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Pierre moves his hands to grip the arms of his chair, shaking his head as he chastises himself. The boy is
young, too young and too easily killed. Not something to be held by someone who lived and died more
than two centuries ago. Life so young and fragile. So new...
* * * *
Marie had only been seven when she carried her baby brother down those stairs. Her mama was weak,
still bleeding, and her papa hadn't dared leave his wife's side, frantic for her life. Marie was so proud
when they let her carry her new brother down to be shown to their Master and Pierre had known that
she was coming, had heard the cries of labor even from his dark rooms, so he was waiting, sitting in his
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chair.
She hesitated by the door and he, able to smell her quiet fear, smiled reassuringly and beckoned her
over. She placed her precious bundle in his waiting hands, a little boy, less than an hour old. The baby
stirred, disturbed by the charge of hands and Pierre held him closer, soothing him.
He could feel the heat of the child's skin through the swaddling clothes, the quick fluttering of a small
heart. Lowering his head to breathe in the baby's scent he heard the girl catch her breath.
"Don't be afraid, he told her.  I won't hurt him."
"What are you doing? she asked, made bolder by his reassurance.
"Smelling him, he replied, taking another deep breath.  Learning his scent so that I'll know him."
"Did you do that with me?"
"When you were a baby, aye. You and your mother and your mother's father."
"Oh. The thought subdued her.
Shifting his grip Pierre freed one hand to run his fingers gently over the baby's face and head.
"What is his name?"
"Jean-Pierre, Marie replied, watching for his reaction.
Pierre smiled, flattered by the choice.  A good name, his soft reply carried a hint of conspiracy.  Jean
was my father's name."
"Oh. It was? young Marie was surprised, she'd never thought of the Master having a father.
"Yes, Pierre's short reply discouraged further questions so Marie fell silent, determined to remember to
tell her parents.
Pierre lent over the baby again, taking long deep breaths to absorb the scent of the newborn. He smiled
when a tiny fist hit his nose and caught the small hand, letting the tiny fingers wrap around one of his own.
"He likes you, Marie commented in a small voice.
"It's in his blood, the vampire replied.
Raising his hand to his mouth Pierre nicked a fingertip with a sharp fang so that blood welled up from the
cut. Using the rest of his fingers as guides he placed the finger in the babe's mouth, allowing him to suck a
little blood from the wound.
"By my blood you are bound, Pierre whispered a fragment of the binding ritual that wouldn't be said in
full until the child's fifth birthday. He let the baby suck briefly before reclaiming his finger to close the
wound.
Pierre held the baby a while longer, singing an old lullaby remembered from his own childhood.
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Eventually he returned the child to Marie's arms.
"Here, take him back to his mother. He needs to be fed."
"Yes, Master, the young girl replied, settling her baby brother safely in her arms before leaving to climb
the stairs.
* * * *
Pierre sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Too young. Too brief. But no matter how much he tells himself
that he keeps finding himself straining for the sound of footsteps or the cadence of a soft voice. He still
finds his fingers yearning for the touch of warm skin and his lonely heart for companionship.
* * * *
"I will be returning to Paris after Annette's birthday, Papa announces at dinner the next day.  And you
will come with me, he continues, looking at his youngest daughter.  You are old enough now to be
thinking about marriage."
Annette squeals with excitement,  Thank you, Papa."
Jean-Pierre breathes a sigh of relief, looking forward to having his younger sister gone for a week or
two. His relief is short lived as Claude's eye falls on him.
"You will come with us too, Jean-Pierre. You're past old enough to be looking for a bride and I expect
you to give the matter proper attention."
"Yes, Papa, Jean-Pierre replies, sounding far meeker than feels.
"Good, Claude says, seeming;y satisfied with his tone.  There will be many balls in honor of the King's
betrothal and we have invitations. Marie, I expect you to see that your brother and sister are both
suitably attired."
"Yes, Papa, Marie answers with a willing smile, already thinking about it.
"I've arranged for a tailor from Paris to visit for a week, he will help you with the designs."
"Thank you, Papa, comes another sparkling thanks from Annette.
Jean-Pierre sits quietly through the rest of dinner while his sisters talk about dresses, cross-examining
their father on what fashions he saw on his recent trip. As soon as he can Jean-Pierre excuses himself for
the table to go up to his room.
"I don't want to go, he mutters sullenly, looking out his small window over the tiled roof to the trees that
hide the town.  Don't want to go to a ball. Don't want to get married. Things are great just how they are,
his voice rises with each sentence, reaching the whining pitch of an angsting teenager.  It isn't fair!"
Grimacing at the sound of his own whining, Jean-Pierre turns from the window, taking his lute from its
shelf. Perhaps if he practices he can ask Pierre for another lesson tomorrow.
By the time Jean-Pierre puts the lute away, his fingers too sore and tired to continue, his mind has stilled
enough to let him sleep.
* * * *
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"That's enough for now. You have that piece to go on with. Pierre rises to put his lute away in its
padded case.
Jean-Pierre plays a little longer, making sure the song is locked in his memory before looking up,
cradling the instrument loosely in his arms.  Thank you for the lesson."
"You're welcome, although if you played more you would be better at it."
"I know. Jean-Pierre gives a longsuffering sigh.  But Papa has decided that I'm old enough to take over
some of the accounts and the petitions from the town, as well as continuing my lessons with the tutors."
"You'll be glad of those lessons one day, Pierre cautions him.
Jean-Pierre grimaces.  I know, but it doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You should put your lute away, Pierre comments when Jean-Pierre shows no sign of continuing the
conversation.
Nodding wearily Jean-Pierre stands up to pause halfway to the door. Looking back at Pierre he makes
the comment that he has been trying to avoid thinking about all evening.
"After Annette's birthday Papa is taking the two of us to Paris to find suitable matches."
When Pierre doesn't say anything Jean-Pierre continues to leave. Carrying his lute up the stairs
Jean-Pierre admits to himself that he had been hoping Pierre would tell him to stay, would say that he
didn't want him to marry. Confess to wanting him. In the face of that hope he finds Pierre's indifference a
bitter pill to swallow.
* * * *
Jean-Pierre avoids the basement over the next few weeks, reminding himself of Pierre's indifference and
telling himself that the other will be glad to see him gone. Safely married off. The closest he goes is the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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