not to look too inquiringly at Jean. She need not have

worried about his behaviour, however, as he was charming, gracious and

just obsequious enough to satisfy any Prince except perhaps Rodrigo.

 

"I was rather prepared to loathe that boy," Blaine admitted to Olivia,

watching Jean dance attendance on his Prince and fetch her a glass of

"wine"... here, in Carmine's court, almost certainly human blood. Best

not to ask which humans. "But he seems oddly acceptable, don't you

think?"

 

Olivia, having observed the way Jean's Prince watched him when she

thought nobody was looking, smiled. "I am glad that Genevieve has found

someone she can love," she replied. "It has been too long since Claude

died. Jean is perhaps a bit wild, but he is still only a new fledgling.

Time and responsibilities will settle him down into an escort she can be

proud of."

 

"An escort, yes," said Kalonice, having overheard this, as was quite

probably intended. Blaine was not as careless as he seemed... or he

would not have remained Prince. "But..."

 

"Yes," said Blaine, dipping his head. "But. We can only hope she knocks

some of those rough edges off him over the years or finds someone more

suitable to be a consort."

 

"I could easily 'knock the rough edges' off that chico peque¤o grosero,"

sniffed Rodrigo, also eavesdropping.

 

Olivia, who understood Spanish perfectly, raised her eyebrows. "I don't

find him at all vulgar or uncouth," she said. "Perhaps a bit brash and

frorward, although his manners here are beyond reproach. And he

obviously adores his Prince... why do you insult him?"

 

"El es un bastardo infiel, un patrocinador de putas."

 

"Takes one to know one, old man," Blaine said cheerfully.

 

But then talk died down and many people turned toward the villa. Gen did

too. Carmine had, of course, timed his arrival in the gardens for maximum

impact. He stood motionless at the top of a wide staircase that led down

to where his guests awaited him.

 

He wore a pure white satin kaftan that reached his bare! feet. The

kaftan was simple in line but boasted intricate embroidery in white

satin thread at the neck and on the ends of the long sleeves. He took

his time descending the stairs, looking around at each of the Princes, a

not very seriously concealed self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

 

"The devil," Blaine said admiringly.

 

"Well," Olivia opined. "Carmine seems not to mind a bit anyone

suspecting him of murdering Germany. The rascal will gloat about it and

encourage such speculation."

 

"Oh, ho!" Blaine added sotto voce, "he's going to give Spain apoplexy."

He nodded toward Rodrigo who was indeed, looking as if he had a heart

that would burst in fury.

 

"Rodrigo does so hate to be upstaged," Kalonice added, having come up

behind them silently.

 

Jean, trying very hard not to stare at the host Prince, turned to

Genevieve, brow furrowed in an attempt to understand this development.

 

"C'est tout un spectacle," he whispered, although at least two other

Princes heard him and Olivia had to quickly cover a laugh.

 

"Bienvenue au Conseil de Princes," Gen replied, fighting her own smile.

 

Carmine, handed a glass of white wine, drifted through the various

groupings of his guests. Rodrigo eyed the Italian Prince with loathing.

The Italian Prince eyed Rodrigo with the merest

hint of a smile.

 

Gen, recognizing the baiting for what it was, watched with well

concealed amusement. Blaine too was fascinated. It was rather like

watching a large cat work its way silently through the jungle stalking

its prey.

 

Carmine finally made his way to where Gen, Jean, and Blaine were

talking. Maurice was off dancing with Olivia.

 

"So," Carmine said to Gen, looking Jean up and down, "This is the choice

that has outraged Princes far and wide."

 

Jean glared at Italy.

 

Italy looked amused. "I thought I'd taught you better, Genevieve. You

ought to have named him consort just to spite them."

 

 Blaine looked a bit worried at that. Genevieve smiled as if at a

private joke only she could see. Jean scowled, then recollected himself

and bowed to Carmine.

 

"Alas, Prince Carmine," he said, "I would be an ill choice for consort."

 

"And why is that?" Carmine challenged him.

 

"I have no taste for politics, Prince," Jean admitted. "No skill at it.

I would disgrace my Prince."

 

"I doubt that," Carmine commented, earning him a slight smile from Gen.

 

Observing this, though unable to hear the exchange, Rodrigo of Spain

snorted and turned to Kalonice of Greece.

 

"Look at the bold fellow," he sneered, "speaking as if to equals. He

should be flogged."

 

"Do you beat your retainers, Rodrigo?" Kalonice asked, looking at the

two uniformed soldiers Rodrigo had brought with him.

 

"They are well-trained and do not require correction. Bah. Genevieve

should not have brought him. I do not doubt he performs well enough in

her bed, but he has no place at a Council meeting."

 

 Kalonice hid her smile. She had the distinct feeling that Gen had quite

deliberately brought Jean just to irritate Rodrigo and others on the

Council. She was astounded that France hadn't named this handsome young

fellow as consort.

 

"I find no objection to him at all," said Hans of Austria-Hungary-Poland.

"Save that he is very young and inexperienced... and what better way to

give him experience under his belt than to bring him here?"

 

Rodrigo turned away. "Look at Carmine," he grunted. "We all know he

murdered Germany, and he walks around in his nightshirt as if he had no

cares in the world."

 

"It is a kaftan, Rodrigo," said Kalonice, "not a nightshirt."

 

"And he is barefoot!" Rodrigo continued his complaint. "He has no respect

for the Council."

 

Kalonice almost asked what the Council had _ever_ done to actually

deserve respect, but held her tongue. That would have been something

Claude de Monet wouldn't have hesitated to say. She glanced at Claude's

widow, who was listening to her fledgling lover and Italy talk with a

faint, almost wistful smile on her face. Oh, Gen, did you truly take up

with this unsuitable pirate because you miss Claude so?

 

Monique of Belgium had been watching silently, sharing her thoughts with

no-one. Switzerland and Scandanavia were busy speaking to each other,

while their respective consorts danced with each other. Only consorts

and retainers were dancing. Carmine had provided musicians in the

garden, but none of the Princes felt like dancing.

 

"At least," Hans said to Rodrigo and Kalonice, watching Carmine speak to

Jean, apparently teasing him about something (poor Jean seemed to not

quite know how to answer, obviously he wanted to respond in kind, but

dared not), "Carmine has not called for a toast to Germany's memory."

 

None of them mourned Ingrid. None of them particularily had liked her,

although nearly all of them had sided with her on some Council issues at

one point or another, and she and Rodrigo had frequently formed cabals

against others... particularily Italy.

 

"Lothar is an idiot," Kalonice sighed. "Yet he does seem to have taken

the reins quite handily."

 

"Carmine," said Blaine, with a well-judged sigh, "do stop tormenting the

poor boy. You know he cannot answer in kind."

 

"Certainly he can. Gen, do let the fellow defend himself verbally. I'd

prefer no swordplay with him. I'm saving myself in case Rodrigo goes

over the edge mentally."

 

"He does look close, doesn't he?" Blaine said with a worried glance

toward Spain.

 

Carmine shrugged eloquently. Then came a mischievous grin. Whereupon he

bowed his way free of Gen and Blaine and strolled over to Rodrigo. "And

how is Spain?" he asked.

 

Rodrigo sputtered for some time before he could get a rational word out.

"You murdered Ingrid!" Rodrigo hissed.

 

Everyone heard the accusation. Everyone turned toward the two Princes.

 

Carmine met Rodrigo's furious eyes. "Quite a feat for me. And in her own

palace, in the middle of her own Court. Perhaps you'd best check your

own defences, Prince." With that Carmine turned his back on Rodrigo and

began to stroll away.

 

Rodrigo snorted, but Kalonice whispered something to him that made him

take his hand off the pommel of his sword. She managed to coax him out

for a dance. And seeing Spain and Greece dancing together made other

Princes decide it was not a bad idea. Blaine claimed Genevieve at once.

 

"I must apologize," he said as he lead her in a stately dance.

"Whatever for?" Gen asked.

 

"I was quite determined to hate this Jean of yours," Blaine said. "But I

actually rather like him. A breath of fresh air, which the Council badly needs."

 

"Dieu, Blaine," Genevieve said. "Say what you mean. Jean is a brash,

unfit companion for me and you are wondering why on earth I chose him.

You must have heard he strays. Any other Prince would have a fledgling's

head for less."

 

"Why do you tolerate that in him?"

 

"I think he does not mean anything by it. I am hoping the urge to stray

will lessen the longer he remains in court."

 

 Kalonice, on the other hand, was having a much less spritely

conversation with Rodrigo.

 

 "Leave Italy alone," she said tartly. "Do not seek revenge for Ingrid.

I shall speak to Lothar, too, you may be certain. Italy has suffered

enough."

 

"Do you speak for the whole Council?" Rodrigo demanded.

 

"I can sway the majority to my way of thinking, you know I can. Do you

want an official note of censure, Rodrigo?"

 

 He shuddered slightly. A note of censure could lead to a

Council-mandated deposition... "I will leave Italy alone," Rodrigo

agreed. "For now."

 

The less convivial Princes and their retinues began to drift out of

the Gardens several hours before dawn.  Perhaps for private time,

perhaps to strategize, perhaps merely because the strain of the

journey and the informal Council meeting had exhausted them.  After

all, one's every move, every word would be scrutinized for what

meaning it might contain.

 

When Olivia came to drag Blaine to bed (he'd been rather hoping to

see more fireworks between Carmine and Rodrigo) Gen decided she'd put

up with enough for the evening too. She signalled to Maurice and Jean

and the three of them exited the gardens and were making their way

through the marbeled corridor toward their suite.  As they neared

their rooms Siena appeared and bowed curtly to Genevieve.

 

"Madame.  Prince Carmine requests a private word."

 

Gen suffered a rather unsettling moment of déjà vu. The last time

he'd asked for such a thing had been when he'd suggested a merger

between their houses.

 

Maurice looked rebellious, and Jean looked as if he was sorely

tempted to order Gen not to even think of such a thing.  But as

dangerous as Carmine might be,  no was, she had no fear of him.  (How

had he murdered Ingrid in her own guarded fastness -- and Germany's

palace was indeed a fastness?)

 

After all, he surely knew she'd never moved against him, nor had she

shared the secret of that visit to herself - at least not with anyone

who might use it against Carmine.

 

And if he did intend to murder her, then apparently her entire court

was not a deterrent.

 

"Madame?" Maurice said.  "Speaking as your successor, I am not yet

ready to be Prince. Pray do not go."

 

"Speaking at the one most concerned with your security," Jean added,

glaring at Siena (who returned the glare with a flat gaze that could

have meant anything), "I strongly suggest you do not go."

 

"Thank you both for your concern," Gen replied.  "But if I am in

danger from Carmine or any other faction here, then the two of you

would not suffice to protect me.  He is our host, after all, and has

requested my company. I sense no danger in this invitation."

 

"But Madame..." they both said at once.

 

"Non, mes hommes, my mind is made up. I shall accept."

 

She nodded to Siena and said to her two retainers, "Await me in my

sitting room.  I shan't be long."

 

Maurice and Jean exchanged helpless looks, and obeyed, though not

happily.

 

She followed Siena down the hallway and down a narrower flight of

stairs than the grand entry boasted.  Siena led her out into the gardens

but not to where the festivities were still ongoing.  Instead she led the

French Prince to a stone wall,  nearly invisible behind think strands

of climbing roses.

 

Siena reached in and found a somewhat hidden wooden door and opened

it.  She motioned Genevieve to enter but did not enter herself.

 

Gen paused, knowing such a thing was dangerous.  She was alone. For

the most part unarmed (everyone hid daggers on their person).  Still,

Carmine was operating under the rules of the Council. Any actions

taken (at least those not provoked) against another Prince would not

be tolerated.

 

Gen took an unnecessary deep breath and stepped through the narrow

doorway.

 

What was hiding behind the stone walls was breath-taking.  There was

a magnificent fountain in the middle of the open space.  A  small

table with two chairs sat on a flagged patio beside it.  Climbing

roses drapped the walls on the inside as well.  A thick carpet of

grass that smelled recently mown surrounded the patio.  Beds of

various sweet smelling herbs and flowers filled the rest of the

garden.

 

Carmine was seated at the small table but rose to his feet when she

entered.

 

"Take off your shoes,"   he suggested.  "Feel the warmth from the sun

stored in the stone.  Walk in the soft grass. It does wonders for the

soul."

 

"Very well," Genevieve replied, "but you shall answer to my maid for

the state of my hose."

 

He looked like he would have liked to suggest removing hose as

well... but that might lead them down a road they had closed off over

a century before.

 

Genevieve sat down on a handy bench and removed her elaborate court

shoes, not without a small sense of relief.  Even vampires can feel

pinched toes after so many hours.  She stood on the stones, feeling

the warmth as he had directed.

 

"Do you miss the sun?" Carmine asked her unexpectedly.

 

"Sometimes," she admitted.  "I miss the light and the warmth, the

play of sun and shadow on the vine leaves, the way it ripples across

the water."

 

"And other things you miss?" he prompted.

 

"From being human?" Gen wondered where this was going.  "Only

sunlight.  I do not remember the taste of food, so I do not miss it."

She did not mention her children--that was an aspect of her human life

that was none of Carmine's business. No doubt he knew of Gaspard, and

little Andre and Madeleine, but she was damned if she would mention

them.  She hoped he wasn't going to resurrect Claude's memory, but she

had a feeling he might be leading to that.

 

"Walk on the grass," he said.  "It is soothing--see, it is dry, it

will not harm your hose."

 

She knew Carmine enjoyed keeping people off-balance, so she did not

show him her bewilderment.  She stepped onto the grass and felt it

soft and spongy under her thick stockings.

 

"Well?" she asked, amused, watching him watch her.  "I have done as

you asked, horrifying my retainers and my maid as well.  Shall I next

remove my gown and don a kaftan?"  Then her smile faded, and she

confronted him. "What do you want, Carmine?  I promised Jean and

Maurice I would not be long, so be kind enough to tell me what this

is all about, or risk having all the Gardiens in my retinue come

seeking me."

 

"I thought you were a better Prince than that.  To think your retinue

would so embarrass you."

 

"Carmine..."  Gen said with a sigh.

 

"I wished to show you my garden.  My soul,  Genevieve.  This is where

what heart I have lies.  Here.  I want none of the wretched land

called Germany.  Nor Spain.  I am content.  But if I must I will kill

every Prince in Europe to keep it. Including you."

 

"I feel the same about the chateau, Carmine," Genevieve replied,

watching him carefully now, trying to get at his real meaning.  "You

do me an honour, showing me your... soul.  But you have nothing to

fear from me, you know. I will never move against you, inside or

outside the Council.  I trust Spain and Germany no more than you do.

I have shown you trust by coming here, alone, to hear you out...

surely you do not reward this action with a threat?"

 

He walked over to a low wall that gave a glorious view of Florence

spread out beneath them.  He was silent for so long she wondered if he

would respond.

 

Finally he said, "I have no fear of you, Genevieve.  I believe you when

you say your heart is bound up in the Chateau. You are like it.  You've

incorporated it into yourself.  Too much Claude, though.  You need to be

more you.  I like Jean, by the way.  He suits you.  He completes you. 

Don't civilize him."

 

At her look he grinned.  "Yes. I know. Unsolicited advice. And from a

man who has been alone far too long.

 

"Well, hurry back to your pirate.  I wouldn't want to have to kill

him."

 

"Is that what you wished me to know, Carmine?"  Gen asked as she

picked up her shoes.

 

"No.  But I dare say you'll puzzle it out.  Good night, Genevieve."

 

He did not turn around to look at her, but stood there, his arms

crossed on his chest, staring out over Florence.

 

Genevieve did not storm out of the secret garden, although she would

have liked to.  A Prince did not indulge in such displays.  She

encountered noone as she swept towards her suite.

 

Jean and Maurice, in the middle of a card game, rose hastily to their

feet as their Prince entered.  She motioned them back to their seats.

 

"We are alone," she said.  "If we can ever be alone in this web.  No

need for court manners amongst us."

 

"What did Prince Carmine want?" Maurice dared to ask.

 

Gen thought it over.  What _had_ the message been, in that odd

conversation?   Besides Carmine telling her forthright that he liked

Jean--information she had no intention of sharing with the pirate.

 

"He wished to tell me that he has no designs on France," she said.

"Or any other country.  It is Spain and Germany who wish empires, not

Italy."

 

"Then why did he murder Ingrid?" Maurice pressed.

 

"There is no proof at all that Carmine was behind that," Genevieve

stated.

 

"I have not the least doubt that he was," Jean growled.

 

"Nor have I," his Prince admitted.  "But Ingrid and Rodrigo both were

behind the recent uprisings and murders in Carmine's court.  They

killed a new fledgling," she said, looking at both her own

fledglings, "an innocent. Rodrigo should count himself fortunate that

Carmine seems content that Ingrid alone was behind that.  I would kill

to defend or revenge either of you; Prince Carmine likewise will kill to

preserve Italy as his or to avenge any actions taken against him or his

court."

 

"So at the Council meeting tomorrow, we support Italy?" Maurice

asked.

 

"We do," Genevieve confirmed.

 

Maurice rose. "Then with your permission, Madame, I shall retire to

my rooms (as successor, Maurice rated his own private suite) to think

this over."

 

"I shall walk you there.  Wait here for me, please, Jean."

 

He also stood and bowed, obviously wishing he knew what Genevieve was

going to say to Maurice. But she waited until the door was firmly

shut to speak privately to her successor.

 

"This, I am afraid," she said to Maurice as they walked, "is the way

the Council of Princes always is.  One word in the wrong place, one

wrong move, and you could be dead.  Do you regret being appointed

successor?"

 

"Oh, no, Madame," Maurice replied with a grin. "My father was a

politician; this is meat and drink to me.  I trust Prince Carmine,

although I could not tell you why I do.  None of the other successors

or consorts seem to trust him, save England and perhaps Greece. It

seems to me he makes himself deliberately seem untrustworthy; he enjoys

chaos and raising his middle finger to the Council."

 

"I believe I chose well, Maurice.  You may have a long wait to become

Prince, however... unless of course you are already conspiring

against me and are plotting a bloody coup."

 

He looked briefly shocked, then realized she was teasing him.  "Oh,

Madame," he said, "you have found me out.  What is your decreed

punishment?"

 

"You must go walk barefoot on the grass in the garden."

 

"Madame?"

 

"Il n'est rien, Maurice.  And you know there is no need to call me

Madame. You are my successor, you may call me by my name."

 

"Merci, Ma... Genevieve."

 

"You do understand why I did not also name you consort?"

 

"It would have given the Council too much of what they pressed you

for," Maurice replied with a devilish grin that looked as if he'd

learned it from Jean.

 

"Yes, there is that," she had to laugh.

 

"I know that you do not love me in a romantic sense," Maurice said

thoughtfully, and without regret.  He adored Gen, and would not have

minded terribly bedding her for one night, but felt no romantic

interest in her. "But I have only seen one Prince who seems to feel that

for his consort, and that is Blaine of England.  So love is not

important in a consort... if I am to be Prince, Genevieve, many

centuries in the future and only when you are tired of these silly

children and their posturings, then I must try to understand what makes

a good consort."

 

What did make a good consort?  A way with politics, certainly.  The

stamina to deal with  a Prince's erratic lifestyle and busy schedule.

Understanding. Patience.  A certain amount of steel.  Qualities that

Jean de la Mare distinctly lacked... well, perhaps he had the steel,

but not in the way a Prince or consort did.

 

"You will know one when you find one, Maurice," Genevieve told him.

"Ah, we are at your door.  Bonne nuit."

 

"Bonne nuit, Genevieve."  He kissed her hand and entered his suite,

deep in thought.

 

---------------

 

Jean had never been very good at taking orders. Or obeying them.  It

was a trait that had kept him a captain in the cavalry--only his true

ability had left him at even that rank.  He had spent a lot of his

early childhood bent over.  And now, as a young fledgling, he had a

distinct problem with obeying the orders of his turndam and Prince.

She had told him to wait.  But he was too curious and too impatient.

He left the sitting room and wandered out into the marble corridor. 

Marble! Far too delicate stuff, he preferred solid stone which did not

scuff under boots.  Jean was not a man for walking barefoot.  Give him

good leather cavalry boots, a sword at his hip... a good woman at his

side.

 

He knew he was walking a very fine edge by being unfaithful to his

mistress.  In fact, only perhaps a third of the time he said he was

with other women was this the actual truth.  Genevieve was beautiful,

yes; but she was very domineering and slightly intimidating and Jean

was used to more compliant women.  So he sometimes sought refuge from

the host of conflicting emotions he felt when he was with Genevieve

in the arms of another woman. But the other woman was never Gen, and

so he would go back.

 

He could not see Genevieve, she must have gone down the corridor to

Maurice's rooms with the successor.  As captain of the Gardiens and

the nominal head of security, Jean was not too happy about them

having been divided like this.  Maurice was too far away to summon

for help if necessary; and the other Gardiens had been relegated to

servants' quarters in some other section of this damned palace

entirely.

 

He sensed another presence in the corridor and drew his sword before

turning around.

 

When he did whirl around he found himself eye to eye with the Prince

of Italy.  Beside the prince stood a very small, very thin boy.  The

Prince looked amused. The boy was dressed in velvet but otherwise he

could have passed as one of the thousands of children who struggled

to survive on the streets of large cities everywhere. He was dark and

intense looking and seemed to exude protectiveness of the Prince.

 

"Planning to stray on your Prince even here, Capitaine?"

 

Jean's sword very nearly raised itself to Carmine's neck. It took

intense concentration on Jean's part not to threaten this strutting

peacock of a man.

 

"Your bed companion?"  Jean asked, his head raised and his eyes

glinting dangerously.

 

The child looked up at Carmine with adoring eyes. Carmine reached

down and ruffled the child's hair affectionately. "Would you like

that Nicolo?" The boy nodded vigorously.

"And will I hear rumours to that effect spread by tomorrow evening?"

Carmine asked Jean.

 

Jean was struggling to read this man who dared ask him such things.

Yes, true, he was a Prince and they generally dared many things

others were too wise  to do.  Still, Jean was armed, his sword at the

ready. Yet this Italian seemed not in the least afraid. All Jean

would have to do was to flick the sword up and...

 

"You have far too much sense to do such a foolish thing," Carmine

commented quietly, perhaps reading Jean's thoughts in the tenseness

of his stance. "Your Prince would never leave this villa alive."

 

"Nor would you," the small boy added.  Perfectly seriously as if he

had a say in the matter.

 

Thus they stood as Genevieve came around the corner, Jean with his

sword drawn against her host and equal.

 

"Jean," she said, ice and steel.  "Put your sword down at once."

 

He stiffened.  "Madame..." he began.

 

"Your sword, Jean.  Now."

 

Slowly, inch by inch, Jean lowered his blade, never taking his eyes

off Carmine. He slid it back into its sheath on his sword belt.

 

"Carmine," Gen bowed to the still-amused-looking other Prince.  "I

apologize on behalf of my fledgling.  If it will please you, you may

watch when I have him flogged."

 

"I regret to say I've other things I must attend to.  But that would

be far more amusing than my duties.  Nicolo, bow to the Prince of

France."

 

The boy gave her a creditable bow and a dimpled smile.  "Madame," he

said in his high little-boy voice.

 

Genevieve smiled down at him.  "Allo, Nicolo."

 

"Your chevallier has a dirty mind," the boy commented.  "He should be

ashamed of himself."

 

"Nicolo," Carmine said looking down at him.  "What have I said about

giving away information."

"Not to," the boy answered glumly.

 

"Si,"  Carmine said.  Then he looked up at Jean and added, "If you

ever hope to be named consort you had best learn to curb your tongue,

if not your risque imagination.  Good night, Genevieve.  Do not be too

hard on Jean.  He'll suffer all the more for it if you are kind to him."

 

With that Prince and boy walked off down the hallway.

 

Jean stood there, staring straight ahead, not daring to look at his

Prince.

 

"Jean," Genevieve said, her voice still ice-cold.

 

"Madame?"

 

"If you ever draw sword on another Prince again, unless your own or

my life is in danger, I will have no choice but to execute you.  You

are very fortunate that Carmine chose to be amused. I would have had

no legal complaint had he ordered you beheaded for threatening him.

Am I understood?"

 

"Oui, Madame."

 

"You will sleep with the Gardiens tonight."

 

"Oui, Madame."

 

"And banish any thought of being made a consort--I have no idea why

Carmine said that; do not imagine it will happen."

 

"Non, Madame."

 

He still hadn't looked at her, but there was defiance in his

posture--and maybe, just maybe, a slight touch of ... not fear, but

worry?  Certainly he wasn't giving the slightest hint of being

ashamed of himself.  He needed a lesson, but she had not seriously

meant it about the flogging.  France did not maintain its

intrigue-free court by threats and punishments.

 

"You are dismissed, Capitaine."

 

He saluted her, turned on his heels, and marched off without a word.

 

Genevieve went to her now empty suite, not without looking slightly

wistfully down the marbled hallway.  Her heart went out to lonely

Carmine; she did not entertain the thought that he took that little

boy to bed for even an instant.  Carmine slept alone; a celibacy

imposed by his fears.  She thought again about his proposed merger...

proposed marriage.  Would they have...?  She had wanted to have sex

with him, she admitted it, when he had kissed her... but whether that

had been because she found Carmine attractive or simply because she'd

been very lonely and missing Claude, she couldn't say.

 

Too much Claude.  What had Carmine meant?  Claude was dead. (And

Dieu, how she missed him, even now, almost two centuries after his

death.)  What else was it Carmine had said, about Jean?  "He

completes you."  What had _that_ meant?  Jean was utterly

unsuitable... and yet she loved him.  He was completely unafraid,

even to draw his sword on a foreign Prince.  He had no taste for

politics and had declared the Council nothing but a show... which was

all it really was.

 

Image him as a consort!  It would infuriate the Council... which

might be worth it.  She could almost see Claude's grin of approval...

he had always defied the Council as much as he dared.  Much like

Carmine, which was why they'd always been allies, though never actual

friends.  She, however, thought of Carmine as a friend.  Did he feel

the same?

 

Her thoughts turned to England... Blaine too said that he felt Jean

needed a bit more discipline.  But Jean reacted badly to

attempts to rein him in; more discipline made him behave more

outrageously.  He needed careful handling--too many orders and

restrictions and he grew sulky and recalcitrant.  And yet... when

they were alone together, he could be tender and loving... and now

she was forced to spend the hours until dawn in an empty bed when she

could have used the company.  Who was the one being punished here?

 

________

 

Dawn came and the day passed. The non vampire members of the court,

and those among the Princely retinues, spent the day preparing for

the Council meeting.  A room was set up where there would be no

possibility of unfriendly eavesdroppers.  Guard postings were drawn up.

Decisions made about various retinues, refreshments, and so forth. Then

dusk fell and Princes needed tending to.  Baths, clothes, the necessary

liquid diet.

 

Blaine of England managed to slip free of Olivia as her maid

struggled with her hair and clothing, and avoided his other retainer

with ease.  He needed to talk to Carmine privately before the Council

meeting began. He found Siena first, not at all put off by her

permanent sneer.

 

"Would you be good enough to inform Prince Carmine that I seek a

private audience?" he asked her.

 

She bowed to him and said, "Come. I will show you to his private

sitting room.  You will find him there the moment he is free."

 

Siena led Blaine down several spacious hallways and through a thick

wooden door.  The room was airy and cool, the marble sparkling in

candle-light.  Lying on the cold marble, a piece of paper before him,

lay a boy.  The boy looked up and eyed Blaine speculatively.

 

"Hullo.  I'm Blaine,"  the Prince of England said with a smile.

 

"Yes, I know. Can you help me?  I'm learning English and it is

difficult. The spelling makes no sense!"

 

Thus it was that some 10 minutes later Carmine entered the room to

find Nicolo and Blaine sitting cross-legged on the floor, Blaine

trying to explain the rules (hah!) of English spelling and the boy

frowning in perplexity.

 

When Blaine looked up he caught an indulgent look on Carmine's face.

That look was quickly erased however.

 

"Nicolo, leave us, please. The Prince requests an audience."

 

Nicolo scrambled to his feet, grasped his papers and ran hurriedly

out the door, but not without looking back to smile at Blaine before

he exited and firmly shut the door, ensuring the two princes privacy.

 

"Please, seat yourself on a chair this time, Blaine. I understand you

requested a moment of my time.  What may I do for you?"

 

Blaine had risen and moved over to sit in an expensive renaissance

chair. Carmine seated himself in a similar chair opposite his

counterpart.

 

Blaine always gave the impression of being slighty absent-minded and

untidy.

 

Even in neat tight pants, waistcoat and cutway jacket, the height

of Regency fashion, he looked a bit windblown. Disheveled.  Even as he

sat down he was patting the pockets of that once-tailored jacket but

failed to find whatever he seemed to lack. Carmine watched, amused,

knowing it was as much a show as his own

caftan.  Blaine was nobody's fool.

 

"So," said the Prince of England, giving up his fruitless search and

settling into his chair, "did you kill Ingrid?  Strictly entre-nous

as dear Gen would say."

 

Carmine crossed his legs and sat back a bit.  He, too, was clad in

high Regency fashion for the formal Council meeting.

 

He met Blaine's eyes and countered, "At least you did not ask me if I

had her killed."

 

"Oh, dear boy, I'm well aware of your preference to do your own

killing. I respect that.  Too many Princes like to keep their own

hands clean and hire assassins to do the nasty work."

 

"So if I admit I did kill Ingrid, what then?"  Carmine asked.

 

"I would shake your hand and ask you why the hell you didn't manage

to off Rodrigo while you were at it," Blaine said.

 

"No move to censure me at the meeting?" Carmine demanded.

 

"I cannot pretend to be sorry Ingrid is dead," Blaine said.  "My only

regret is it leaves that rabid dog Lothar in charge of Germany, and

he may be even worse than she was.  I am tired of all the little

secret committees and closed door plots between Germany and Spain.

She had your courtiers killed--including, so I understand, a new

fledgling who was no threat to anyone."

 

"There is no proof that Germany or Spain were behind the deaths."

 

"Nor is there any proof you killed Ingrid.  And if you admit that you

did, then I swear as Prince I shall not speak of it to anyone outside

this room, not even Olivia. I would just like to know for my own

satisfaction."

 

"Yes, well, I do regret Lothar will be the new Prince. I had hoped in

the tumult following Ingrid's death someone might remove him for us.

So far as I could tell Ingrid had not entrusted him with the

knowledge of her plot so I did not feel it right to kill him too."

 

Blaine sighed.  "And Rodrigo?"

 

"I considered it.  But Rodrigo is no fool.  I calculated that by

killing Ingrid in the safety of her own Court Rodrigo would see sense

and decide I was a bit more dangerous than he'd thought."

 

Blaine frowned. "Perhaps."

 

Carmine shrugged.  "He is a good Prince. Ingrid was not.  Sadly Lothar

will not be either. Germany will continue to be a problem for all of us

I'm afraid."

 

"And if Rodrigo continues to be a problem for you?"  Blaine asked.

 

"I will deal with him in my own way."

 

"I wouldn't want to be your enemy, Carmine."

 

Carmine waved a hand in dismissal.  "Ingrid's Court was a shambles.

Yours isn't.  You have loyal retainers, not hangers-on who are there

for what they can get and feel no sense of obligation to their Prince

or their country."

 

Blaine nearly asked if Carmine had any loyal retainers, or only the

second kind, but decided to be discrete and keep that thought to

himself.  He asked something else he was wanting to know, instead.

 

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me how you did it?"

 

"Did what?" Carmine asked.

 

"Murdered Ingrid in her own court, surrounded by her courtiers and

retainers, without anyone seeing you, including her."

 

"On the contrary. She saw me. She knew who it was and why I did it."

 

"Still," Blaine said, "slipping into a Prince's private quarters."

 

"My dear fellow," Carmine said, getting up.  "I believe we're late

for our meeting."

 

"Won't tell me?'  Blain commented as he stood.

 

Carmine smiled.  "If you ever need to assassinate anyone I'll think

about sharing my plan with you. Otherwise..."

 

Blaine slapped Carmine on his back.  "I'll be sure to keep that offer

in mind."

-----------

 

The Council meeting itself was rather a disappointment. With Italy

sitting there looking cool and nonplussed, and the fact they were all

currently at Italy's mercy - the other Princes hadn't failed to note

just how many of Italy's guards there were in evidence - not even

Rodrigo's notorious temper made him so foolish as to attempt to force

some sort of confrontation with regard to Ingrid.

 

Carmine, the devil, even had the temerity to end the Council meeting

with a toast. Schadenfreude barely apparent,  "To Ingrid of Germany:

Sister in the Blood.  Denn die totten ritten schnell."

 

More than one set of lips twitched at the quote from "Lenore".  None of

them dared not drink the toast.  Ah, Carmine, always testing, always

winning.  Gen's eyes met his briefly over the rims of their respective

goblets.  He winked at her, and she very nearly choked on her wine

trying not to laugh.  He grinned like a schoolboy, just for her.

 

When the meeting broke up and it was time to begin wearying journeys

home, Carmine personally handed Gen up into her carriage.  He ignored

Jean's glare and Maurice's raised eyebrows.

 

"Yes, Carmine?" Gen looked at him, amused.  "You have something further

to say to me, perhaps?"

 

"Yes, lean closer.  Closer."

 

As she did so he put his hand around the back of her neck and guided her

lips to his. When that kiss finally ended he whispered,  "Do not change,

Genevieve.  Never put aside your passion."

 

With that he backed away from the carriage and signalled her driver to

leave. She looked back and he raised a hand in farewell.

 

Jean and Owen returned from their recruiting drive to a remarkably quiet

chateau.  Most of the other Gardiens were out on various assignments and

the Bertrands had retired to their private rooms.  Owen nodded to Jean

and set about his chores of making the castle secure.  Feeling a bit

lonely, Jean went in search of his lady.

 

Not in her sitting-room.  Not in the dining hall, which bore signs of

being mid-redecoration.  Not in the bedroom or the bath.  Had she gone

out Princing alone?  Jean had had his cell phone with him, she could

have called...

 

Frowning, he widened his search.  He found Nyree, who was likewise

searching for Gen.

 

"Have you seen her?" they asked each other.

 

"Merde," said Jean. "If she ... you know she is still... do you

think...?"

 

"No, I do not think," Nyree said, laying a hand on Jean's arm.  "I think

I know where she might be.  If you will permit me to go alone?"

 

Jean frowned but acceded.

 

Nyree went to the old section of the house, found the door to the old

hallway unlocked and walked calmly down to Claude's room. That is how

she thought of it, as Claude's room.  If there was anything left of

Claude, that is where he was. And he would never allow something bad to

happen to Genevieve there.

 

Nyree came to the closed door and knocked softly.

 

"Entrez," came Gen's voice.

 

Nyree found her sitting in the antique armchair, tear stains on her

cheeks,but calm, quiet.  She had put the cover back over the portrait of

the Council.

 

"Adele called earlier," Genevieve said.  "She said something that made

me remember things that happened long ago."

 

"It made you cry," Nyree observed.  "I am certain Adele did not intend

that to happen."

 

"No, she meant to amuse me, I think.  She could not have known."  Gen

looked up.  "No matter, it was a long time in the past."

 

"But, for your kind, the past is still alive. It must be hard going on

alone. And for so long."

 

"Sometimes the melancholy becomes too much to bear.  As it did for me

during the war.  As it may do so again."  Gen looked up at Claude's

portrait.  "I have been through heartache, Nyree, heartache such as I

hope you never know.

 

Not just with Claude.  But I must remind myself that I am no longer

alone now; that I have friends and a good lover in Jean."

"Will you tell me what caused you grief?"

 

"Oh, remembering choices made.  How we can close off one road with

hardly a thought at that moment but wonder about it for the rest of our

lives."

 

"I think I understand," Nyree said softly. "But most often, I think,

those pathways are closed to us by actions we take that we often do not

even realize are choices. Not meeting someone, when we decided to stay

home.  Or perhaps choosing one path through the park rather than

another."

 

"I do hope you're not going to quote Robert Frost at me," said Genevieve

with a shaky laugh.  "Playing 'what if' can only lead to more depression,

I know this.  I made my choice, for good or ill, and it cannot be

unmade.  And if I had taken that path, then who knows where it

might have led?  I would almost certainly be true dead; or Carmine

would.  It would never have worked."

 

Seeing Nyree's look of confusion, she told her of the old proposal. 

Nyree had not had the benefit of meeting the volatile Prince of Italy,

but agreed from all reports that he and Genevieve would have made a

tempestuous couple.

 

"And I would not have taken Jean as a lover," Gen concluded.  "Or

possibly even have turned him, and he would have died on that

battlefield."

 

"Speaking of Jean, he was looking for you, shall we go relieve his

worry?" Nyree asked as she stood and held out a hand to Genevieve.

 

"Yes.  Yes we should."

 

Once Gen had locked the room up and the two women were walking up the

corridor arm in arm Nyree said,  "Is that why Jean dislikes Carmine so? 

He knows of this attraction Carmine has for you?"

 

"Oh, yes," Gen sighed.  "It makes him nearly as jealous as do Julian's

attentions, but at least Carmine is in another country and we see each

other rarely. Jean has claimed he can fight Carmine with one hand tied

behind his back... le fou.  He drew a sword on Carmine the first time

they met."

 

"On a Prince?" Nyree was shocked.

 

"Yes.  Fortunately, Carmine chose to be amused or Jean would have lost