Chapter Fourteen
When Marissa opened the door to her bedroom, she felt like an intruder in her own space: A wiped-out, heartbroken, lost... stranger.
Looking around aimlessly, she thought, God, it was such a pretty white room, wasn't it? With its big canopied bed and its chaise lounge and antique dressers and side tables. Everything was so feminine, except for the art on the walls. Her collection of Albrecht Diirer woodcuts didn't match the rest of the decor, those stark lines and hard edges more fitting to a male's eyes and a male's things.
Except that the images spoke to her.
As she went over to look at one, she had a passing thought that Havers had always disapproved of them. He'd thought that Maxfield Parrish paintings of romantic, dreamy scenes were more appropriate for a female Princeps.
They never had agreed on art, had they? But he'd bought the woodcuts for her anyway because she'd loved them.
Forcing herself into action, she closed her door and went for the shower. She had little time before the regularly scheduled Princeps Council meeting tonight, and Havers always liked to arrive early.
As she stepped under the water, she thought how strange life was. When she'd been with Butch in that quarantine room, she'd forgotten all about the council and the glymera and... everything. But now, he was gone and it was all back to normal.
The return struck her as tragic.
After blowing her hair dry, she dressed in a teal Yves St. Laurent gown from the 1960s, then went to her jewelry cabinet and chose an important suite of diamonds. The stones were heavy and cold around her neck, the earrings weighty on her lobes, the bracelet a lock on her wrist. As she stared at the flashing gems, she thought that females in the aristocracy were really just display mannequins for their family's wealth, weren't they.
Especially at Princeps Council meetings.
Going downstairs, she dreaded seeing Havers, but figured it would be good to get it over with. He wasn't in his study, so she headed for the kitchen, thinking he might be having a bite to eat before they left. Just as she was pushing her way into the butler's pantry she saw Karolyn coming out of the door to the basement. The doggen was carrying a heavy load of collapsed cardboard boxes.
"Here, let me help you," Marissa said, rushing forward.
"No, thank you... mistress." The servant flushed and looked away, but that was the way of the doggen. They hated accepting aid from those they served.
Marissa smiled gently. "You must be packing up the library for its new paint job. Oh! Which reminds me. I'm late right now, but we do need to talk about tomorrow evening's dinner menu."
Karolyn bowed very low. "Forgive me, but master indicated the party with the princeps leahdyre was canceled."
"When did he say this?"
"Just now, before he left for the Council."
"He's gone already?" Maybe he assumed she would want to rest. "I'd better hurry off then - Karolyn, are you all right? You don't look well."
The doggen bowed so deeply the boxes brushed the floor. "I am well, indeed, mistress. Thank you."
Marissa raced out of the house and dematerialized to the Tudor home of the current council leahdyre. As she knocked, she hoped Havers had cooled down. She could understand his anger considering what he'd walked in on, but he didn't have a thing to worry about. It wasn't like Butch was in her life or anything.
God, she felt like throwing up every time she thought about that.
She was let in by a doggen and shown to the library. As she walked into the meeting, none of the nineteen at the polished table acknowledged her presence. This was not unusual. What was different was that her brother did not lift his eyes. Nor was there even a seat saved for her on his right. Nor did he even come around and settle her in her chair.
Havers had not cooled down. Not in the slightest.
Well, no matter, she would talk to him after the meeting. Calm him. Reassure him, though it killed her, because she could have used some support from him right now.
She sat at the far end of the table, in the middle of three empty chairs. As the last male walked into the meeting, he froze as he saw that all the seats were taken save for those on either side of her. After an awkward pause, a doggen rushed in with another and the princeps squeezed in elsewhere.
The leahdyre, a distinguished pale-haired male of great bloodline, shuffled some papers around, rapped on the table with the tip of a gold pen, and cleared his throat. "I hereby call this meeting to order and I am tabling the agenda you have all received. One of the members of the council has drafted an eloquent appeal to the king, which I believe we should consider with alacrity." He lifted a creamy piece of stationery and read from the thing. " 'In light of the brutal killing of the Princeps Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger warrior Tohrment son of Hharm and blooded daughter of the Princeps Relix, and in light of the abduction of the Princeps Bella, mated of the Black Dagger warrior Zsadist son of Ahgony and blooded daughter of the Princeps Rempoon and blooded sister of the Princeps Rehvenge, and in light of the numerous deaths of males from the glymera who have been taken in their youth by the Lessening Society, it is evident that the clear and present danger facing the species has grown more dire of late. Therefore, this council member respectfully seeks to resurrect the practice of mandatory sehclusion for all unmated females of the aristocracy such that the bloodlines of the race may be preserved. Further, as it is this council's duty to safeguard all members of the species, this council member respectfully seeks to have this sehclusion practice extended to all class levels.' " The leahdyre looked up. "As per Princeps Council practice, we shall now entertain the motion with discussion."
Warning bells went off in Marissa's head as she looked around the room. Of the twenty-one council members present, six were females, but she was the only one to whom the writ would apply. Though she'd been Wrath's shellan, he'd never taken her, so she qualified as unmated.
As a consensus of approval and support swelled in the library, Marissa stared at her brother. Havers would now have complete control of her. Well played of him, wasn't it.
If he was her ghardian, she couldn't leave the house without his permission. Couldn't remain on the Council unless he agreed. Couldn't go anywhere or do anything because he would own her as his property, for all intents and purposes.
And there was no hope of Wrath turning down the recommendation if the Princeps Council voted yes on the motion. Given the way things were with the lessers, there was no rational standing for a veto, and although no one could unseat Wrath by law, a lack of confidence in his leadership could lead to civil unrest. Which was the last thing the race needed.
At least Rehvenge wasn't in the room, so they couldn't do anything tonight. The venerable laws of procedure for the Princeps Council provided that only representatives from the six original families could vote, but all of the Council had to be present for a motion to be passed. So even though the bloodlines were at the table, with Rehv not in attendance, there would be no resolution now.
While the Council enthusiastically discussed the proposal, Marissa shook her head. How could Havers have opened up this can of worms? And it was all for nothing because she and Butch O'Neal were... nothing. Damn it, she had to talk to her brother and get him to derail this ridiculous proposal. Yes, Wellesandra had been killed and that was beyond tragic, but forcing all females underground was a step backward.
A retreat into the dark ages when females were totally unseen and all but possessions.
With icy clarity, she pictured that mother and her young with the broken leg back at the clinic. Yes, this was not just repressive, it was dangerous if the wrong hellren was in charge of a household. Legally, no one had any recourse against a sehcluded female's ghardian. At his discretion, he could do whatever he wished to her.
Van Dean stood in another basement of another house in another part of Caldwell, a whistle between his lips as his eyes tracked the movements of the pale-haired men in front of him. The six "students" were in a line, knees bent, fists up. They were striking the empty air in front of them with blurring speed, alternating left and right, shifting their shoulders accordingly. The air was heavy with their sweet smell, but Van didn't notice that shit anymore.
He blew the whistle twice. As a unit, the six brought both hands up as if grabbing a man's head like a basketball, and then they slammed their right knees forward repeatedly. Van blew the whistle again and they switched legs.
He hated to admit it, because it meant he was over the hill, but training men to fight was so much easier than going hand to hand in the ring. And he appreciated the break.