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Clara
Sitting backagainst the stone wall of my room, I cross my legs and rest my book in my lap. I run my hand over the faded title. The familiar scent of parchment and leather is comforting. A candelabrum sits on the wood post of the bed, providing me just enough light to read. I tried to sleep, but it’s no use, not after the events of the day before and last night.
I open the book to the first page and stare blankly at the words on the page. Two sentences in, and my mind has already wandered back to Alaric’s words.I will never stop loving you.
He loves me.His proclamation swells in my heart. It’s almost enough of a balm to ease my irritation at Cassius for sending him away.
I still fear losing Alaric, but I no longer doubt him. He will do what is necessary, as will I. This kind of love is foreign to me. Nothing Xander and I ever shared ever came close to this.
Pounding on my door startles me from my thoughts. My smile fades as a servant walks in.
“I have been sent to fetch you, Miss Valmont. We are to begin preparing you for the upcoming coronation.”
Mood instantly soured, I close my book and blow out the candle as I stand. There’s no point in arguing. Besides, I must prove myself to be the perfect human pet.
The woman scans me from head to toe, pulling a face. I’m still wearing the deerskin leggings and tucked-in shirt from the outing with Alaric.
I follow her to a new area of the castle I haven’t been to before, located close to the court member’s quarters. She opens the door to a room at the end of the hall and gestures for me to enter. The door clicks shut behind me. A woman sits at a table, hunched over a book, furiously writing. The scratching of her quill halts as she looks up from her work.
“Don’t just stand there,” she says, waving a hand at the circular fitting platform in the center of the room.
I step up, and in seconds, she is at my back taking my measurements. She lifts my arms in a quick, efficient movement as if I were a mannequin. She hums, stepping back, eyes assessing me before scribbling something down her a ledger. I mentally prepare for several long hours of standing in the same spot and being poked and prodded with needles every time I dare fidget or move too much.
“Don’t move. I will be right back,” the seamstress says in a clipped tone before striding from the room.
I let my arms fall to my sides. Several minutes pass, and when the woman doesn’t return, I decide to risk her annoyance and explore the room.
Three folding screens line the wall to the right, one in each corner and one in the center. A long table set against the wall opposite the door holds mounds of cloth in every color and texture imaginable.
Everything in the room is the shades of cream—from the light ash wood furniture and accents to the pale sand floor stones. Floor-to-ceiling leaded windows partially hidden by thick, ivory curtains span almost the entire the length of the left wall, with two small, round tables stationed in front.
I make my way to the long table and run my hand along the assortment of fabrics. Some are thick, others partially transparent with tulle and lace mixed in.
The door opens. I spin and snatch my hand away from the expensive materials, prepared to mutter a halfhearted apology. But it’s not the seamstress who walks through the door, and the words die on my tongue before I can even breathe.
Swathed in dark shades of purple, the vampire queen glides into the room, her royal mantel flowing out in her wake. The gown is like a second skin, hugging her from the high collar down, and flaring out at mid-thigh.
“Hello, Miss Valmont. I was hoping we could have a chat.”
I can’t say no, but she doesn’t need my permission.
Elizabeth takes my silence as answer enough. She walks to one of the round tables and runs a long, thin finger over the surface. She frowns but takes a seat anyway. Every move and gesture is eerily graceful.
She flicks her wrist, and the servant waiting next to the door snaps to attention.
“Tea,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. “Come, Clara, we have much to talk about.” Elizabeth motions to the chair opposite her.
I snap my mouth shut and cross the room on weak legs. Elizabeth watches my approach with the razor-sharp gaze of a predator, searching for any weakness. Gripping onto the back of the chair, I slowly lower into the seat across from her. Each breath I take is slow and measured, keeping my pulse from thundering like a herd of wild horses.
Placing my folded hands in my lap, I remain silent, allowing her to speak first. The weight of her studying gaze scalds as I keep my eyes locked on the surface of the metal table. The tension between us becomes suffocating.
Finally, the servant returns. He sets a tray between us, breaking our eye contact when he leans forward. I can breathe again. Streaks of silver mix into the chestnut brown of his hair. Though his face appears young in contrast, the skin is bright and lacks any wrinkles, except for the deep frown lines on either side of his mouth.
After pouring two cups of dark tea, he removes the lid from a small dish, revealing an assortment of bite-sized shortbread cookies. When he stretches his arm out to set my cup in front of me, his sleeve shifts to reveal a mess of scars along his wrist. He pulls back quickly and tugs the material back into place.
In the center of each cookie is a dollop of thick, red jelly that looks like blood. It could be fruit preserves, but the warm copper tang that rises makes me doubt that. Once the servant finishes setting the table, he turns on his heel and strides out the door, leaving me alone with her.
Elizabeth picks up her cup and takes a dainty sip. “Would you like a snack, Clara?” She motions to the small cookies.
