The Bloodletters

by Samantha Bell

  I nodded.

  “Do you mind if I get a taste?”

  I nearly fainted. My hands were sweating inside my gloves. “Of course, my Lord.” I fumbled as I pulled down my glove and unclipped the clamp on the end of the short tube. My blood filled the tiny glass, and I handed it back to the man.

  He held it up to the light and inspected it like the Royals had done at the Sampling.

  My mouth was dry, wondering what he would say. I surprised myself, actually wanting his approval of something that I had entirely no control over. I pinched myself and snapped out of it.

  “Lovely,” he said after draining the cup. He set it on a passing waiter’s tray.

  I wondered if my face was as red as it felt.

  “May I ask, which House do you belong to?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I sputtered, and the corrected myself. “I was told not to give out that information, the host’s request, you see.”

  “Hm,” He looked let down. “Very well.” He took a step back from me.

  My heart withered with disappointment.

  “Then, may I know your name?”

  I hesitated. As far as I had been told, that wasn’t against any rules. “Violet.” I whispered.

  He grinned. “I guess your mother didn’t name you for your hair then?”

  I forced a laugh; unfortunately for him I had heard that joke a million times. “No, sir.” It was very hard to flirt with a mask on, but I did my best to flutter my eyelashes.

  He took my hand and kissed it. “Well, until the next event then, Miss.” He turned and left, taking a piece of my heart with him.

  FIFTEEN

  “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU WERE TALKING TO?” Greta hissed through her teeth.

  I looked out the window of the carriage we were sharing with Thomas and Heather. Thomas was asleep and Heather had decided to ride upfront with the coachman and get some air.

  “No?” I asked incredulously. I had spoken to so many people in the six hours we were at the ball. My feet ached and all I could think about was a hot bath. Well, that and the mysterious blond stranger.

  “No?” Greta squealed.

  “Well, there was lots of guests, which one do you mean?”

  Greta’s mouth hung open in disbelief. She breathed in deeply to calm herself before continuing. “The Prince, Violet. Prince Isaac Saxon, second in line for the throne of Inwaed. Dear Gods, do you not know anything?”

  Her insult passed over me in my shock. “The Prince?” I repeated.

  Greta rolled her eyes. “Too bad his brother wasn’t there, the Crown Prince, but I mean – he drank your blood, Violet! The Prince!” Thomas snorted in his sleep and Greta lowered her voice. “The Prince. I would kill for a chance like that.”

  Somehow, I didn’t doubt she would. She rambled on, but I didn’t hear a single word she said. The Prince. Prince Isaac. I had heard his name before many times, but I realized then that I had never seen a single photograph of him. I remembered my father saying that the Saxons liked to keep out of the spotlight as often as possible and that the King only intercepted politics when absolutely necessary. The Saxons, to me anyway, were names from textbooks. Distant and only slightly more tangible than characters from books.

  The Prince had drank my blood, and he knew my name. I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl with a new crush. I stamped down on the emotion with all my might.

  Greta voiced my internal thoughts. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like he’ll remember a lowly Bloodletter like you.”

  ∾

  I didn’t tell a soul about my meeting with the Prince and I tried to keep my hopes down. Greta’s excitement quickly turned to jealousy and she stopped talking to me again, not that I minded. The memory burned like a hot coal in my chest that I carried with me and used to warm myself whenever the dullness of the passing days became too much to bear.

  As winter began to settle in, a bleak feeling began to fill the House. The clients became coming more often and we more demanding. When Heather took me to see Dr. Coleman because of my exhaustion he quickly dismissed it and cleared me for Bloodletting. I was beginning to wonder whose side he was on or if he switched whenever it suited him.

  The feeling reached a climax when Thomas announced at lunch that Jack, his roommate, was not doing well. He was very weak and had been put on bedrest by the doctor.

  My heart twisted at the thought of the thin, pale boy lying in bed alone.

  “It’s always this time of year.” Penelope whispered. She set her fork down and left the table.

  Thomas, who should have been the most distraught, set his jaw with determination. “He’ll be fine. We’ve gone through this a few times,” He insisted.

  Amelia offered a weak smile. “I’m sure he will.” Her uncertainty drifted around the room and we finished the meal in silence.

  The news came only three days later – Jack had passed away in his sleep. Heather was the one to break it to us, but Thomas had been the one to discover it.

  Heather sighed and crossed her arms, each hand gripping the opposite arm tightly. “He knew the risks,” she said as if that would make us feel better.

  I knew Jack had been here by his own freewill and my eyes slid to Amelia, who was hiding her face with her hands.

  ∾

  Jack’s death froze the inhabitants of the House in despair. Miss Prescott accidentally set a place setting at his chair four nights in a row before she broke the habit. Thomas was not his usual cheerful self, but cold and distant. Jack’s death brought back Amelia’s memories of Rose, and she retreated into herself. Greta, as usual, was the only one who acted normal at all and I wished she hadn’t.

  When I finally could not take the silence anymore, I decided to get out, if only for an hour. I dressed myself in a long black coat and scarf, wrapping the wool around my hair and neck. I crept out into the night. Everyone else was asleep.

  The cold late November wind bit into my skin. I pushed my hands into the pockets of my coat and started walking.

  I knew the area well enough by now, having gone out on errands with Heather and Greta enough times to recognize the streets even in the dark. The first snowfall of the season had fallen a few days ago, the frozen remains crunched under my boots.

  I wandered around with no destination in mind. All I knew was that I needed to be away from the suffocating silence and sadness that had consumed the house. Hadn’t everyone told me not to get attached? They had all said how short and unpredictable a Bloodletter’s life was. Madam employed Jack for his own motives; none of us knew what they were, not even Thomas.

  I pulled my scarf around my neck and blew warmth into my hands.

  We would all move on just like the House had every other time. I hadn’t even known Jack that well, but his death reminded me of my own mortality. We were all on the edge of death, just one slip away from a sickness or infection that would crush us into dust.

  I looked up, suddenly not sure where I was. I had been following my feet mindlessly for a while now. I had passed the dress shop and the market. The buildings were empty and rundown on this side of town.

  My mouth went dry, remembering the night that Heather had shown me the illegal Blood House. I turned on my heel and began following my footsteps back home.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead and ignored the hair prickling at the back of my neck.

  There were whispers. I blocked them out and quickened my pace.

  Suddenly I ran into something dark and hard. I flew back, landing hard on the snowy cobblestones. I groaned. “Hey, watch where you’re going.” I looked up and locked eyes with a nameless Royal.

  The Royal was older and dressed in tattered clothes. He had a wild expression. The man grinned at me, exposing yellowed teeth. “My, my,” He said. “Don’t you have beautiful red hair. I bet your blood is just as lovely.”

  A wave of nausea came over me. I scrambled to my feet. “Hardly,” I tried to keep my composure. “Excuse me.”

  The man gra
bbed my coat as I tried to pass him. “I wasn’t done with you, sweetheart.”

  A woman snickered behind me. “She’s much too pretty to be in one of these Blood Houses. Which golden cage did you sneak out of?”

  I shuddered, pulling away. “Let me go!”

  The man seized my arm again and pulled me close to him. His breath reeked. “Not until we get a taste.”

  Suddenly, someone came between us and shoved him off. It was Victor, dressed in a warm cloak and wielding a kitchen knife.

  “Violet!” Heather’s voice was music to my ears.

  I fell into her arms with a sob as she lectured me. I didn’t even care that I upset her, I was just happy to be safe.

  Victor brandished his knife. “Get lost!” He shouted.

  The two Royals scurried off, not daring to fight the giant man.

  Victor turned towards me. “You’re lucky we found you! What were you thinking coming here in the middle of the night? This place is full of rogue Royals.”

  I gathered the strength I needed to stand on my own again. I didn’t bother apologizing or asking why they followed me. Victor threw his cloak over my trembling shoulders and I was enveloped in sudden warmth. “Rogue?” I asked.

  Heather shook her head, and the pair started guiding me home. “Violet, my dear child, there is so much about the Capital that you don’t know.”

  SIXTEEN

  DECEMBER BLEW IN WITH SOME OF THE WORST SNOWSTORMS I HAD EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE.

  In Wythtir, the winters were generally short and mild, here in the Capital it was not uncommon to trudge through knee deep snow just to retrieve the mail.

  I sat in my usual spot by the window in the parlor wasting the day away after all my clients had canceled because of the weather. I watched the blowing snow fly past the window, rattling the glass and howling like an invisible monster.

  A gust of cold wind swept into the room as the front door opened and closed with a bang. Heather walked in while shaking snow from her hat and brushing off her long coat. She was clutching a bundle of mail in her hand. One envelope stood out, a jarring red amongst the shades of brown paper.

  Heather saw me noticing the red letter and forced a smile. “Time for Collections.”

  “Already, but we just had one –”

  “Six months ago,” Heather interrupted me. “Yes, I know. That’s how often they come.” She stuck the mail under her arm and made her way to the kitchen. “Except they’re less choosy in Winter, when their stock is starting to die off.”

  ∾

  “But Collections are usually after the Winter Festival?” Thomas asked in argument to Heather’s announcement after dinner. He looked especially pale, his hair and skin had taken on a grayish tinge. In the weeks following Jack’s death, his strength had been washed away until he was a shadow of his former self.

  Heather shrugged and held up the bright red paper. “It seems that a flu has ripped through Brenhinyr and many of the Bloodletters have passed in their weakened state. There is a demand for Bloodletters who are already trained.”

  Brenhinyr was the most exclusive borough in the Capital. The ruling family lived there, along with the other nobility and politicians. The customers who came to Madam’s Blood House in Afonyr were generally wealthy business owners, bankers, and the like.

  While we paused in shock of the news of so many deaths, Greta’s eyes lit up. “So, there are vacancies in the House of Strix?”

  Heather surprised an annoyed sigh. “Yes, Greta.”

  Greta squealed. “Maybe this will be my chance,” she said dreamily.

  Thomas frowned. “Perhaps you missed the fact that over a dozen Bloodletters have died?”

  Greta shrugged and pushed her dessert plate away. “Who cares? More for me.”

  The five of us gaped at her as she took her leave.

  I looked down at my bread pudding and nudged it with the delicate silver dessert fork.

  Amelia’s hand shook as she attempted to bring a cup of tea to her mouth. She sighed and set it down with a clatter.

  I hated to admit it to myself, but I found a small part of myself agreeing with Greta. Bloodletters died, it was the risk we took. Now maybe other deserving Bloodletters would go on to live posh, albeit short, lives. I knew that was what Greta wanted more than anything, at least she’d be out of our hair.

  “One more thing,” Heather added.

  We looked up from our plates.

  “It said in the letter that due to the shortage, every Bloodletter was required to give a sample for the Collection, even if they hadn’t finished their one year waiting period,” Heather bit the corner of her lip and looked at me. “So, Violet, that means you’re eligible too.”

  ∾

  I laid awake that night while the rest of the House was asleep. I stared up at the ceiling, tossed and turned, braided my unruly hair, stretched, counted sheep and did about everything else I could think of before giving up on rest.

  I quietly pushed my feet into my slippers and covered myself with my dressing gown. I went downstairs to the small library, finding my way without the help of any lights, save the moonlight that flowed through the windows.

  I settled into a chair and cracked open a new book that Amelia had recommended. She knew all the best books in our library and had read them several times. This one was mostly poetry and even though I favored prose, I promised her I would give it a try. I smiled to myself, reading the titles. They were all romantic poems, silly verses of true love and soul mates.

  I appreciated Amelia for her innocence and girlish ideals. I myself had given up on those naïve ideas of love a few years ago when my mother had told me that my father would no doubt be setting me up with one of the councilor’s sons. Marriage was a business arrangement for people like us.

  “Do you love Father?” I asked her.

  My mother had smiled and kissed my forehead. “Yes, I do Violet,” She said. “I love him very much. But you’ll realized that there is a difference between teenage crushes and matrimonial love. Young love burns hot and fast, as you grow older, you’ll look for a love that runs slow and steady.”

  “Like molasses?”

  My mother laughed until she cried.

  I shook my head and rubbed my temples. It had been so long since I thought of her. Tears threatened to spill over before I clamped down on my emotions and brushed them away.

  I heard a creak across the room. Rows of bookshelves separated the room into smaller sections. I set the book down and wove through the shelves to find the source of the sound. I was surprised to happen upon Greta, who was curled up asleep in a chair. I stepped back and my foot landed on a squeaky footboard.

  Greta bolted upright, two thin books falling from her lap with a thump. “Who’s there?” She gasped and locked eyes with me.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” I stepped back again. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here at this time of night.” I glanced down at the books that had fallen on the floor. They were small books with simple titles that looked to be written for young children.

  Greta’s face reddened enough to be seen in the dim lamplight. She kicked the books under the chair. “Never mind.”

  I cleared my throat. “Sorry,” I apologized again without knowing why. “Were you reading those?”

  “What’s it to you?” She snapped. “Just because I’m an orphan you think I never learned to read?”

  I was taken aback. “No!” I sprang to my own defense and then hesitated. “Wait, you’re an orphan?”

  Greta looked away and picked at the worn upholstery. “No one told you?”

  “No one seems to gossip here except you,” I sniffed.

  Greta glared at me.

  I sighed. “I honestly had no idea.”

  Greta crossed her arms. “Well, I am. That’s why Madam took me in.” She pulled her legs up to her chest. She suddenly looked small and vulnerable. Her hard facade was crumbling.

  She didn’t deserve my pity; I knew that, but
found myself sitting down beside her anyways.

  “I’ve been in this place for ten years. There’s nothing else I know.” Greta spoke into her arms. “Like I said before, this is all I’m good at.” She laughed and shook her head. “That’s why I have to be Collected, Violet. That’s all that’s left for me now.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. My heart felt for her, even if I didn’t want it to. I hesitated before gently resting my hand on her shoulder. She flinched under my touch. “I won’t say I understand, because I don’t,” I whispered. “But you know that that’s no reason to be so cold to everyone.”

  Greta smirked and her mask slid into place. “Here’s a tip, Violet. Don’t get attached to anyone. Then it won’t hurt when they leave.”

  ∾

  I carried Greta’s warning with me the rest of the week. It weighed down on my chest like a stone. Her words made sense, and I realized that the next time I sat with them all. Thomas was withering away with grief. Penelope was as quiet as a mouse and Amelia was on edge every time someone referenced anyone who had passed. Greta was the only one who remained strong, with a hard indifference plastered on her face.

  Doctor Coleman came to retrieve samples for the Collection. He seemed surprised to see me, but didn’t say a word as he took my sample and filled out the paperwork. I heard him mumbling something about shortages as he left.

  At night, Amelia was cursed with nightmares. Her screams woke me, her pleas not to be Collected.

  I spent more and more time in the library; the only time I left was for meals and to meet clients. Unable to read the frivolous love poems, I immersed myself in history books. I slowly filled more gaps from my formal schooling.

  As the week wore on, an odd feeling began to fill the House. It was like a morbid anticipation, like waiting for a guillotine to fall. On one side there was Amelia, who dreaded being Collected more than anything in the world and opposite her was Greta who prayed for it daily. Thomas and Penelope seemed neutral to the idea.

  As for me, I wasn’t sure how to feel. In less than a year, I would be a legal adult and be given the money set aside for me if I chose to leave. I often stared out the window, wondering where I would go or what I would do. Violet Ackerman, the old Violet, she was dead. I was in charge of my own destiny now and this newfound freedom was daunting.