“Hush, Father,” Varanus said, though she knew it to be true. “Do not say such things.”
“I am not afraid,” Father said. “Soon I will be with your mother again.” He smiled weakly.
“I know, Father,” Varanus said. “Shall I fetch the priest?”
“I think so, yes,” Father said. “It will please him. I have no doubt that Heaven will receive me, Last Rites or no, but receiving them is a final act of kindness I would like to bestow.”
“Of course,” Varanus said.
She leaned over and kissed Father’s brow. She could almost taste the illness. She blinked away a tear and stood.
“I will return soon,” she said.
* * * *
When she had left, William pushed open a door concealed behind the bookcase and entered the bedroom. He sniffed the air. The room smelled of death, which was only to be expected. In light of recent events, he was grateful for his foresight in having the house riddled with concealed doors and passages. They had always made it easier for the servants to get about without making a sight of themselves in front of company, but having faked his death, it was now important for him to do just the same. He was too old now to remain as a man. The change was too pronounced to hide any longer. But with the hostility of the des Louveteaux still tainting his dealings with the Scions of France, it was important for him to keep a personal eye on the matters of his household.
Babette had returned home, no doubt drawn by news of his alleged death. This gave William pause. He had not expected that, though it did please him.
He approached the bed and looked down at his son.
Poor James, he thought. What a poor, pathetic creature his son had proven to be. Unworthy of his Scion blood, scarcely worthy of being called a man, and yet…
William sighed. He should have despised his son, despised him for his weakness. But he could not. For all of James’s adult life, William had borne the knowledge that his son was a failure—a failure as a Scion of course, for no amount of wealth or social standing would ever elevate a human above the status of meat. The others of their race had taunted him time and again for James’s frailty, for his humanity. William had suffered it all without complaint.
Now, as his son lay dying, William finally understood why. He had always thought that his toleration of James was a matter of misguided pride. James was his son and no one else’s. It was for him to decide whether James lived or died, and he, William Varanus, chose to allow the runt to live.
But it was not pride that had stayed his hand. It was not pride that had kept him from arranging an accident to settle the matter.
No, it was not pride. It was love. He loved his son, whatever his frailties.
William leaned down and kissed James on the forehead, just as he had done when James was a child. James stirred a little, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and labored.
“James, my boy,” William said, “No matter what else you are, you are my son. I love you. And I forgive you for your humanity.”
* * * *
Father was laid to rest later that week. The whole village turned out to share condolences, and several of the neighboring potentates were in attendance as well. It would have been a touching sight, but Varanus could not bring herself to see the display as anything but pageantry. The des Louveteaux were there as well, circling like vultures. No doubt they believed that with Father and Grandfather gone, the family holdings would be easy pickings. Varanus meant to dispel them of that belief.
The day was overcast and dreary, threatening rain at some point in the near future. It felt appropriate to have such dismal weather for an equally dismal occasion. And it was a godsend to Varanus, for the concealed sun, combined with the heavy veil that mourning allowed her to wear, left her free to walk about in daytime without fear of injury or public distress.
All of the servants were in attendance, dressed in somber black with matching gloves. Luka kept back from the crowd, watching everyone for signs of danger. It was good of him to take such precautions, but Varanus thought it unlikely that anyone would have the poor taste to disrupt a funeral with violence. More likely, the des Louveteaux would try to poison her in her sleep once they realized that she planned to reject their offer to buy her family’s holdings.
Ekaterine was at her side, holding an umbrella above them both in case the sky saw fit to make its threats of rain materialize. It was comforting to have Ekaterine there, Varanus reflected. It reminded her that she was not alone.
She blinked away a tear as she watched Father’s coffin being lowered into the earth beside his wife’s gave. She felt Ekaterine place a hand on her arm.
“At least he is at peace now,” Ekaterine said. “That is something.”
“It is something,” Varanus agreed without much enthusiasm. Father might be in Heaven, but until Heaven could be quantified, Varanus would not hold her breath waiting for it.
She looked across the small family cemetary and saw Alfonse watching her. He smiled at her. Varanus recognized that look: hungry and triumphant. She looked forward to disappointing him. Alfonse’s high collar concealed his throat, but more than once he tugged at it, revealing the hint of a jagged scar. Varanus smiled. No matter what, Alfonse would bear that mark for the rest of his life.
The coffin finally reached the bottom of the grave, and Varanus approached slowly. She stood at the edge in silence for a short while. This was it. The end of her family. The end of her line. Grandfather was dead. Father was dead. Alistair was dead. She was the last Norman Varanus. Grandfather’s line would end with her.
The family in England would fight for control of the holdings, just like Grandfather’s neighbors in France. The English Varanuses had exiled Grandfather, but they still saw him as one of them—or more precisely, they saw his property as theirs. And she knew what they saw in her, what they all saw in her: a small, frightened woman, alone in the world, with a husband too busy fighting for the Tsar in Asia to attend her father’s funeral.
She took a handful of dirt and threw it onto the coffin. Let them come. Let them try to take it from her. She would fight them all, and she would win.
Varanus looked away from the grave, toward the mausoleum where Grandfather had been interred. His will had been very specific about that. It seemed that in his old age, Grandfather had become obsessed with the idea of premature burial. Even the door to the mausoleum had been designed to allow opening from within as well as without. Such eccentricity seemed so unlike Grandfather, but Varanus acknowledged that people could change dramatically in fifteen years.
She saw a figure standing by the mausoleum, watching the proceedings. He was tall and handsome, beautiful even, with fiery red hair and the same vulpine features Korbinian had possessed. He wore a uniform that Varanus recognized immediately: the sharp black-on-red of a Fuchsburger hussar.
“Korbinian…?” Varanus whispered in disbelief.
Aside from the color of his hair, the man looked exactly like him.
“Yes, liebchen?” Korbinian asked, appearing at her side. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Be strong, my love. This will all be over soon.”
Varanus looked at him, then back at the man by the mausoleum.
“If you are here, then who is that?” she asked softly.
Korbinian looked at the young man and stroked his chin as if deep in thought.
“He rather looks like me, doesn’t he?” he asked. “Perhaps a few years older than I was, but near enough. But of course, how can I be in two places at once? And with red hair. That is simply ridiculous. My mother had red hair. You have red hair. But I took after my father in that regard.”
“Stop speaking in riddles,” Varanus said. “Who is he? That is your uniform.”
“It is the uniform of Fuchsburg,” Korbinian corrected. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “You know exactly who he is, liebchen.”
Alistair.
“It’s not possible,” Varanus w
hispered.
“Neither am I, liebchen,” Korbinian said. “And yet, here I stand.”
“Our son,” Varanus said. “Alive.”
“So it would seem,” Korbinian said.
“Grandfather has much to answer for,” Varanus said.
Korbinian kissed her on the cheek. “What a pity he is not here to answer.”
“It is inconvenient,” Varanus murmured.
“Death often is.”
“What should we do?” Varanus asked.
“First,” Korbinian replied, “we wait until the funeral is done. Then we speak to our son and find out where he has been all this time.”
* * * *
The strange man remained at the corner of the mausoleum throughout the rest of the funeral proceedings. Varanus waited until the dreadful ceremony was finished. A number of people came forward to offer their condolences with sincere, if uncertain, words. What could they say to relieve such loss?
The des Louveteaux were among the first to approach, led by old Louis with Alfonse following a step behind. Louis’s beard was full and thick, gray in color just like Grandfather’s had been. Even Alfonse had grown one in the years since Varanus last saw him. There was something altogether unwholesome about the cluster of ravenous-eyed, dark clothed men who approached her with expressions of the most insincere sympathy. Their eyes said everything. They thought that she was weak. They looked at her like mongrel dogs contemplating a meal.
“Lady Shashavani,” Louis said to her, biting the words. He was angry that she had been elevated above his station.
“Lord des Louveteaux,” Varanus replied. “Thank you for coming. I know that my father would have been touched to know that your family was in attendance.”
“But of course,” Louis said. “Your family has been a pillar of society since your grandfather arrived on our shores.”
A veiled insult that put her family’s respectability to a mere three generations.
“Very kind of you to say,” Varanus replied.
“Well, we must all support one another, mustn’t we?” Louis said.
“I recall that was Christ’s advice,” Varanus replied.
“When it comes time to manage the affairs of your family’s estate, I would be most pleased to offer my assistance,” Louis said. “I know the task of settling your inheritance must be daunting, especially at such a time.”
Varanus held back a laugh.
“It is very kind of you to offer, Lord des Louveteaux,” she said, “but I believe that my grandfather’s solicitors will explain it all to me.”
Not that it required much explaining. Varanus suspected that she understood it all better than the solicitors, but it would not do to make such a thing known. A woman of means who understood her own finances? God forbid.
“Of course,” Louis said. “But should you require anything in these trying times, my family will always be here for you.”
Korbinian peered at Louis from the side and shook his head.
“He really is a schwein, isn’t he?” he asked.
“You are too kind,” Varanus said to Louis, ignoring Korbinian. He was right, though. Louis was an absolute swine, all but leering in triumph.
“What a pity that your husband could not accompany you,” Louis said.
“Alas, he was in Khiva when word arrived,” Varanus said. “I was obliged to travel without him.”
“It must be very difficult for you to bear all this alone,” Alfonse said, interjecting. His voice sounded peculiar, higher than Varanus remembered it. Perhaps the throat injury from Sedan had affected him more severely than Varanus realized.
“One perseveres,” Varanus said.
“How very English of you.” Louis smiled and gave her a curt nod. “Well, our prayers are with you, Lady Shashavani. Good day.”
“Good day,” Varanus replied.
As the des Louveteaux withdrew, Ekaterine leaned in and murmured, “They are going to be trouble.”
“I know,” Varanus replied softly. “But once the estate is settled, there will be little they can do.”
She glanced toward the mausoleum. The young man was gone, vanished into the crowd. Varanus searched for the scarlet among the black, but she could not see it. Had he even existed?
“Of course,” Ekaterine said. “And fear not, Doctor. If they push too hard, Luka and I know what to do.”
“And what is that?” Varanus asked absently, as the next group of mourners approached.
“We kill them,” Ekaterine said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friedrich von Fuchsburg watched the des Louveteaux walk toward the graveyard gate. Such arrogant creatures! They were little more than murders and thieves, but they had the audacity to regard themselves as nobility. They strutted about like they already owned the place. And that fiend Alfonse… Had he looked like that the night he murdered Friedrich’s father?
Friedrich slipped through the crowd, hunched slightly to keep himself hidden. He doubted that it had much effect—dressed as he was in bright red and standing six and a half feet tall—but he did not want to spook them until they were too close to escape.
He cast a look over his shoulder at the tiny woman standing by the grave. The men in town said that she was Babette Varanus, daughter of the late James Varanus. But that was impossible. Babette Varanus had died twenty-four years ago.
Hadn’t she?
No matter. Friedrich had other things to attend to first.
He stepped out of the crowd a few paces from the des Louveteaux and rose to his full height. Walking in an arc, he flanked them so that he could come around from the front and intercept them at the gate.
He had dreamed about this moment for years, but how would it play out? How would his father’s killer react?
To his great satisfaction, Alfonse des Louveteaux glanced toward him, at first dismissive, and suddenly stopped short. The old patriarch, Louis, the Count des Louveteaux, halted as well, and the rest of the family stopped behind him.
Alfonse stared at Friedrich, his eyes almost bulging. Friedrich smiled. He had always been told that he was the perfect image of his father. Apparently it was true. What must it be like for a murderer to be confronted by the very face of his victim?
“Who are you?” Louis demanded. “Get out of my way!”
Friedrich motioned for Louis to walk around him saying, “You may pass, old man. I have no quarrel with you.”
“How dare—” Louis began, his face turning bright red with anger.
Friedrich turned to Alfonse and approached until he was only a half step away. Looking him in the eyes, Friedrich gave Alfonse a curt nod and said:
“Good day, Colonel des Louveteaux. My name is Friedrich Korbinian Leopold Freiherr von Fuchsburg. You murdered my father.”
“What…?” Alfonse stammered.
He took a step back, but Friedrich advanced to match it.
“I demand satisfaction, Colonel,” Friedrich said. “I demand a duel for the sake of my family’s honor.”
“Honor?” Alfonse asked. “Why…why, your father was killed trying to murder me!”
Alfonse backed away another step and again Friedrich advanced. Friedrich sensed the other des Louveteaux men circling around him. It was wise that he had confronted them in public. Without the crowd watching, they would likely have murdered him.
“Lies,” Friedrich said. “And you know that they are lies. Now, if you are a gentleman, you will consent to fight me.”
“A gentleman?” Alfonse looked astonished.
“Are you not familiar with the word?” Friedrich asked, taunting.
Alfonse bared his teeth and snarled, “I will not fight the likes of you, and certainly not for the honor of a disgraced murderer like your father!”
Friedrich paused. He had never really anticipated a refusal. He assumed that Alfonse’s guilt, shame, and arrogance would be enough to goad him into a fight. Still, a von Fuchsburg was not a von Fuchsburg if he could not improvise.
So saying, he spat in Alfonse’s face. Alfonse let out a cry and clapped a hand over his eye.
“You damned German bastard!” Alfonse shouted.
“There,” Friedrich said. “I spit upon you and upon your family. When you are prepared to defend your honor, you may send word of your challenge to me at the Hôtel Rollo in town. I will be staying there until you decide to become a man.”
Alfonse lunged at him, snarling like an animal. Friedrich drew back a step and reached for his sword. If he could kill the fiend here and now, clearly in self-defense…
“Stop!” Louis snapped.
Alfonse froze and slowly looked toward his father, twitching with contained energy. Friedrich knew the expression on his face: it was the look of a man who, in that instant, knew nothing but violence.
“You will hear from us, Baron von Fuchsburg,” Louis said. “You will soon have great cause to regret this insult.”
“The Hôtel Rollo,” Friedrich repeated.
He stepped around Alfonse and walked back toward the gravesite, leaving the des Louveteaux behind him. The first step to his revenge had been accomplished. Now all he had to do was kill Alfonse.
* * * *
Alfonse watched Friedrich walk away. He was seething with rage, every instinct telling him to chase down the impudent boy and rend him to pieces. But his father’s hand on his shoulder was all it took to keep him restrained.
“I will kill him,” he growled.
“Perhaps,” Louis said softly. “But if he truly is who he claims to be, I wonder if it would be best to deal with him in a more efficient manner.”
“What do you mean, Father?” Alfonse asked.
“He may only be human, but we do not know what he is capable of,” Louis said. “I would prefer not to take the chance of a duel, nor do I see any reason to pollute our family’s dignity by pandering to his ego. And besides, if all of his family is as mad as he, we might have a legion of vengeful von Fuchsburgs crawling out of the woodwork after you kill him.”
Alfonse bowed his head subserviently and gave a whine of consent.
A Monster's Coming of Age Story Page 30