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“Did Master Draven specify the time?” Charlotte asked, suspicious.
Lemoine waved a hand, dismissing Charlotte’s question. “I am very busy. I do not have time to ferry you about the Aerie. Sit and wait.”
All right, enough was enough. The steward meant to humble or humiliate her, for reasons she could not fathom.
Charlotte pulled her shoulders back. She was tired and in no mood for whatever game the woman was playing. “Forgive me, Madame Lemoine, did I say or do something to offend?”
“No. Why would you ask such a nonsense question?” She continued to smile, and it vexed Charlotte.
It vexed her greatly.
“Since I’ve arrived, you’ve done nothing but criticize and snipe at me, and I’m genuinely baffled as to why. All I can think is that you’re an extraordinarily rude person,” Charlotte said.
Lemoine dropped the false smile. “Because you’re just like all the others, crawling up the mountain with your hands out begging.”
“I’m here at his invitation.”
“You don’t care about the Master or what he needs. You only care about what he can give you.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. She did care about what she could get from Draven. She wanted history. “That seems a fair trade for all that I would give him.”
Lemoine snorted. “What you can give him is nothing special. Every dozen years or so he gets the idea in his head that he needs a companion, and soon enough one of your lot scurries out of the wastes, ready to trade yourself for trinkets.”
“I’m not interested in trinkets,” Charlotte said, doing her best to keep anger from seeping into her tone. “If I want trinkets, I have my late husband’s fortune to spend. I imagine the shops in Founding are much better stocked than whatever it is you have here.”
“Your kind never lasts. You’ll be gone soon enough.” The woman lifted her chin, like she scored a point in some absurd duel.
Charlotte drew on all her years of boarding school. As much as she loathed the lessons on social etiquette, it served her now. In her clearest cut-glass voice she said, “Thank you, Madame Lemoine. I’ll wait here until dinner is served.”
The steward’s mouth was round, like she intended to continue berating Charlotte.
“That will be all,” Charlotte said, turning her back on Lemoine in the most absolute, well-mannered yet rude dismissal possible. She stood in front of the fire, studying the sword—the fabled Blackthorn?—until she heard Lemoine depart.
Fantastic. She had only just arrived, had zero allies, and one adversary.
Lemoine wasn’t wrong, though. Charlotte did want something from Draven. As noble as she believed her pursuit of knowledge to be, it was still her objective. She wasn’t here because she cared about the vampire. How absurd. And Draven knew that. His invitation had been for any person willing to spend a year as his bride. Anyone. No requirements other than to be willing. Surely he understood the kind of crowd that would attract.
Charlotte perched on the edge of the chair and waited, drumming her fingers on the table. And waited. She drifted to the fireplace again. If the sword was Blackthorn, it looked rather unimpressive with dull metal in need of a polish. She moved to the balcony doors and pressed a hand to the cold glass. The snow obscured any vista the balcony might have to offer.
She didn’t need the steward to be her friend, but if she were to last the year, she needed some sort of peace between them.
The door opened. Charlotte turned to find a man, approximately her age, shaking his head. Where Madame Lemoine had been cool polish, this man was unkempt. His face needed a shave, his hair a good brushing, and his gray uniform needed to be ironed.
“I thought Megane would be up to her tricks. I see she abandoned you here,” he said, his friendly tone putting her at ease. “I’m Captain Stringer, Lord Draven’s first officer.”
“Charlotte Wodehouse,” she replied, dipping her head in greeting. “Madame Lemoine and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
He shook his head. “It’s all wrong feet with that sour lemon.”
Charlotte snorted in amusement, then covered her mouth. “Forgive me. It’s rude to laugh at another’s expense.”
“Pretty and polite,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry yourself. She’ll say worse to your face. We don’t have much use for society manners out here.”
“So I see,” she said. Despite the man’s rough delivery, she found him pleasant and agreeable. “Is it me in particular she objects to, or is that just her natural disposition?”
His booming laugh echoed in the room. “She’s determined to dislike all of Lord Draven’s guests.”
Yes, she seemed to be one of many.
