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Ah. There it was. The knock on the door.
"Come in," she called, trying not to sound breathless as she dug through her paints. Cale removed his coat to lay it over one of the chairs, but he still wore his hat, and she was suddenly nervous that it would cause comment, or that he would need to remove it.
Cezar's trusted steward, Belial, entered the chamber. "Bonjour, Monsieur David," he said with a bow. "What is your desire today?" His sharp eyes scanned the room, and Narcise held her breath, praying that Cezar's sired vampire wouldn't notice that this David was several inches taller and with broader shoulders than the previous one had been, and that there was another scent mingling in the room with them.
Cale didn't pause in his action of moving a stool to the center of the room, and perhaps his half-bent, facing-away position helped to camouflage his physical appearance.
"I shall have the usual, of course," he said in that clumsy voice, and with the same peremptory tone David always used. He fussed with the stool as if needing to position it just perfectly in the light. "Mademoiselle, I shall act as your model today to continue your lesson on perspective. The very brim and angle of this hat, which I have borrowed for such a purpose, will be an excellent study in the aspects of perspective. You will need a charcoal and several soft lead pencils. Put away the paints, mademoiselle. I have already told you you won't need the brush today. How many times have I said that you must start with the drawings and sketches before you can think to paint?"
Narcise forced herself to relax slightly. He sounded just as Monsieur David would have. Cale had obviously planned this well-but what was he planning? "I am sorry, monsieur. It is just that I ordered new paints and hoped to be able to use them today."
"Always so impatient, the women, no?" Cale said to no one in particular, but Belial gave a soft knowing chuckle.
"I will shortly return with your refreshments, monsieur," the steward said.
He left the room as Cale ordered, "Mademoiselle, please. You are wasting my time."
The door closed behind Belial, and Narcise turned to face Cale. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in a low voice.
"Can we be heard or seen?" he replied in matching tones, looking around the room. It was clear he had something in his mouth that caused the deformity of voice and face, but now his tones at least sounded familiar.
"No, but Belial will return shortly. How did this come about?" Narcise's hands were shaking, trembling furiously, and she could not understand her reaction to this. What did it mean? Why was he here? And why did she suddenly feel such warmth and light inside her?
"I told you you could trust me, Narcise," he said, sitting on the stool. "Get your papers ready and begin to draw, or I fear Belial will be suspicious. Once he is gone again, I will tell you more."
She did as he bid, feeling his eyes on her as she pulled out the rough papers that curled from being rolled for storage. A hunk of burned coal and her Italian pencils-too slender and short to be used as wooden stakes-joined the parchment on her drawing table, a few stones anchored the paper from rolling up, and then Narcise got to work.
She noticed that Cale had arranged his position on the stool so that he wasn't directly facing the door, nor the table where Belial would place the tray of coffee and sweet breads when he returned. And once she acknowledged that added attention to detail, along with the deliberate tilt of his head to shadow his face even further, she concentrated on her own work.
Despite his disguise, what a pleasure it was to draw the man she'd previously had to sketch from memory. She saw, too, that he'd affixed some sort of false, papier-mache nose to his elegant one, widening it slightly, and as she looked even closer, she noticed faint markings on his face, smudges to emphasize lines and nonexistent dimples.
Narcise had become so engrossed in her work, drawing the angled guiding lines for the hat that would give the sketch depth and an accurate sense of space, that she was startled when the door opened and Belial strode in.
But she felt his sharp eyes scan the room, and her drawing, and was pleased that she'd accomplished as much as she had. The steward set the tray on the table then approached her as if he were master of the place, looking over Narcise's shoulder-something that he occasionally did, but never in the presence of Cezar. She heard, and felt, him test the air about her in a soft, long intake of breath. The fine hairs at the back of her neck lifted and prickled, but she didn't move except to continue her work.
"You are very talented," he said, low and much too close to her ear and Narcise tensed. "Perhaps you will give me some private lessons?"
She resisted the urge to spin and shove the dog away for his boldness. Cezar had left three days ago, and had named Belial head of the household during his absence. Apparently this expression of trust had given the man an unwarranted sense of entitlement.
"Perhaps you will leave me to my work," she replied from between tight jaws. "Your smell is disturbing me."
She felt him stiffen behind her then relax slightly. "Is that so?" he said, obviously attempting to force amusement into his voice. "But I cannot say the same for you, Narcise." He drew in another long breath near her ear. "Your scent is as enticing as you are."
"Cezar doesn't value you that much, Belial," she warned. "You are replaceable and I am not." Rather than fear, it was anger that made her hand unsteady. As if her brother would allow a servant to touch her. Even he was not so base.
The steward made a sound filled with arrogance, but Narcise had no concerns about anything he might attempt. And despite the annoyance, she was glad his attention was focused on her and not Cale.
She dared a glance at the model sitting on his stool, and caught a flash of fiery eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Firming her lips she sent a silent warning back at him and resumed her drawing. She didn't need Cale's anger, nor his meddling in this.
"You've completed your task, Belial," she said, replacing her pencil that drew light, thin lines with the heavier charcoal. Broad strokes emerged, dark and bold, filling in the shadows beneath the curve of the hat brim. She itched to work on those lips: so full on the bottom and with a soft line along the top one that would require delicate shading. "You may leave."
"So I am distracting you?"
"No," she said, putting the charcoal down and fixing him with fury in her eyes. "You are tempting me to introduce you to my saber. Intimately."
Belial's eyes flashed red, but he drew himself up and away. "Do not be so certain of yourself, Narcise." And with that comment, which she assumed he meant to sound ominous, but which nearly made her laugh, he turned and stalked from the chamber.
