Under Eleanor's protection, a slow kind of healing begins. The elder's house is a sanctuary from the familiar misery of Schönbrunn. Eleanor believes she has seen and known everything in her long life. She says Amelia's infatuation with Meryem is nothing more than the madness of a blood bond. Perhaps Felix wants Amelia to teach Eleanor the same lesson she taught Meryem. How to feel again, love again, and then lose it all. Would that be close enough to justice?
Amelia can only confess the truth to Eleanor so many times before it becomes unbearable. Sometimes the elder laughs it off as foolishness, sometimes the betrayal cuts her deeply. Without fail, Felix tears the memory painfully from Eleanor's mind within the hour leaving the elder shaken and disoriented, and no wiser. Knowing her sire's nature well now, Amelia pays careful attention to which of her emotions to feed. Love, even grief and sorrow nourish Felix. Violence and jealousy aggravate his shadow. He insists that the charade must continue, and to Amelia's shame, she complies.
Each dawn as she lies on the narrow cot, Amelia presses her back against the cold plaster wall. She imagines Meryem's hand resting on the curve of her hip, the cold rush of her lover's breath on the nape of her neck. The last night they rested together there was no urgency, no passion. They lay as though they would always be together, like time could stand still.
It is made more bearable by her duty to those mortals who depend on her. Detached from the acute loss of Meryem, Amelia goes through the motions, passing from one task to another. She is hyper aware of her grief, it distracts her and leaves her cold, but there is no mystery for anyone to solve. Amelia plays the part of a widow in mourning after all. Her mortal friends comfort her in her just as they always have done.
And as for lovers, selfish vessels are safest. They are too consumed with their own pleasure to look too hard or too long at Amelia's response. Nothing can compare to Meryem's kiss. Better still to creep soundless into bedrooms where her sometime lovers sleep, and drink their dreams like the waters of forgetfulness.
Eleanor acknowledges Amelia's misery as coldly as she acknowledges the duties her student undertakes. There is power in suffering, she says, and strength in survival.
The praise is not mere empty words. Everything Amelia is tasked with has purpose. One duty well executed leads to another duty given, a smattering of errands; lessons, substantial and worthwhile. It is so different from the tutelage she has known before. Nevertheless, Amelia is still suspicious when Eleanor brings the ghoul maid from the palace to wait on Amelia.
It is necessary to reward all ghouls servants with vampire blood regularly, lest they age as they would have done without the gift. Amelia allows Sylvie to take her vitae at least weekly, horrified at the thought of the poor woman withering away from neglect. It must always be at the last possible moment before dawn, or the ghoul would soon become aware of the strange character of Amelia's blood.
A ghoul of many decades, Sylvie yearns for the vitae she cannot live without. At the palace, such generosity is unheard of. Perhaps a dozen palace ghouls are served at each change of the moon, and there are no extra measures. If you miss your turn, it's your own loss.
Sylvie is always very grateful, but it's impossible to ignore her restlessness, her yearning for something more. Whatever the law, Sylvie's keepers have ignored it more than once. There is a forbidden desire for the irreplaceable kiss, that Amelia feels all too keenly herself.
Wolf-Dietrich was adamant. If a ghoul loses fear and respect, there is only one cure. Thankfully despite her knowledge and desires, Sylvie seems to have a healthy measure of both, and never outright asks for the kiss. She does confess to Amelia that she would rather die to anyone's kiss than be forgotten.
Eleanor is always willing to teach and so Amelia asks her keeper directly, "Is that your purpose, madame? That I destroy her?"
Eleanor turns up one corner of her lip and sets aside her pen. She caps the inkwell, and leaves her work open on the desk, moving closer to Amelia, too close for comfort.
"Do not presume to know my purpose. Are you asking for my permission?"
Amelia baulks at that. "No, of course not, only your guidance. I have no wish to harm her, but the poor woman is so frank about her desire, I wondered if someone might have put it there deliberately."
"An interesting perspective." Eleanor says more sternly. "No doubt your experiences with ignorant mortals are more recent than my own, how much knowledge can you tolerate in a servant?" The proximity of the elder is unsettling. The cold judgement in her words even more so.
"I have the utmost respect for secrecy, I reveal nothing." Amelia tries to sound confident in her reply, but these are ominous questions.
"Simply sublime." Eleanor scowls. "If a mortal you presume to call a friend, say, moved you to tears? What action would you take to protect the masquerade?"
"But Sylvie is a clan ghoul, she's not like other mortals."
"As I suspected." A note of sadness creeps into Eleanor's words. "He left you to gather this vital information from a haphazard mixture of books and clumsy experience."
"You can't expect me to kill her just because she's seen me cry," Amelia says indignantly, "she literally held the bowl the first time Wolf-Dietrich had me fed."
"By extension this house is covered by the same indulgence as the palace, but you were not to know that. What I asked you," Eleanor lowers her voice and somehow it sounds more intimidating, "is what level of knowledge you tolerate among your friends. Your mortal friends to be more specific."
"None, madam." Amelia consciously slows down her reply. It wouldn't do to sound flippant. "No knowledge at all of our kind. I misunderstood you, please forgive me."
"I find that laughable. Do you expect me to believe that you are capable of silencing any of these mortals you associate with in the event of a masquerade breach?"
Wolf-Dietrich never cared. As chilling as this unexpected interrogation is, Amelia takes comfort in Eleanor's concern.
"I know I seem soft to you, but I have full control of my faculties. Of course I don't hold back in your presence, what would be the point? But I take my duty to protect the masquerade very seriously. If I had to silence one of my friends because of my stupid mistake then I would destroy us both. Does that satisfy you? And I wouldn't hesitate. Because without such action the knowledge could spread and everyone who found out would fall to the sheriff."
"Then why have your husband spared?" Eleanor asks sharply.
That was unexpected. Poor Franz. Likely her husband is still under Wolf-Dietrich's thumb.
"That was not my decision, my lady. My sire is a law unto himself, but I recall swearing my vows to him, and did not lightly set them aside," Amelia says with a note of defiance.
"Beautifully put." Eleanor seems to soften at last. "The ghoul could be useful to you, a knowing pair of eyes and ears among your retinue. She will need work, mind. She is a well worn tool indeed."
"Madame." Amelia dips a knee as she keeps her eyes on Eleanor's. "Sylvie is a good servant but as you point out, she only exists with the indulgence of the city. I am grateful that you have allowed me such a privilege. What restrictions must I impose on her service to fulfill my duties to the domain and the masquerade?"
"I trust your discretion." The elder turns away and returns to her letters. "I task you to break her out of the self destructive melancholia which threatens her equilibrium. I expect that it is within your nature to rekindle her sense of purpose, do whatever you feel is necessary."
"To what end?"
"Find something with which to occupy yourself that does not tax my patience, childe."
*
Felix comes and goes. Amelia can feel the familiar weight of his presence when he chooses to stay. He is entirely disapproving of necromancy, paranoid and suspicious of her motives, unashamedly jealous of other spirits. He doesn't seem to mind Amelia's mortal interaction, but weeks pass before any spirits dare to make contact with Amelia. Only the most determined, those whose families rely on Amelia, and those whose fetters are in her care dare approach, and then only when Felix is away.
Sylvie somehow procures the services of an elderly exiled gentleman who consents to become their guardian, complete with his own property portfolio. She acts as his secretary, posing as Amelia's older and more responsible cousin. The ghoul manages daytime affairs with ease. Soon, alongside grants from the charity Amelia set up, Franz's dower gift of a grand house out in the wald also delivers a steady income of rent.
At Amelia's insistence, Sylvie hires a cook, a housemaid and a groundsman to complement Eleanor's stoic butler. This leaves Sylvie with ample free time, and could make Amelia's new home less lonely, if only she could overcome her distaste for how little choice the woman really has.
Even in the small hours before dawn, Sylvie rouses herself and attends to every detail of Amelia's instructions. The ghoul rarely offers a word to her mistress, least of all an opinion, but her familiarity and tenderness give some hope that she is at peace with all this. Still, she makes lustful eyes at Amelia at times, and the vampire is growing more and more fond of her in turn.
Does the ghoul truly desire Amelia, or only her vitae and the kiss? That need for the kiss is excruciating. Amelia dismissed it once as immaterial, certainly secondary to the pleasure of Meryem's company and devotion. After going without for weeks, the physical yearning cannot be denied, and doesn't seem to fade. Felix is sympathetic, and surprisingly directs her to seduce Jerome.
The malkavian has the curious affliction that in the two centuries since his embrace he has felt no emotion at all. In fact the only thing that brings him satisfaction is the acquisition of wealth. The old high clans like to think that they monopolise influence, and perhaps they do. But Jerome has ruthlessly amassed enough raw wealth to buy the city twice and it sits in a hundred different secret places doing absolutely nothing. Amelia makes no demands of him on that account, but it hardly eases her conscience. Jerome would never agree to a one sided blood bond if it wasn't for Felix's influence.
It's very different from serving Meryem. The malkavian's unusual nature dampens the obvious signs of his bond. He is never effusive in his affection, he rarely stays long after each furtive liaison, but he is fiercely loyal and extremely sensitive to Amelia's criticism. This despite the fact that he sees her as nothing more than a wayward ventrue fledgling. Paranoid Felix actively destroys any knowledge of Amelia's nature, even among her true clan.
