Embrace Ch 08

The clan meeting is a brief affair. The gerousia wave through Amelia's agoge with a passing reference to Amelia's work with widows and orphans. She speaks only of her contributions to the city itself; nothing is said of the last six weeks. Paracida embraces her warmly with a kiss on the cheek. Wolf-Dietrich seems genuinely proud of her achievements, not that he ever noticed them before.

Eleanor barely looks in her direction. Amelia tells herself she is at peace with that.

Court afterwards is in the grand ballrooms upstairs, no skulking in the shadows tonight. An exhibition of military regalia is the excuse for levity, and a company of players tells stories of the siege of Vienna.

Dead eyed servants on the doors take cloaks. The chill outside numbs mortal fingers, the warmth within is sultry. Amelia ducks out into a side chamber and pumps her fan. The elders do not flush as easily as this. The candles flicker sharply.

"Are you nervous?" A rich baritone voice asks behind her.

Amelia can't help smiling at the calculated lack of protocol. She spins and bows with a flourish. "Should I be, uncle?"

Rudolphus takes her hand and kisses it. "Let's see. Even the greenest of jealous eyes cannot touch you tonight, but tomorrow?"

"Tonight will be long and formal, and tomorrow may be brutally short."

"I will vouch for your courage, your resourcefulness and not least for your charm." He smiles.

"I didn't think you'd be back any time soon." Amelia says. "You missed my agoge."

"I stand by all I said. A domain is but a domain in name only if the leadership is unsound. Your sire and great grandsire may applaud you, but they will not protect you. They will favour her because it is easier to appease than tame that beast."

"Nevermind all that. Grant me a boon?"

He frowns but his eyes are confusingly playful. "A touch forward of you. Well it is traditional to indulge the new eiren with gifts. You may ask. I make no promises."

"Please let me have Sylvie. Everything is so much less miserable..."

"Done." He smiles warmly. "That's nothing. Now choose a proper gift."

"I don't really..."

"Amelia," He says sternly, "I am offering you my protection."

"I'm not frightened of Catherine." She tries hard to mean it. She is embarrassed by his knowing smile. "Truly, uncle. I am more worried about the conclave itself."

"You and every kindred in Vienna."

"Should I leave?"

"Certainly not." Amelia is quite taken aback by the affection in his voice. "History will be made in these coming weeks. The future will be written. Now, all I can do is physically keep your head on your shoulders. Get out there and make it worth my while." He nods to the ballroom. Amelia smiles sheepishly, takes his arm and they walk back in together.

Open court is no place to show fear. Amelia puts a smile on her face and moves politely between the islands of familiar faces. They are outnumbered three to one by less familiar faces.

Esther rather shyly hands her a narrow little box wrapped in satin. "Just a trifle, don't open it now, I'd die. Congratulations." She smiles warmly.

"Oh thank you." Amelia curtseys out of habit, and Esther saves her from embarrassment by mirroring the gesture and giving her a genteel hug. "I didn't expect anything."

"Brace yourselves ladies." Rudolphus coughs.

"Your gown is rather lovely." An old man leaning on a cane with a rather theatrical limp takes Amelia's elbow and pulls her a quarter turn to the left to get a better view of the embroidered design. "Bless me," he says, "Chinese? Turkish?"

Amelia stares at the little man, the toreador diplomat she met down in the labyrinth.

"It's French." Esther says indignantly on Amelia's behalf. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." The old man says. "Pietro Bembo at your service ladies. And yours too Rudolphus of course, if you're so inclined."

"The Pietro Bembo?" Amelia says incredulously.

Rudolphus rolls his eyes and ignores her. "The Sicilian is a quaint fellow isn't he ladies?"

The little man puffs up in mock outrage at that and pulls at his long grey beard. "For shame Rudolphus, that was low."

"Veneto? Was it? So sorry chap it escapes my memory."

"'All bitterness proceeds from love'," Amelia blurts out before thinking it over at all. "From Gli Asolani," she adds sheepishly.

Bembo crosses himself with a smile. "My dear, you cheapen my blood. Surely this is the lesser form of immortality after all." He bows low to Amelia, kisses her hand, and strides slowly off towards the exhibition.

Esther raises an eyebrow at Amelia with a curious smile.

Rudolphus laughs heartily. "He'll be insufferable now."

"What can I say?" Amelia shrugs. "He invented the madrigal you know?" She tries to appear indifferent and fails. An actual scholar from the Renaissance just kissed her hand.

"The madrigal? I liberated Napoli from the bastard French and get no credit for it at all."

"Everyone knows you're very brave." Esther says soothingly.

Another round of dramatic performance is about to begin, and Rudolphus and Esther drift up a grand staircase to get a better view of the little stage from the balcony.

Esther is probably just being kind, but Rudolphus is being far too insistent for Amelia to trust him. She shakes out her fan again, adjusts the spray of silk flowers at her wrist, and lets her attention wander across the sea of strange faces.

A number of these kindred were there the night Meryem was taken. The tremere are a drab and soulless bunch even standing alongside other kindred; even out of their somber shroud like robes. She ignores their stern glances as she disturbs the unseen dance of clan and status and cuts through their ranks.

Anastasia has her back to Amelia, engaged in some animated conversation with the deputy sheriff. The familiar gangrel catches Amelia's eye and stumbles over his words. The tremere follows his distracted glance and moves aside to include her before she realises that it's Amelia.

A flash of utter dread crosses the woman's face, but the false smile covers her feelings in the blink of an eye.

"Amelia? What a pleasure." The corpulent woman lazily offers her hand, despite the informal nature of this gathering.

Instead of shaking Anastasia's hand, Amelia lifts her eyes to meet Anastasia's and smiles as innocently as she can. "Ambassador?" she says, "Please don't say you remember me, I would be so ashamed."

"Certainly I remember you. You are an honest kindred. And well known for it now."

Amelia nods, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I have some regrets."

What is that? A small tell? The corner of Anastasia's mouth flickers. "Likewise. But we will put those things aside. As a kindred newly released, free of will, and pure of purpose, I'm sure you'll go far."

Amelia taps her fan lightly against her gloved palm, joining in the polite applause as someone makes an entrance on the stage. She leans a little closer to Anastasia. "Are you so proficient that you believe your own lies now?"

Anastasia is briefly lost for words. She snatches her hand away but doesn't break the stare. "Emotions can run high. I expect your regrets will become less obvious once you get a better feel for your clan. They are pragmatic people."

Amelia let's the warlock have the last word as protocol demands and inclines her head with a smirk. A little rush of adrenaline carries her up to the gallery. A little premonition of chaos. Anastasia is so very wrong. Amelia is a little giddy with that knowledge.

The long gallery of windows makes this upper reception room a little cooler than the ballrooms downstairs. She forces her attention away from the unsettling cobwebs, but the tickle of fate remains despite her best efforts.

The prince is here. Eleanor remains within arm's length of him at all times, her attention divided between him and the play. Like ripples in water with concentric circles, the status of the kindred can be judged by their distance from the prince. Amelia is content to stand aside for now and watch the court bustle as it always does.

Within a minute, she spots Catherine approaching, and in the few seconds she considers avoiding her sister in blood, the decision to hold her ground becomes inevitable.

"Congratulations, eiren," Amelia flinches as the vampire leans in to kiss her forehead and press a tiny box into the palm of her hand, "No hard feelings, sister."

Amelia watches Catherine walk away, touches the cold impression of the woman's lips on her brow and tucks away the little box in her purse.

The moonlight coming through into the gallery is exquisitely beautiful. Amelia meanders away from the politicking into the sanctuary. There are a few uniformed clan servants passing here and there, but otherwise this space is reserved as Elysium, a place of peace for all kindred. The snow covered formal gardens glitter outside and Amelia sighs. She feels the shadows wash over her, sinks into their reassuring blanket. There is a subtle odour of decay.

"Hello, Maggot," Amelia says. "Aren't you enjoying the play?"

"Seen it before," he sniffs. "Thought you should know Catherine is a rattlesnake. An hour ago she put in a serious grievance with the committee, wants it heard by the justicar himself."

"I'm sorry, Maggot, I don't know what that means."

"You know the opera? Don Giovanni?"

"I don't attend so often these days, but I've heard of it."

"Well, she's complaining that you had a hand in writing the libretto, and that it's a breach of the masquerade. Stupid cunt."

"Maggot!" Amelia laughs. "I didn't write the libretto. We had a laugh about it a couple of years ago. What breach of the Masquerade?"

"The Venetian bloodline of cappadocians call themselves clan Giovanni. They've sent some shit head libertine to the conclave claiming you're trying to out him to the world for being a bloodsucking prick."

"Should I be worried about this?" Amelia asks, though the insignificance of it is visceral.

"Depends. I wouldn't go into a hearing without some mud to sling back at the bitch. It's not like you can prove you're innocent."

"But the elders will see through her lies in seconds."

"Don't rely on that. The Justicar hears a couple of dozen cases every day, he don't read all their minds he'd go bloody mad girl. Anyways, it's not about the fucking truth. Don't go accepting any of her so-called evidence, call out every bit of her bullshit. And make sure you have something that'll stick to her."

"Thanks Maggot." she says quietly. "I owe you one."

He claps her on the shoulder with a hissing laugh. "That's the spirit, eiren."

Then he vanishes from sight, and Amelia is released from his cloak. She gently rubs the tension away from her temples.

There's a woman standing beyond Maggot by the window. She is shorter than Amelia, embraced in late middle age. Her tight grey curls frame a pretty unremarkable face, but for the sparkling intelligence in her eyes. Her gown is beautifully form fitting in the bust, her figure is stunning. She breathes, Amelia notes. She breathes flawlessly, naturally, and her posture shifts as a mortal's would when made to stand still.

She nods at Amelia with a sad smile. "Good evening."

"Madame." Amelia returns the gesture with a small dip of the knee just to be safe. Though the woman's features are not as inhuman as some elders', she has an air of authority about her.

Something changes then. Something unsettles the woman. Her eyes narrow as she seems to see Amelia for the first time. Amelia glances back to find the room almost empty, and suddenly the woman is close enough to kiss.

"I am new to the city," the kindred says calmly, "pray, do we of the rose find ourselves welcome here?"

"W... what a coincidence." Amelia says, her throat dry. "I myself am newly released tonight. I've already made the acquaintance of a fine toreador gentleman. Perhaps you know him?"

"Will you not even speak her name?" The woman's voice lowers dangerously, and the beast simmers below the surface.

Amelia calms herself enough to use her lunatic blood to dampen the woman's emotion. Technically that might violate Elysium, but it is the lesser of two evils. This must be Arabella's sire.

"I cannot bear to speak her name." Amelia says sadly. "I can barely stand to hear it."

"Guileless neonate," Therese says bitterly.

"What would you have done?" Amelia's voice cracks then. Felix isn't here to fan her hatred, and Arabella was the first woman to kiss her soul. The first woman to stir her loins. And no more wicked than these other monsters after all. "If you knew how many she murdered..."

"Silence. Who fed you such lies? Who sullied her memory so?"

Amelia gives an honest account of that fateful night. It's the only time she has spoken this tragic truth aloud in almost seven years, and despite her best efforts her shame and sorrow are obvious.

"I swear to God and to his holy mother, when I found that all the guests were dead or missing, I agonized over what to do, Lady Therese. I was drowning. So I prayed," she manages not to sob, but the tears will not stop. "They left me with no memory of what happened after... after..." there's that blinding headache again, that sure sign someone excised part of her mind with the blood.

"Enough, please, enough now. I wouldn't be surprised if that bastard disposed of the guests himself. Arabella was..." she tails off, lost in a memory perhaps, staring at Amelia's face.

"She was perfect." Amelia says miserably. "But she was so lonely. And it drove her mad."

Therese gathers herself together in a heartbeat. An elder does not wallow in sentiment. The woman walks out, back to the gathered kindred where some sort of toast is occurring, and loud cheers ring out.

"I was there." Maggot says. "When they took Arabella's head. She knew in the end that what she'd done was wrong. She was ready to meet her maker girl."

Amelia is grateful for those words. But her own guilt wells up in place of sorrow. She had been so quick to put herself in harm's way for the sake of bringing Arabella to justice. Since then she has earned her own contempt. How can she play among these monsters just to spare her own suffering? Ripples of approval pull against her skin as the silky cobwebs shift. It will be her own doing, her broken heart that topples the house of cards. Its future is numbered in days, not years.

You're leaving so soon?" Rudolphus catches her arm as she almost flies down the stairs.

"Don't." She pulls away, heedless of appearances and rushes out into the palace gardens.

She slips between the monuments and topiary, and away into the city, washing the bloody tears from her face at the first opportunity. The water from the drinking fountain is ice cold and she gasps and shudders. It snaps her back to reality and she presses her hands against the cold metal for good measure. The pain is sharp and relentless.

Nearby there's a bench beneath a skeletal tree, and she sits for a moment. She pulls out the two little boxes.

Esther's gift is a set of wafer thin ivory bookmarks and matching fan. They are intricately carved, and each piece is engraved with the date. Was Eleanor was planning to release her anyway?

Catherine's little box is beautiful too, despite its diminutive size. Inside is a single bowstring.

Amelia laughs into the deserted winter street. She takes a slow walk home, and sits beneath the pagoda. Soon there is a palpable presence beside her. She sits and listens, whispers to the shadows. And by the time she dawn, she finally has everything she needs.

*

Sylvie is asleep in her arms when Amelia wakes. The vampire gently nuzzles the ghoul's neck and Sylvie moans softly in her sleep.

Amelia runs her hand over the ghoul's clan marks and sighs. It would be cruel to say anything to her yet. Rudolphus said it was done but it really isn't; even if he keeps his word the gift is not yet official. But if it is true? Amelia squeezes her lover tight and hopes.

It's just past four in the afternoon, so Amelia let's Sylvie sleep. Ingrid is much less moody these days. The lass is getting regularly seen to by the naughty footman, and Amelia is glad to see them happy. The maid helps her with the fiddly evening gown, and takes time to straighten her hair.

She has her mantle on ready to head out for the evening when the doorbell chimes. She stands aside to allow the butler to open the door. She did not expect to see three kindred. Rudolphus and Gaston she knows; the broad shouldered fellow with his gendarmes uniform is a stranger.

"It's fine Klaus, they may enter. Can I help you gentlemen?"

The butler shrinks back as the stranger catches his eye with a predatory smile. The three of them make an odd little group, Rudolphus is dressed for sparring, his only nod to politeness is his neatly ordered beard. Gaston is wearing house shoes. Perhaps they forced him to come here in a hurry.

"No cause for alarm, Amelia," Rudolphus says, "I'm a man of my word. Are you feeling better this evening?"

"Quite well, thank you sir. Care to introduce your charming companion?"

"My dear Amelia, this is Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba. My sire."

"You are most welcome." Amelia frowns in confusion. "Please, come through to the parlour and take a seat."

"We will not stay long." Rudolphus reassures her as they settle by the cold hearth. "If you had stayed a little while longer last night we could have concluded our business at the palace. Not without your blessing, of course." Rudolphus adds hurriedly.

"We tread lightly in Vienna," de Cordoba says, "Our influence here is all loyalty and alliances, I see we are confusing you childe." The gentleman's tone is guarded, testy.

Rudolphus allows a moment to ensure his sire has finished speaking before he continues.

"I know you're not a scholar of history, Amelia. Of kindred history, that is. Many lasombra kindred consider my sire and I to be antitribu. We believe the opposite of course, but they, the anarchists, have numbers on their side."

"You were so angry when the tremere killed Diallo Mambe. It makes sense now." Amelia says. She doesn't hold back. Her own anger is but a touch beneath the surface. "I knew you were different, Rudolphus. You had no time for their hypocrisy."

"Be that as it may," he sighs. He looks over at his sire with a half smile. "I was still in possession of several ventrue assets. And I shall dispose of the last of them tonight, if you are still agreeable to the idea?"

De Cordoba subtly inclines his head. "And noble Gaston shall bear witness."

Gaston shrugs apologetically. "We must make it official. And erm, I've been led to believe it will be necessary to adjust the records, here..." he places a battered looking notebook on the desk, finds the correct page and adds Amelia's name to it, crossing through Rudolphus' with a single neat line, "...and erm... of course the cypher. But you have none yet I take it, Amelia?"

"Perhaps this is the way it's always been done," Amelia says, "but I'm not going to mark her again, Gaston. It's bad enough trying to cover up the ones she already has. Is there any precedent for getting rid of them all?"

"Well, it's not out of the question." Gaston nods sagely. "I mean many kindred consider such obvious marks risky in terms of the first tradition."

"Splendid." Rudolphus claps a hand on his knee.

"I hope you don't think I was being ungrateful yesterday, Rudolphus." Amelia says. She draws out the little trinket box that Catherine gave her and shows them the bow string.

Rudolphus frowns. "Such a gift cannot be ignored."

"No sir. But I expected no less."

"Catherine, I take it?" Gaston says wryly. "Subtle. As always."

Amelia nods and smiles broadly before tucking the wicked thing away once more.

"I won't need your help to deal with Catherine. That's between the two of us." Amelia says with more confidence than she feels. "I need you to help me deal with Therese."