LE LION VERT, 2022
When it was polite to do so, Philipe drew me away from the Red Lion’s table, and we mingled among the crowd. I made a poor impression on Samson, a prominent member of their court. I had come to make connections and find patrons among the wealthy, but now I looked like a simpering fool. I suppose it was silly to think I would impress him; I am not much of a military strategist or a man of violence.
You could consider the Red Lion Court like an Eldritch military organisation. They were all knights, some noble; some had earned their way up from a position as a familiar or an attaché.
Our world hadn’t had a king in many centuries, so their knighthood was more of an affectation. It was something they took seriously but was conferred based on a meritocratic system which likely required killing many people. I hadn’t killed anyone. Not even a sacrifice. The sacrifice of sentients, usually mundanes but sometimes lesser sorcerers, was something for the aristocratic class. Sacrifices were usually done to perform some powerful magic, or as a tax to one’s patron deity. Having a patron usually enhanced ones magical abilities, I did not have one, though I certainly wanted to.
We joined our compatriot Lefevre and formed a semi-circle about Fulvia Deadlocke, who was engaged in discussion with the Corvin. I was somewhat nervous about conversing with her after failing to impress the Red Lions. The very worst thing one can be in our world is weak. Having to end up a familiar to a sorcerer is a one-way ticket to a short life of indentured servitude and the sacrificial altar of your master’s patron deity. So I decided to be bold, even though that, too, had its risks.
Lefevre politely introduced Philipe, and Fulvia cooed with delight.
“Mais oui, and how is your … father, the count?” she asked.
“He is well, your grace,” said Philipe.
“I am so pleased to hear it! Do convey my agreeable felicitations.”
“Of course, your grace,” Philipe bowed, “Surely he will receive them well.”
Fulvia laughed. It was sultry.
“I doubt that. He has, how should I say,” she paused for a very long while and tapped her full lips with an elegant finger complete with a painted talon, “been avoiding me.”
I studied her face. She was well-guarded. But there was a look of injury there underneath the makeup and feigned smiles. The crow’s feet on her eyes were prominent. Her demeanour said they were all she could see when she looked in the mirror.
Lefevre clapped his linen boots together, which made a light thud. “Your gracefulness, this is our friend, Nikolai Bozerenski,” I noted his use of our friend, which was very kind of him to say. It was a subtle promotion of me socially. Lefevre wasn’t an aristocrat, of course, but he was well-liked because he was a consummate spy and assassin.
“Oh, how surprising, the prodigy of Petra Estella and Grigori Yefimovich. I knew him, you know.”
Fulvia emphasised the word knew. I bowed cordially. It was no mystery that she would know my grandfather and grandmother. She was, after all, over a century old. I was curious how she knew me, though. She talked as if I was the son of my grandfather. My mother was Petra Estella’s daughter, Katya. “Your grace, I am honoured.”
“Yes, I can see that you are,” Fulvia paused and looked me over, “so tell me, Nikolai Grigorivichka, does France suit you, do things — please you?”
“Yes, your grace, and even more so once I found your table so exquisitely — set.” I let my eyes dip for a moment to take in the sight of her. I hoped I hadn’t been too forward with my implication. She intoxicated me beyond measure.
Fulvia was angled against the edge of a long table, a tapered wine glass in her left hand, the other folded carelessly across her cuirass. The burgundy fluid in her glass swirled as she stared down at me, who was considerably shorter than her.
Lefevre opened his eyes wide. Philipe formed a faint smile. If I could have read his mind, it probably would have been saying, “You goat! You have no shame in flirting with a Marquise!” I was daring. I was risking insulting her. Something about her was compelling me, though. She was so beautiful — to me.
Fulvia gave a coy smile revealing white teeth lined in a row, “You’re such a hairy beast, Nikolai; tell me, did you inherit your father’s — talents?”
I resented the implication. Was she trying to say I was using my powers unfairly? Or was she mocking me in some way? I was so trapped in my head dealing with her; I had never really been this infatuated with someone I had just met. Or anyone. “Do you mean as a raconteur? I am told my tongue is rather deft.”
She snorted. “How bold you are for such a very — little boy.”
Her face was placid. Boy? I refused to stoop to her level; I would meet her jibes with cleverness.
“Youth recognises youth,” I said, trying to play to her vanity, “your grace can hardly blame me for my adoration of her — considerable — presence.”
She laughed. I rouged to my ears. She looked me dead in the eye, “Such a daring, hairy little beast you are.”
She mocked me. I was tempted to use my satyric powers. I wanted to win. But it didn’t seem right. What would be the point of it? Also, she was a powerful sorcerer. I didn’t fancy being sacrificed at her next party once the magic wore off.
I bowed my head. “I apologise if I have offended you, your grace.”
“Don’t be dull, boy; when I want your apologies, I will get them.” It didn’t sound mean or threatening; there was mercurial playfulness to her.
I looked up at her eyes. They were like an endless sky. “I am sure your grace is very used to getting whatever she wants.”
“And why shouldn’t I, boys are so easily enticed; it isn’t my fault they throw themselves at me.”
“I assume you catch very few?”
“Only the ones that please me, the ones that are special.”
I felt judged and mediocre; what was special about me? What did I have to offer a woman like her that she hadn’t seen in more than one hundred years of being a well-known libertine of exquisite lusts?
She turned back to Lefevre. “Lefevre, you must come, oh say that you will. And bring those darling little ravens with you; we birds must stick together against the snakes. I know those horrid Serpentines will disrupt my soirée with their grotesqueries. You remember how horrid their solstice celebration was, all that flaying.” Fulvia shuddered.
“Of course, your lilyness. Wouldn’t miss it fer all the tea in China.”
“And do pick a theme,” she said, “that delicious Ophelia must compete, or I should be very put out on the matter. You will be a judge, of course. Samson has volunteered, and the Duc de Valmont and I will also. And don’t play favourites.”
“I’d never, your ampleness,” said Lefevre, feigning shock, “sides, I’m like to vote for a snake anyway; I quite like flaying on principle. Plus all those piercings.” Lefevre gave an lecherous shiver.
“Oh, you beast, don’t you dare come to the show with prejudice; of course, if a snake is best, you should vote for them, but you’d better keep an open mind. And there’s to be no flaying; I’m so bored with slaughter after last year. Torture is unfashionable these days — it’s been played to death.”
“Of course, you curviness, I’d not dream of deriding the whole thing before seein’ the outfits and all.”
“Deciding, you mean,” she said, “not deriding.”
“As you say, your bustfulness, but a bit of slaughter mixed in, adds spice to any occasion. I’m not suggestin’ on the level of snakes an’ such. But taxes’ll be due.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t stand in the way of such small things, of course. There will be a sacrifice; it is the solstice, after all; I’ve been working on it all year; I think you’ll find it compelling and sordid!”
“Aye, you don’t want the Duc to have somethin’ to criticise,” said Lefevre.
“Oh, that insufferable queer would criticise the hangman for not using a new rope. And this little boy,” she turned to me, “I would be inconsolable if he didn’t come as well.”
“Kicking and screaming, I’d drag him, your goldy-loxedness.”
Fulvia licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and looked me square in the face. “Screaming? I’m so much better at it than boys.”
Her point was made; she didn’t have to dig the knife in deeper. I wanted to say something hurtful in return but realised I could not. For the sake of decorum, she was, after all, a Marquise. I had started the exchange.
There was something deeper, though. Something that I did not want to admit because the source of anger is often grief, and I felt that if I got mad at her, it must mean that she was stuck in me. I wasn’t about to give this trollop the pleasure of knowing she’d gotten to me.
She was only inviting me to her soirée so she could mock me to a broader public, which was certainly something I desperately wanted to avoid. But, unfortunately, I had blown this connection due to my silly over-attraction to this — old — hag! Why did she have this effect on me?