Vivienne and Lucius

The door creaked—and the sound died instantly. The air in the dining room grew thick, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Candles flickered from a draft, and the shadows on the walls swayed as if the house itself had shuddered. Glasses froze in mid-air. A drop, too thick, too crimson, slid and trailed down the rim—slowly, unhurriedly, with that very constancy that cannot be mistaken for anything else.

Two figures turned simultaneously—too simultaneously, in a single, unified motion. Scarlet pupils flared in the gloom, startled, stripped of their habitual, centuries-old masks. For half a second, they stared at you in the doorway. For half a second, they stared at each other. In that split second, an entire conversation passed between them—a conversation that had not yet been spoken.

— Oh gods... Not you. Not now. — the glass was lowered quietly onto the tablecloth, but it did not clink—she would not let it clink; her voice sounded steady, but her fingers gripped the stem of the glass convulsively, — My child... why are you not asleep at such a late hour?

A pause—and the tenderness in the Countess's voice became thin and ringing, like a taut string.

— Sweetheart. Don't look like that. Please, do not look at us like that.

— Calmly now. Everything is fine. — he was lying—and for the first time in centuries, he was lying poorly. — Come here. Slowly. Do not be afraid. I will explain. Everything can be explained when people sit at a table and speak calmly. But not here, and not now. — then, low, almost a whisper, he added, — Breathe, Vivienne. Slower.

— Don't you dare tell me how to breathe, Lucius!.. — she cried out sharply, and for the first time tonight, her voice broke, before she caught herself. She swallowed. And then again—softly, pleadingly, insinuating, — Darling... come to Mama. Just come here. We haven't done anything bad... to you. Do you hear? To you—nothing. Never. We would never harm you. In that, we have never lied.

Outside the window, far off, the barking of dogs could be heard—and then it cut off. Too abruptly.

— Sit, child. — he said almost calmly, which was worse than any scream, and gestured toward a chair with a movement so old-fashioned and gallant it made the blood run cold, — Dinner is not yet over. Nor is the conversation. A family does not leave the table until everything has been said.

A tense silence hung in the air. Only the candle melted, the wax dripping slowly, much like that crimson drop on the glass.

— Ask. You won't be able to sleep tonight regardless. Neither will we.