Depending on the alpha’s means, the chokers were fashioned from pewter, silver, or gold.
I look up at the long line of framed, shattered neckpieces on the wall in front of us and wonder if the installations look excessive to Jensen. I suppose they must. In each frame, on a bed of crushed velvet, what’s left of the necklaces after they were broken has been arranged in a semicircle, mimicking how it would have looked when worn. In my family, there’s a tradition in which the alphas collect the jewels and broken chain and have them placed in the top right-hand corner of the jewelry installation, arranged to resemble the star sign of the omega.
All of the jewelry on display has been forged from high karat gold, and all, bar one, are dripping in diamonds and gemstones.
It’s been years since I’ve been in this room, and there’s something beautiful, if a little unsettling, seeing the jewelry through fresh eyes.
“Do you think they’re deathly romantic or downright creepy?” I ask the little mouse. He rests his chin on his free hand and flicks his gaze from one frame to another. “I’ve never felt quite sure what to think of them. I appreciate the history of my line, and I know it’s a privilege to be able to trace my ancestors back in this way, but at the same time, it’s a little jarring to see them and think of my great-great-great grandparents shagging each other’s brains out.”
He barks a loud laugh, dipping his face into his hand, and turns to me. The jewels on the wall glitter in his eyes when he blinks. He quirks his lips to the side as he mulls it over and then, after a while, says, “I think it’s both. Deathly romanticanddownright creepy.”
I hum in response, suddenly aware of the warmth and weight of his hand on my arm. There’s something reassuring about having him here, something heartening that I wasn’t expecting. It makes me want to stay and talk a while.
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask.
He points to a particularly ornate ensemble with no hesitation. “Ah,” I say, “Lord Alfred Augustus the First, and his mate Lady Elizabeth Anne. They were, by all accounts, a passionate pair. They met when the lady was only sixteen, and their compatibility did not go unnoticed by their families. To keep her virtue intact, Elizabeth was spirited off to France until her twentieth birthday. She and Alfred wrote to each other every day while they were apart, and rumor has it, their letters were”—I shake my head and do a thing with my eyebrows to suggest mock disapproval—“unspeakably raunchy.” I give him a playful nudge. “Actually, they’re probably the kind of thing you’d have more than a passing interest in reading.”
He nudges me back a little harder and rolls his eyes at me as he tries not to smile. “It was research,” he mutters under his breath.
I roll my eyes back at him and continue, “Apparently, Elizabeth’s heat jewelry caused something of a scandal at the time. It was excessive by anyone’s standards, so much so that procuring it put the estate in debt for several years.” I huff a soft laugh because I love this part of the story. “By all accounts, Alfred was entirely unrepentant about the sum he had spent on his mate’s jewels and remained so until his last breath. According to letters and correspondence I’ve found, he was frequently quoted as saying it was the best money he ever spent.”
Jensen’s cheeks crease and his lips crack into a smile. “Aw, I love that. A rich boy with more money than sense. How romantic.” He chuckles, placing a little more weight on my arm and leaning in slightly. “Which is your favorite?”
“This one,” I say, pointing to the last frame I hung on the wall, the one closest to the door. “It’s the humblest piece here, but it suits their story, and their story is my favorite. It belongs to my grandfather and my poppy.”
It’s a simple piece in comparison to the rest. Three narrow, flat ribbons of gold that have been braided to fashion a choker.
“My grandfather was the heir to the estate, and my poppy was the stable hand’s son. They grew up running the moor together, playing where rules didn’t exist and having fun was the only thing that mattered. They were inseparable as boys, carving out time to spend together whenever they could.”
I pause as the memory of the way my grandfather’s eyes always went soft and misty when he told the story gleams in my mind’s eye. “My grandfather wasn’t especially book-smart, but he was life-smart. He knew the way of the world without anyone having to explain it to him. He understood, before he should have been old enough to understand such things, that my poppy was not an acceptable match for him. So when he left for boarding school when he was eleven or twelve, he told my poppy that when he returned, they could no longer be seen together.
“Eyes that had grown watchful when the two boys played began to relax, and over time, most people forgot the friendship had ever existed. There was talk of arranging meetings with eligible mates for my grandfather, and he not only entertained the discussions, he also encouraged them.
“Unbeknownst to anyone, he still met my poppy in secret whenever he could. Far from forgetting about each other, their friendship deepened and changed. When my grandfather returned home the summer after he and my poppy turned eighteen, he put the plan he’d been working on for years into motion. He stole away in the night, taking my poppy with him.”
Jensen listens intently, his eyes wide and blinking slowly. It’s nice having his attention on me. I like it a lot. “My grandfather and my poppy understood the nature of our line well. For them, our curse was a blessing because my poppy went into heat within a day or two of running away. An early heat brought on by proximity to my grandfather. By the time they were found, it was too late. There was nothing to be done. They were mated for life.”
The little mouse drops his jaw and looks positively scandalized, and I’m pleased with the reaction. “Because of how everything happened, my grandfather wasn’t able to risk buying a necklace for my poppy for fear of rousing suspicion. So, he created a makeshift choker by braiding pieces of straw. He tied it around my poppy’s neck when he went into heat. After they mated, my grandfather picked up the pieces of tattered straw and brought them home with him.” I point to the frame near the door. “He had them gilded in gold so my poppy would have a keepsake of their bonding to hang in this room.”
“Hmm,” says Jensen thoughtfully. “That’s definitely more romantic than creepy, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I think so.”
“Was it a good match?” he asks.
“Yes. It was a perfect match. They were bonded for sixty-five years.” I inhale and let out a long, wistful sigh. “When I think of them together, I can’t remember anything but love and adoration. They died on the same day, as many of our kind do.” Jensen looks down and his expression turns sad. “It was a good thing,” I assure him. “It was what they both hoped for.”
He gives a single nod to show he understands, and then pauses, looking at my poppy’s choker for a while before his eyes land on what’s next to it.
“And this one?” He points to a space on the wall. There’s no frame. No velvet. No jewels. Only a small brass plaque I had engraved with the wordsJohn and Cassandra.
There are three others like it on the wall. Over the years, some custodians of the house have chosen to sweep bonds like these under the rug in an attempt to forget they existed.
I think it’s important to remember them though.
“That wasn’t a love match,” I explain, “so there was no jewelry.” I continue, a little quieter, “John and Cassandra were my parents.” As much as Grandfather and Poppy’s story has always warmed my heart, my parents’ story breaks it. “They met by chance in a train carriage headed for London. It was dumb luck. My father had been planning to travel the day before, but he’d missed his train and had to wait for the next one. My mother was affected by him immediately and went into heat quickly.”
I feel strange thinking about this, and stranger talking about it. Not bad-strange, kind of warm-strange, like there’s something uncomfortably big in my chest that needs to get out. “My father, a gentleman and a cad, helped her through it as any gentleman who is also a cad would.” The little mouse flashes a small hint of teeth. He likes it when I use words likecad. “My mother, she was…her heat was strong, and cool heads were nowhere to be found. When she asked my father to bite her, he initiallyrefused, but the heat was relentless, and after several days, he succumbed.” I close my eyes for a moment, reaching into the past, letting it touch me before going on. “My mother always said that he regretted it from the moment her heat lifted.”
