Medley of Souls

by Renee Peters

  She was aware that the day was almost upon them when the Graham family began to string up decorations. After a visit from Lian, Delilah’s spirits had improved enough for her to join her mortal family in celebrating the holiday. It might well be the Grahams’ last one together.

  The French queen doubted Samuel’s mother would see the new year.

  By Christmas Eve, Joanna had been invited to stay the night, but the idea felt strange and hollow, and she found she could not be as happy as she felt she should be to join their festivities. In any event, Delilah had little need of her after Lian’s comfort, and the Condesa was all too aware that she did not belong. With a kiss to her friend’s cheek and a final exchange of holiday well wishes, the woman departed for the castle at sundown.

  It had been almost discomfiting to spend the night in the basement room she had once claimed for a sanctuary. Unable to settle, the queen had occupied the night hours with sweeping and beating her sheets free of dust.

  She still had not slept by the time the sun rose on Christmas morning, and she gathered her belongings to carry upstairs. Even in her suite, with its soft bed, clean sheets and gilded walls, she found no rest. Rubbing her neck, Joanna abandoned all but her papers and quill to take them to the library with her.

  The Condesa was not entirely sure the smell of old parchment was as soothing as it had once been, but steeling herself, she set her mind to the task ahead. If she ever meant to publish another book, she would have to finish transcribing her poems into a fair copy.

  It was not as if she had anything else to occupy her day with, and she would not let herself sink into the darkness of her music.

  Joanna had not been about the task for an hour before the melodic lilt of the librarian’s lyre was drawing closer in her blood. The Frenchwoman lifted her gaze toward the grand doors of the library as they swept open and the lush, petite curviness of her ebon haired sister sailed through the door.

  “Joanna! So, my ears did not deceive me. I thought I heard you nearer than the carriage house. I will try not to be offended that you did not seek me sooner,” Raewyn’s words teased, but the softness of her gaze touched over the blonde queen with an almost motherly attentiveness.

  Joanna could not help the touch of her fingers to her hair to check the placement of her curls, and content that they were nested in her braid, the queen turned a look back to her paper.

  “Oui. I only stayed with Lilette until last night. I was preoccupied with getting these papers transcribed. I have only a few left.” Joanna breathed a laugh before lifting her gaze again. “Time slipped by me. You are well?”

  A shadow flickered across the smoothness of Raewyn’s expression and her music dipped. “As well as can be expected given the circumstances,” she answered quietly. “It helps to stay busy. I have cleaned the entire lower level of shelves twice over it feels like.” She breathed a soft laugh.

  “I had thought they were shining, Raewyn, but you always kept the library tidy.”

  “I certainly tried — when Eden was not skipping about with feathers.” Raewyn’s eyes glittered and she rested her hands on her hips. “But you are still writing! This is wonderful news. I had not seen anything of our Mr. Holt in the papers since you left the castle. I had begun to wonder if a Condesa’s distractions had buried your love for words.” Her lips twitched into a knowing smile. “Though it would have been entirely understandable. Our brother is well?”

  “He is. I wonder entirely how he can flit about the ton nearly every night. It rather exhausted me those first months. But I have had enough time to write.” Joanna’s smile softened. There was no hiding the dips in her music here, though she looked back to her papers as though it might cover its soft slur. “I tried to have my next book published under my own name, but my publisher will not have it. I think I shall have to send it to another city if I am to publish again.”

  Raewyn’s music spiked with irritation. “He will not have it, will he? I am surprised Dorian permitted his refusal.” Her brows furrowed. “But perhaps his… entertainments distract from his duty.”

  Joanna could not quite tell if the woman was irritated with the publisher or by her perception of the Conde’s failures. She glanced up again. “He came with me. He let me attend the matter on my own. Though his music was the darker for it. It was my publisher, only.”

  “Well then,” the librarian ceded Dorian a grudging reprieve. “You were ever inclined to being gentle with the pursuit of your desires. You most certainly should consider another publisher — there are enough women publishing in this age that it is not nearly as unexpected as it once was.” Her hands settled upon round hips. “If you should have learned anything for bearing a title Jo, it is that society will bend if you hold your ground.”

  A feminine giggle interrupted the librarian’s tirade from somewhere beyond her.

  “Do you see, Garrett. I told you she had found someone among her books — nothing else would bring such fire from Wynnie.”

  Noelle’s expression was bright, and almost in direct contrast to that of the dark-haired shadow who drifted in her wake as they closed the distance to the pair in the depths of the library. Garrett wrapped an arm loosely around his bond’s waist, drawing her closer to rest his chin on her shoulder as he shifted a lazy gaze between Joanna and Raewyn.

  “It is a good thing we investigated.” Garrett teased quietly. “I was sure the library was underwater for how dark her lyre played.”

  “I should have placed a wager upon it.” Noelle’s lips pursed into a moue. “But I shall no doubt come upon a thought for how to extract my price. You have not loved me within these walls — perhaps that will do.”

  She said it blithely, lifting her arms toward the blonde queen with the mercurial flare of Garrett’s now ice-blue eyes glittering at her back as she escaped his hold.

  “But Joanna!” Noelle’s clap was one of genuine delight, as if she had not just drawn the beast’s desire out of her bond. “I should not have expected it was you.”

  “Oui,” Joanna smiled and lowered her quill; entirely aware that her opportunity for writing had ended. “Delilah and our wardens are having their Christmas morning. She has recovered enough that she need not have me haunting her shadows to attend her.” The woman tilted her head. “I only lingered to clean my basement room and gather my royalties. Now it is for writing again.”

  “But whyever are you here then?” Noelle chimed, “If the Grahams have little need for you, I do not doubt that Dorian will. Can you not hear his grumbling?” Her smile curved impish. “He has all of the song of a child deprived of his favorite thing on the day he wants it most.” Her gaze narrowed to a squint on the French queen, staring intently. “And you sound as you have forgotten what a happy melody is made of.”

  Joanna smiled. “I am only contemplating where to publish these poems next, and Dorian must endure the ton. He has been fortunate to find a friend to keep him company in my absence on his outings.” The queen tilted her head. “This week will be a little busier for him with the holidays. It is no wonder he is growling so.”

  “If you will pardon my directness, Joanna dear. We are not nearly as senseless as the ton our brother frequents at the cost of your contentment.” Raewyn’s foot had taken up something of an impatient tapping on the polished wood. “It is evident that there are shadows between you, and more evident that you are quite determined to ignore them.” She snorted lightly. “No doubt to appease Dorian who — by the by — is as senseless as his mortal friends at times for not seeing the evidence right before his eyes.”

  Noelle lifted her hands. “Then I have the right of it — again! —” she crowed. Her gaze found Garrett’s, shining. “I told you they were singing one song, love. And Wynnie hears it too!”

  A strange sound escaped Joanna, and she lifted her hand to press it against her eyes. They felt wet, and it was all she could do to laugh a little.

  She felt as if she had begun to fray at the edges as much as Marjolaine’s ribbon ha
d, and everything wanted to fall out of her from the seams. The truth that he had not completed their bond, that she had confessed that she loved him. That since that night he had kept her from the ton and his side and had made every effort at first to break her before she fell deeper. That even for their talk, he kept the curtains open to keep her out and came home smelling of lilies.

  But she could not harm him in their eyes for her weakness, and so Joanna pushed the tears back, keeping her face hidden until she trusted herself. She missed him, and she realized for her inability to share the shadows of her heart that she felt lonelier now than she had in the darkness of Anowen’s basement.

  There was nothing she could do for Dorian. She had already laid her heart open for him and had frightened him away in her vulnerability. No matter what her siblings heard in his song, no matter how he grumbled like one deprived, she could not make him take what was offered if it was not his want.

  Joanna’s hand lowered, and she breathed in a steadying breath, glancing down at her papers. “Hélas. I fear I am senseless too, but we are neither of us children. The course it will be is beyond my hands or will.” She flashed a smaller smile toward her siblings. “What I can control is this book, and I will see it published for myself.”

  It was the only matter she had left that she could take into her own hands. And then she could claim her space in her world and Dorian’s.

  She had thought she had her tears reined back, but when Raewyn moved behind her to offer a sympathetic squeeze to her shoulder, Joanna almost broke again.

  The librarian’s kiss settled into Joanna’s curls.

  “This is wisdom, my sister,” she murmured. “You will forgive your family for being all that we are,” Her voice held a wry self-deprecation. “We will wish you only the best in all of your endeavors, won’t we?”

  The veiled warning in the woman’s tone was enough to have Garrett draw his free-spirited bond closer for a nuzzle that distracted her.

  “I have thought of somewhere else I have not loved you, Noelle.”

  It was enough to set the queen to pondering with a tap of a nail to her bottom lip.

  “Really?”

  Garrett took her fingers in his own for a kiss, and drew her away with a last glance over his shoulder that touched on Joanna with a hint of solemnity.

  When they were gone, Joanna reached to squeeze Raewyn’s hand in turn, and lifted her head to glance up at her. “Thank you. I think… I shall go home to see to publishing. I may have better fortune.”

  That she did not specify which home she meant was another matter entirely.

  Chapter 36

  I Love You as the Moon Must Love the Night Sky

  Draped in a funerary shroud, the Moon became

  a fading light, encapsulated in her solitude.

  Years passed by, quietly, and she watched — watched and waned.

  A shadow of herself, passing through decades. Decades alone.

  Alone! Climbing the sky, fighting the clouds:

  for a glimpse, for a taste of the sun.

  Sheltered by mist and time and desolation,

  the Moon was empty, and slumbered through inaudible dreams.

  When clearing clouds gave way to sable seas — embraced perfectly

  by arms she had not noticed or seen, she stirred.

  There the darkness of the Night —

  that beautiful darkness! More beautiful than the sunlight she

  had spent her lifetime chasing — held her.

  Like an infant first, lost and new, a stranger to herself.

  And then, as if through unclosed lids,

  at last her light began to shine. Instead of sunrise, she sought the sweetness

  of the Night. Each mystery the shadows held beyond the curtains of stars,

  gave her fullness and light and wild pleasure breathed between the

  swirl of shadows. Each star that shone in the night

  became a thousand kisses and a thousand jewels that

  rested upon her like a crown. Cradled tenderly, she knew slowly

  then at once, that while veiled silence bid her blindness

  and deafness and senselessness, she was made for the Night Sky.

  Knowing now the secret of what was, and had always been,

  and would always be, the Moon quietly shined. Waiting.

  Waiting for her Night’s nebulous sleep to end as her own had.

  Neither alone nor awaiting the light of the dawn

  in their ineffable journey to one another’s arms.

  Love,

  J.L.V.

  Chapter 37

  Dorian’s eyes passed over the words of the poem his wife had written for what felt like the hundredth time. Words in which she had exposed the raw edges of her heart.

  He should be upset that she had left it — so neat a trap set between the pages of the book she knew he would find and open. But he could not be angry.

  He only ached for the loss of what both her words and The Odyssey represented.

  They spoke of hours marked by a contentment that had only built anticipation between them. For as much as he had lost himself in the hypnotic sound of her voice, they had both known that he would lose himself again in the welcome of her body. Theirs had been a simple, uncomplicated and unrelenting pleasure in possessing each other.

  Had been.

  Was he really taking away her choice? She had not chosen to stop their enjoyment of each other, or to disappear from his side in the whirlwind of the ton. But how could reason be trusted when held in the grip of love — and he could not doubt that it was love singing in the words that danced on the page with a brilliance that seared his heart.

  Angelica had loved until it swept her away into darkness.

  One of them had to look after their common good, despite her leaving the decision at his feet. The poem was as good as a challenge thrown down, if tenderly, but he could ill afford to accept it.

  She might weep for it now, but she would thank him later when she found the man who would love her as she deserved to be loved.

  The thought did not cheer him as much as it should, and he set the parchment aside with a grunt and a press of his fingerprints to the bridge of his nose.

  He should change.

  He still wore all the stink of smoke, alcohol, sweat and overbearing perfume that was the result of Christmas night spent among mortals. He had given William the Boxing Day holiday to spend with his family, and it meant that he would be tending to his own needs entirely for the day.

  The evening’s festivities had continued almost till the break of dawn when he had escorted Diana to her carriage and endured one of her longer, thoughtful looks as he had offered her fingers a salute good night.

  There had been no reason he should not have followed her home.

  No reason — save for a poem that had haunted him all Christmas day since he had found it that morning and refused to release him to the pleasures of the night.

  And so, he was home — sitting in the gloom of an unnecessary shroud against the dawn light, drinking alone and fighting the urge to throw his glass into the roaring fire.

  Was ever a man more laughable? Desired by two queens and possessing neither?

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He was the definition of a double-minded fool. Had he not already made his choice in giving Joanna her freedom? Why should he not take of the comfort Diana offered?

  The widow had been patient enough.

  The Conde downed what was left of his brandy in a single swallow, and it was bitter in his throat. As bitter as the betrayal that he knew he would offer the woman who believed she loved him.

  The glass went into the fire, after.

  The sound of the bell pull echoing through the hollowness of the house was unexpected enough to startle him. More so because there was no sound of music to betray that it might be a member of his family. He was listening for the sound of William’s footsteps when the answering silence served for his reminder — he would be
managing his own challenges today.

  He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance for being disturbed at such an unseemly hour as he drew the door open.

  “What in the devil do you want?” His blunt greeting escaped before he made out whose shadow it was that blocked the morning sun.

  “No William?” Ayla offered, her fingers settled in the depths of her coat pockets. The stain had never quite washed out.

  “It’s Boxing Day,” Dorian replied with a low grumble.

  “I know. You should see the fuss the queens have made for having to tend to their own affairs. You stink of mortals, Marido. Did I disturb a bath?”

  He squinted at her; both for the sunlight that spilled over her shoulder, and for the twitch of irritation that came with the term of endearment so often used between them. The last thing he needed was another wife.

  “You should be. But I fear I have been rather too busy trying to get drunk. I had forgotten how nearly impossible it is when you’re bloody Immortal.”

  Awareness that she had no reason to be there prickled through him, and in an instant whatever level of inebriation he had managed faded into a razor’s edge of focus. “But why have you come? Is Joanna well?”

  Ayla’s last visit had not boded well for the coven.

  “She is exceedingly good at hiding away.” The High Queen answered. “You are easier to find.” Her hand slipped free of her pocket and she turned her palm over to reveal the golden ring with a garnet stone that Joanna had worn for a wedding band.

  Had.

  “It was in Angelica’s room.” Ayla continued quietly.

  Dorian stared at the ring as if it might bite him. It was as if his sister had known the precise weapon to wield in the face of his shadows. But she could not have known — even less so for being unable to hear the story of their troubles in the symphony that bound them.

  He reached out and took the ring, feeling it warm him with the heat of the Queen’s own touch.