Mr. Goodwin stood. He took up his black hat with long fingers and placed it precisely on his scalp. “Thank you, Lady Rockley. I wish you a good day.” He started to turn, and then slowly swiveled back to face Victoria, who had stood. “What happened to your husband, Lady Rockley?”
She felt her heart give an unpleasant little lurch. “He died at sea,” she replied automatically.
“That is the story that’s been given out.” He nodded. “What ship was he sailing on?”
“Your questions are not only becoming tiresome, but an outright waste of my time. These matters are of the public record. And, as they can have no relevance to your investigation regarding Miss Forrest, I believe we are done.” Victoria looked pointedly at the study door, gesturing the man toward it. “Good day, Mr. Goodwin.”
“The ship The Plentifulle, it was, or so has been reported. And your husband left his new wife less than a month after the return of your wedding holiday? Suddenly? Without notifying even the servants?”
Victoria drew herself up in all haughtiness. “Mr. Goodwin, I’m not certain how your household is run, but here at St. Heath’s Row, the servants do not grant permission for the master’s comings and goings.”
“I see.” He pulled his hat brim even straighter, and gave a little bow. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Lady Rockley.”
With loathing, Victoria watched the man go. Such a prig, and he had pulled on her strings enough to make her feel unsettled. She, a Venator of two years, who had faced demons and vampires and multiple undead, had been set off balance by a mere Bow Street Runner.
But why on earth had he been asking her about vampires?
Seven
Of Stone-filled Wicker Baskets, Meeting at the Altar, and Confessions
After Mr. Bemis Goodwin, Bow Street Runner, made his exit, Victoria did not return to the parlor. She decided that it was more than fitting to leave Sebastian to face the ferocious Lady Melly and mop up the pieces of his little charade.
Of course, there was always the risk that he might complicate matters further . . . or that Lady Melly might be won over—Sebastian, after all, was as charming as they came—and leap heartily into planning the second wedding to which he had alluded.
But for now . . . Victoria had so many things to think about, to worry on, that she absolutely couldn’t sit in that crowded parlor and pretend to be civil any longer.
She’d already given Verbena, her maid, the direction to pack some of her belongings and to have the footmen take them over to Aunt Eustacia’s town house. She wouldn’t sleep another night under James Lacy’s roof, where Sebastian felt as though he could invade her chambers at will, with disregard for whoever might see him.
Taking care to stay away from any window that might reveal her location to those visiting in the parlor, Victoria took a pea-gravel path along the side of the mansion. She suspected that Kritanu was still in the chapel where she’d left him yesterday afternoon, before joining James for dinner. She’d meant to visit again last night, but the sherry, along with Sebastian’s visit to her chamber, had sent her to bed earlier than she planned.
“Victoria.” Kritanu greeted her as her shadow spilled into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and moved down the aisle toward her trainer.
He was on the altar arranged in one of his more complicated yoga positions: balanced on shoulders and chest with his arms extended along the floor and legs bent up around. His feet rested gently on the top of his head and his arms splayed strongly beneath his raised torso, extended on the ground in a stabilizing vee. As she watched, he moved slowly and smoothly out of what she recognized as the shalabha-asana.
Although Kritanu had taught her some of the positions, or asanas, of yoga in order to help her learn to concentrate and breathe more efficiently, Victoria had never been able to arrange her body thus. Neither had Aunt Eustacia.
“I meant to come again last night,” she began, but he was already shaking his head.
“You’ve much to attend to, child. I know well how difficult it can be.”
Indeed he would, for he had been Aunt Eustacia’s trainer, companion, and—as Victoria had recently learned—her lover for more than fifty years.
Victoria closed her fingers over his smooth, tea-colored hand and squeezed. “When will you bury him?”
Kritanu shook his head. “We do not bury our dead. His body, worn out like that of an old chariot, will be burned. I will take his ashes back to the Consilium, where he would want them to be.” He straightened, and she saw that although grief still lived within his gaze, it had softened. “But I have wanted to talk with you about continuing your training. We’ve done little in the last months, and I fear that you’ll become weak and slow . . . and fall back into using predictable moves.”
Victoria smiled, though for some reason she wanted to cry. “I have made arrangements to move to Aunt Eustacia’s house—which I should have done immediately upon returning to London. It was foolish of me to stay here.”
Kritanu nodded. “I will take my nephew today, then, so you needn’t worry on that. And I’m glad that you’ll be back with me. We’ll hone your ankathari skills, for you must become more adept with a blade. It’s a worthwhile skill for fighting Imperials.”
Imperial vampires were the oldest of the half-demon race, often having been created more than a millennium ago. Their eyes burned red-violet, and they were faster and stronger than even the Guardians. They carried swords, and had the ability to glide through the air. Some of them could also shape-shift or pull the life force from a person with their mere gaze.
Victoria had fought Imperials only twice, and only with help. They were horrible, fearsome creatures.
“When will I be ready to start qinggong?” she asked.
She’d seen Max’s graceful, gliding movements through the air, swooping and leaping as though he was bewinged. As a novice Venator, she’d observed him use these skills in a battle he’d fought against an Imperial vampire two years ago. Max’s strength and skill were well matched to the vampire’s, and the battle had been almost beautiful to behold as they matched blade to wooden pike, feet brushing the ground then rising again, swirling and sliding in great arcs through the night air.
Kritanu gave her a fatherly smile. “If you wish, we can begin tomorrow. But, I must warn you, it will take years, perhaps decades, for you to master it. Unlike other combat skills, qinggong is not enhanced by the vis bulla. It is mostly the strength and power of your mind that will make you successful with qinggong.”
But Max had mastered it, and he couldn’t have been doing so for more than a decade himself. Victoria knew she could learn it as well.
“I see you are skeptical.” Kritanu tipped his head in a gentle nod. “Qinggong is an art from China, not of the Venators. And you will begin, tomorrow if you wish, in the same manner of all who study qinggong.”
Victoria had visions of leaping off chairs or tables, stake in hand, and her lips twitched at the thought of her mother witnessing such a sight. Of course, Lady Melly would faint dead away if she saw the manner in which her daughter already kicked and spun and rolled during her other combat.
“We will fill a large woven basket with rocks,” Kritanu explained. There was a glint of humor in his eyes as if he knew what she’d been thinking. “You’ll walk around the rim of the basket, balancing on its narrow edge. Every day you’ll do this until you can do it perfectly. Then we’ll remove one stone. And you’ll do it again until you can do it perfectly.
“And then,” he said, raising a finger as if to forestall any question about leaping off the sofa, “we’ll remove another stone. And again you’ll walk around it. We’ll continue to do this until the basket is empty, and you can still walk around its rim.”
Victoria stared at him as the force of his description sunk in. “That is how you trained Max?” How could one walk around the rim of an empty woven basket without collapsing it, or tipping it?
His blue-black hair gleamed. “Indeed. As I said, Victoria, it’s the power of your mind . . . not your muscle or speed.”
She gave a spare nod. “I’ll do it.”
Light broke into the small room as the door opened. They both turned to see Sebastian standing at the other end of the aisle. Sunbeams shone over his golden hair from behind, and then he stepped into the darker room and closed the door.
“I wondered where you’d gone off to,” he said. “It was only a bit of luck that I looked out one of the windows and saw the flutter of your skirt as you slipped in here.”
“Never say my mother allowed you to slip from her clutches.” As Victoria watched him walk up the chapel aisle, she was struck by the memory of doing the same thing herself: to meet Phillip at the altar.
Her throat burned. She swallowed hard, and found herself needing to blink rapidly. Meeting her at the altar. Taking Phillip’s place? He’d made it clear he’d like to. At least, in the bedchamber.
She realized with a start that Sebastian had reached her side. But unlike a meeting of his bride, he didn’t reach for her hand and close warm fingers around it. Instead, he replied, “It was quite a feat, getting away from her—but not because she was suddenly overcome with fondness for me. Rather, it was because she was determined to undermine me, and keep me from your side. She sent Rockley off in search of you.”
“Hm. I was rather hoping for a bit more torture,” she replied, shaking off the discomfiting thoughts. “It’s only fair, after that little performance you gave.”
He settled his smile on her. “Torture? But, ma chère, you needn’t leave that to your mother. You have the skill well in hand.” There was a gleam in his gaze that unsettled her . . . and made her stomach squeeze pleasantly. She still could not repress her physical attraction to Sebastian.
Victoria felt her cheeks warm and she shifted her attention toward Kritanu. As if her acknowledgement gave him the impetus to speak, he looked at Sebastian. “You and Victoria have more in common than simply being Venators born.”
