Borne in Blood (23 page)

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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland

BOOK: Borne in Blood
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I will look forward to receiving your messenger again when winter is over, and in the meantime,
I am
Most sincerely,
Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert
Graf von Ravensberg
 
 
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Hero turned her tearful face toward Ragoczy. “Comte, I am so, so sorry.” She clutched her pillow and held it close to her, the bedclothes in disruption around him. “I want to. Really … I wish I could … I shouldn’t … I never intended …” The light from the lamp made wavering shadows on her face as if taking the chill from the room into its heart, muffling its illusion of warmth in flickering shadows.
He laid his finger lightly against her lips. “No, Hero, it is I who should apologize to you. It is too soon still.”
“It isn’t,” she said, shaking her head in self-condemnation. “Or it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t make you … You have been reasonable and patient and understanding. I couldn’t ask for more kindness, not from anyone. I don’t know why I should be this way, and to you, of all men.” Had Fridhold lived, she would not have expected such sympathy from him as Ragoczy had given her. She touched his hand tentatively, then released it, as if even so little connection as this was unbearable.
“I am sorry that you have had to suffer your loss with so much worry.” He thought of Ignatia, of Demetrice, of Acana Tupac, of Xenya, each with her own unquenchable grief, and he did his best to convey his concern. “You are trying to hold your sorrow at a distance while you wait to see your sons.”
“I should be with them, no matter what my father-in-law permits; he could hardly turn me away if I should travel to Scharffensee. I should have insisted as soon as we returned from Amsterdam that we go there, but I didn’t know the rains would come early, or—” A steely determination straightened her back and interrupted her weeping. “In the spring, I will not be put off: he will receive me whether he will or no. I will see my sons. It is my duty, and my right to be with my children.” Then without warning a new bout of weeping came over her; she pummeled her fists into her pillow as if she wanted to strike her own body. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You are in mourning,” said Ragoczy, making no effort to stop her.
“I
should
mourn. My daughter is dead,” she exclaimed as she threw the pillow across the room. “She died without me to care for her.”
“She did, and that is lamentable, but you could not have known she would die.”
“Fridhold’s father waited so long to tell me—too long. That is how the Graf has been since Fridhold died. He didn’t want me to know about Annamaria. He doesn’t want to tell me about any of them.” She bit her lower lip.
“He is inclined to forget that you are part of your children’s lives,” said Ragoczy, striving to keep his remarks as neutral as possible, so that Hero would not feel she had to defend von Scharffensee for the sake of her children and her dead husband.
“Their lives and Annamaria’s death,” Hero interjected.
“He believes he knows best, as men of his station often do; it seems to me he is failing in his trust, largely because he deems that such a failure is impossible,” Ragoczy remarked. “He fears you will influence your children—and he is correct: you will.”
“My father-in-law doesn’t care about them, not really. He thinks only to supervise them for my late husband.” She began to weep in earnest, her expression filled with chagrin.
“He, too, lost a child,” said Ragoczy.
“But Fridhold was grown, not eight years old.” She trembled, her hands flexing, reaching for her arms.
“I doubt that matters,” said Ragoczy.
“Whatever the case, it offered him no insight.” She folded her arms, clutching at her upper arms with straining fingers. “If he has no compassion for me, well, that is his way. But he has none for my children, and that worries me.”
“Understandably.”
“He thinks of me as a rival,” she said suddenly, “and he a jilted suitor. He blames me for the loss of Fridhold.”
“So it would seem.” Ragoczy was still appalled at the apparent unconcern von Scharffensee had shown toward Hero, and found this explanation as reasonable as any. “I wish I could ease your hurt.”
“You mean you wish you could drink my blood, don’t you?” she countered, and clapped both her hands over her mouth, turning stricken eyes upon him, offended by her own temerity.
“Yes,” he said quietly and calmly. “I would like that; it would be nourishing and it would provide the intimacy for which we both long, if you are willing to allow me to touch you in more than your flesh.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” she whispered.
“Possibly not,” he agreed without condemnation. “But there is truth in it.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it, Comte. I didn’t mean it.”
“That may be, but you had to say something,” he said as he took her hand in his, holding it palm up. “You said it to drive me away, for just now intimacy is more than you can bear.”
“I … I suppose so,” she confessed, her eyes welling with tears. “But I don’t want that, not really.”
A thousand years ago he might have pressed the advantage in that admission, but he had learned not to use that leverage: what it gained in the moment, it lost over time. He sat on her bed while she wrestled with her emotions, then, as she looked at him directly, he said, “But you aren’t ready to make love yet, either; to you it feels like a betrayal of your child. You thought you were ready, and you miss my companionship, but now that you make the attempt, you see the loss is still too overwhelming, too raw.”
She nodded twice. “You do understand.”
“In my way.”
Wishing to deflect his compelling gaze, she pushed back from him, and to add to her remoteness, she asked, “How is that? How can someone as old as you say you are understand?”
He recognized her ploy as an attempt to distract him, but answered her, his voice low and steady. “It is nearly four thousand years since I came into my vampiric life; I have spent most of that time saying good-bye, and every one of those losses left its mark on my soul. I may not understand your personal grief, but sorrow and I are old companions.” He touched her arm. “I will not force myself on you; that would blight our closeness. When only our skins touch, there is little to bind us together.”
“But skin is the best we have,” she said morosely.
“It has not been so before,” he said, as gently as he could, his dark, penetrating eyes on her. “I am willing to wait.”
“Until I am old and wrinkled? Until I have grandchildren?” She clamped her jaws closed, as if to keep from speaking at all.
“If that is required,” he said. “Time is more inexorable for you than for me.”
“Because I am alive,” she said. “Because every day brings me closer to the grave.”
“And because you are alive, you age,” he said, unflustered. “Age takes a toll on the passions as much as the body.”
She glared at him, daring to meet his compassionate gaze and to ignore what he revealed in his eyes. “That is intended to cheer me?”
“No; I thought it would reassure you, so you will understand—”
“That you are patient?” she challenged. “Or is it easier to wait for a willing woman than have to search out another one?”
He remained where he was, still as water, seeing her tempestuous emotion worry at her. “You must not despair, Hero. You are not condemned to a lifetime of dejection and loneliness, much as you are convinced it is so now. Loss is always with us, but so is restoration.”
“No? Can you be sure of that?” She pulled her night-rail more tightly around her. “You have never lost a child.”
“I know you cherished hopes for your daughter, and all of them are left in shambles.” He stared at the far wall. “It is going to be a freezing night tonight.”
“And you, with your cool skin, will you keep me warm? Or is it I who should keep you warm?” As she heard herself speak, she was almost overcome with mortification that she should be so unpardonably caustic. She tried to think of something that would lessen the excoriating impact of her remarks. “Comte, I apologize.” That seemed wholly inadequate; she tried again. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I never intended …”
“But you do, you know: you intend to cut yourself off from all pleasure and succor because you deem yourself to be undeserving of either.” He said this softly but he held her attention. “You want to inflict pain on yourself.”
She fixed her eyes on him as if mesmerized. “Why shouldn’t I bear the anguish? I deserve it.”
“Do you think so?” He shook his head slowly. “No, Hero, you need not flagellate yourself with whips or recriminations.”
“You say that as if it were nothing but a change done as easily as I might change my clothes.”
“I think such changes are very hard.” He gave her a moment to speak; she remained silent. “But time will separate you from those you miss more than distance. Each day memory slips them farther away.” His dark eyes were glowing, alive with the recollection of those he had lost.
She studied him as if searching for any trace of duplicity. Finally she clasped her hands in her lap and stared down at them. “Would you like me to leave?”
“Leave? No, certainly not,” he said, aware that her despair was once again threatening to overcome her.
“Then what? You can’t want to continue in this way, can you?”
“No, I would rather not have to carry on with so much unresolved heartbreak impinging upon us.” He smoothed the revers of his dressing-gown. “But I see no reason to cut our dealings short in homage to your self-condemnation.”
Her face went pale. “What do you mean?”
He rose from the bed and paced her bedchamber in a measured, deliberate tread. “If you believe you must immolate yourself on the altar of family sorrow, you show neither your sorrow nor your family much grace. I know you embrace your agony in order to keep your daughter with you, made real by the pain of her death. You are convinced that if you set the agony aside, you will lose the memory of your daughter. But that approach, if continued, will turn the memory of her into something always painful, and she deserves better than that, as do you. Let her go, Hero, let her go; for you cannot keep her with you, and let all your thoughts of her be joyous ones, as they can be, in time, if you do not cling to her death.” He stopped moving and gave his whole attention to her; his voice became more musical and his demeanor was filled with commiseration. “If I were uncaring, perhaps I would not be moved by your affliction; but we have a Blood Bond that will continue until the True Death claims one of us. It grieves me to see you add to your anguish in this way. What you endure is hard enough without increasing the wretchedness you want to put behind you.”
“Is that what I am doing?” She had no part of softness in her question. “You have decided how I am to remember my own child?”
“No, I am telling you how I have learned to deal with centuries of losses.”
She looked past him at a picture of a narrow stretch of river over which a broken stone bridge rising out of the current stretched unsuccessfully toward high banks; at present it appeared to be a reflection of her state of mind. “When spring comes, he will try to put me off again, my father-in-law. He will send my boys away, or tell me it is inconvenient to visit, or plan another journey for them to take.”
“That he may, but it will not succeed.” He sighed once. “You and I will yet visit Scharffensee, or whatever place he has taken your sons.”
“You will do so much for me?” She sounded more tired than annoyed. “Why would you do this? I haven’t done anything to merit your help.”
“I do not bargain with those I love, particularly not about what you need.” He went to put another small log on in the fireplace. “There is no reason to keep the room so icy. Let your body be warmed, by the fire if not by me. The frost on the windows warns you of a hard night.”
“I should let it chill me; perhaps I will not be so distrait if I am cold enough.” She leaned back against the satin-covered bolster, making a gesture of concession. “If you insist on heating the room, this is your château and I am your guest.”
He watched as the log began to smoke as the low flames curled up around it. “I do not wish to impose upon you, but I would not want you to become ill.”
“In imitation of my daughter?”
“It is one possibility, and one I have seen before.” He touched his fingertips together.
“You mean I might sicken and die?” She laughed a bit wildly. “I would be with her and Fridhold then, wouldn’t I? And my father-in-law would not have to deal with me.”
“Possibly, but it would be a high price to pay for very little satisfaction.” He drew up a chair to the side of her bed, and sat down, facing Hero across the silk of her comforter. “You may wish to make yourself free of the complications that have marked your life since your husband’s death, but dying is not the way. You hope to be with your husband and daughter, but you forget your sons, who will need you as they grow older.”
“They have their grandfather,” she said.
“Who is what? sixty years old? How much longer will he live? And what will happen to your boys then? They have already lost their father and their sister. If they lose their mother as well, think of how abandoned they will be when their grandfather dies.”

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