The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires. G.D. Falksen

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      Chapter Four

      Over the past year, Ekaterine had developed a perverse fascination with English Society. Whatever facade of gentility it preferred to hide behind, it was a ruthless place, a wilderness of rumor and gossip. As a foreigner with little foreknowledge of local customs, Ekaterine was at a distinct disadvantage. It was the sort of challenge she enjoyed. And over the passing months, she had advanced herself from a foreign curiosity to a proper fascination. Being the sister of a Russian prince helped tremendously, but she had forged her social position herself. She felt almost giddy at times. It had been her first real infiltration of a foreign society, and it was proving successful.

      For centuries, her cousins had done the same throughout Russia, Persia, the Empire of the Ottomans, a few even as far as India and France. The Shashavani needed eyes and ears across the world lest the security of their hidden valley and the waters of life that it sheltered be threatened. But this was her first independent enterprise, and it was progressing. With a little more practice, she might even be able to return in a few years and pass herself off as wholly English. She had little wish to do so, but the ability to do it made her proud.

      That evening, she made her rounds. She chatted with people of distinction, she exchanged pleasantries with friends and enemies, and she accepted a bevy of requests to dance like any proper lady should. Her dance card always seemed to be full at these events, which she supposed meant that she was doing something right, though she had been obliged early on to purchase gowns with unusually thick layers of fabric in the bodice to create the tactile illusion of a corset. She had no intention of wearing one of those beastly garments, but if men were going to place their hands on her back or waist, she required some means of holding off suspicion.

      Feeling a little parched, she decided to make for the refreshment room. She ought to have had a chaperone—her “sister-in-law” Varanus, perhaps—but she thought little of it. She had found that charm was a great soother in such matters. The Shashavani had always managed to talk their way around eccentricities and breaches of etiquette, and she intended that she would not be an exception.

      In the refreshment room, she helped herself to a small plate of sandwiches, yet another one of those peculiar English things that amused and delighted her. As she nibbled, her ears caught a voice that she had not heard since spring the previous year—a voice that should not have been anywhere in the vicinity of England.

      Ekaterine turned and saw a tremendously tall man dressed in a hussar’s uniform of crimson and black. He was slender and strong, well formed, with high cheekbones, sharp features, and the same fiery auburn hair as Varanus.

      He was Friedrich, the Baron von Fuchsburg. Varanus’s son. And he was supposed to be back in Germany. Ekaterine had been there when Varanus had put him on the train for Paris. It was for his own safety as much as for anything else. In France, the family of the Count des Louveteaux, great rivals to the Varanuses, had kidnapped and attempted to kill him. Varanus would not be pleased to learn that he had left the safety of his Rhineland barony.

      Friedrich was speaking to Lady Eleanor Wodesley, daughter of the Earl of Twillingham. Ekaterine was well acquainted with Lady Eleanor. The girl was charming enough and certainly rather pretty, but she was not of towering intellect. And from the expression on Friedrich’s face, Ekaterine saw that while he was enjoying the attentions of an attractive woman of means, he was equally bored. Ekaterine felt herself smiling a little. She would have to rescue the poor boy.

      She approached with the utmost poise and from such an angle that she was seen before her arrival. At the sight of her, Lady Eleanor’s eyes lit up. Friedrich, however, looked at her in shock. This was to be expected. When last he saw her—France, a year and a half ago—she had been in the guise of Varanus’s maidservant.

      “Lady Eleanor,” Ekaterine said, smiling pleasantly. “Good evening.”

      “Princess Shashavani,” Lady Eleanor replied, bowing her head. “How wonderful it is to see you. I am so pleased that you could attend.”

      “But of course,” Ekaterine said. “How could I miss such a delightful event?”

      Lady Eleanor motioned toward Friedrich and asked, “Are you acquainted with the Baron von Fuchsburg?”

      Friedrich opened his mouth to speak, doubtless to answer in the negative. Ekaterine preempted him:

      “Why yes,” she said, giving Friedrich a polite nod. “The Baron and I met in France some time ago, sadly under unfortunate circumstances.”

      “The funeral of my grandfather,” Friedrich said, not missing a beat. He looked at Ekaterine, his eyes searching her face as if asking: What are you playing at?

      Lady Eleanor’s face fell with sympathy and she said, “I am so dreadfully sorry for the loss.”

      “But let us not dwell on such a subject,” Ekaterine said. “It is hardly fitting for a ball.”

      “Indeed,” Lady Eleanor agreed.

      “And of course, the Baron and I have a familial acquaintance,” Ekaterine continued. “You see, I am his aunt.”

      Lady Eleanor opened her mouth in surprise and said, “Oh?”

      The surprise was to be expected. Despite her age, Ekaterine realized that she must look no older than Friedrich and quite possibly younger.