читать дальшеChapter 10- Renovations by nicola71
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Thank you Jean, *hugs*
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The next two weeks were a whirlwind of activity. Renovations on Jean-Claude's new building had begun, and he gave Asher and Penelope full reign over the design of the new bar. Working closely together was proving a challenging enterprise for the two new lovers. They found themselves arguing violently over details: what color the bar stools and couches should be, what kinds of lighting the main room should have, what kinds of wines should be served. Their fights were both alarming and amusing to the rest of the staff. Asher found that his servant was not as pliant on the job as she was in the bedroom.
"And what, pray tell, is that?" Asher stood amidst the sawing and hammering of the workman, one arm folded against his body and one hand motioning towards several crates of wine.
"That, my dear, is what is commonly referred to as a shipment of wine. It arrives via tractor trailer and is then painstakingly unloaded and checked in. Curiously, this seems to happen during the daytime when vampires cannot come to work." Penelope had just about had it with Asher tonight. She had been checking in wines and champagnes all day; cataloging them and helping to move them to the enormous climate controlled cellar that had been completed just the day before. She meant the comment to be sarcastic, and made no attempt to disguise her frustration with the tall blond that stood tapping his Gucci loafer in the sawdust and glaring at her.
"I meant why is it here? In my bar? It is not French. I thought we had discussed this?" His tone was that of a schoolmaster scolding a naughty student.
The two had been dueling back and forth over the last week debating the inclusion of wines other than French varieties on Veritas's wine list. At first it was a pleasure and they constructed a four-part system that worked marvelously, at first. Penelope drank, Asher savored, Asher drank, they made love. This went on for a few days before Penelope decided they had sampled enough French wine and brought in a case of Italian reds. They did not make it to part four of the system that night.
"Asher, we have been over this at least a dozen times already. There are many, many, many wines out there to serve in our bar. And many, many, many of them are NOT FRENCH!"
"Where is this wine from, Penelope?" His voice was low, and not at all the warm chocolaty caress Penelope had come to adore. But her patience was thin, and her curt reply came through clenched teeth.
"Italy."
"ITALY! Je ne peux pas croire que vous considéreriez vraiment du vin italien pour être l'égalé de français!*"
What spilled out next was a tirade of French cursing, the likes of which St. Louis had never heard. Castor and Pollux, the two hyenas who had become Asher and Penny's bodyguards, looked up momentarily from playing cards in the corner. They had seen this show before, and knew what inevitably would come next. The surrounding workmen actually stopped mid-hammer, mid-saw, mid-carry, to watch the beautiful vampire lose his shit.
Penelope ignored him and continued to check in the wine while he raged around, until he finally stopped at a large unopened case.
"I suppose this is from Canada," he said with sarcasm to rival hers.
"California."
Asher covered his eyes with his hands.
The cursing continued, and as long as it did, the workmen remained at a standstill. Penelope finally threw down her clipboard and stood up in a huff.
"If you wish to continue this, I suggest we move your tantrum to my office. It would be nice if we could open on schedule, and I don't believe these men can listen to your tirade and put hammer to nail at the same time!" She turned on her heels and stomped down the mahogany staircase to the offices.
"SO! Now it is YOUR office?" Asher stormed after her.
The office was in disarray. The furniture had been delivered earlier in the day but nobody had had the time to mess with it. The huge mahogany desk and dark cranberry leather couch and chair were all still covered in plastic. The carpet had been laid, a fine old Persian rug with dark browns, wines, cream and black interwoven in an old fashioned pattern. The walls were paneled in a dark rich wood that shone in their newness. Two gorgeous stained glass lamps, one in each far corner, provided sufficient light for now, but there would be be a ceiling fan with lights installed in the next few days. No art had been hung yet, that was last, and on Asher's 'To Do' list.
Penelope walked several paces ahead of Asher and was at the desk by the time he closed and locked the door. She turned around and Asher was there lifting her onto the desk, his mouth devouring her as if for the last time. He set her back down on her feet, turned her around and bent her over the desk which was slippery with its plastic covering. While he deftly undid his belt and pants, Penelope eased her tight black skirt up over her bare backside, revealing the lacy tops of her thigh high stockings. There would be no time for undressing or soft caresses. The caresses would come after.
"Sans culotte**," Asher whispered as he bent over her body. He pressed her into the hard wood of the desk and breathed low into her ear as he spread her legs and drove himself into her. "Just as I like."
There were no soft words or gentle hands. Just Asher taking her furiously, using his otherworldly strength to hold her still and knowing that the sounds coming from the office were just as distracting to the workmen as their argument had been. They were both surprised that they managed to hold out as long as they did. After the initial shock of how ferocious their disagreements could be, the lovers found that their arguments simply served as one more incarnation of foreplay. The post-battle sex was always both vigorous and exhilarating.
"Asher!" Penelope screamed his name as a powerful orgasm tore through her. He covered her body with his, spent and panting from his own release, and slid his hands up her arms to grasp hers and entwine their fingers.
Penelope whispered between labored breaths, "The Italian wines. They stay. On the list."
"Oui, oui, yes." Asher breathed in her ear and planted soft kisses on her cheek.
Afterwards, they cuddled on top of the plastic covered the couch.
"Blankets and pillows," Penelope said. "We are definitely going to need some blankets in this office. Leather is too cold!"
"And towels for the bathroom. Put that on your 'To Do' list, bien aimèe." Asher kissed the top of her head.
They lay quietly for a few moments, and then Asher decided to ask a dreaded question. A question that had been plaguing him for sometime.
"Penelope?"
"Yes, darling?" Her voice was lazy and still edged with just a touch of the enormous pleasure Asher had given her so roughly over the desk. Her thighs still burned from being banged into the edge of the wood, and her hips were tender where he had gripped her so tightly.
"I want to talk to you about London." For the first time in weeks Asher shielded hard against her, not wanting her to get distracted by his own tumultuous feelings and memories. He had repeatedly put off speaking to London, but he could no longer continue to pretend that what happened in Penelope's room never occurred. He knew the moment he uttered the words that his timing was terrible.
Penelope went very still in his arms. Not the stillness that vampires are capable of, but still enough that he noticed and sat up with her, turning her so he could look into her face. She fell silent, so he continued before the courage he had mustered failed him.
"We have never spoken about what happened in your room that night, and you shield your feelings about him very well. That was always one of your great strengths; able to be almost fully open, and yet, hide your most ardent desires. But I still feel it. We are so closely bound, closer than I ever thought possible, and I can sense the ache in your heart."
Penelope pressed her lips tightly together in fear that if she uttered the slightest sound she would spew the emotions that she had so carefully kept in check. London. She had admitted to herself that she had strong feelings for him, and she thought that self-acknowledgement would be enough. She had run into him in the hallway a week or so ago, and he was so desperate to get away from her that she figured he must hate her. Of course he hates me, now. What she had done to him was unforgivable. She had not intended to use him that night, but that is exactly what it looked like. And then everything with Asher came to fruition, her heart's desires fulfilled. But not all of them.
She chose her words carefully, "Asher, I am so sorry for what happened that night. I don't know what else to say. I was hurt, and he was there, and he..."
"He is in love with you."
Penelope looked away. Asher had not yet said that he loved her, so hearing his admission of knowing that another man did, struck deeply within her. She was being patient, but part of her wondered if Asher would ever truly be in love with her. He cared for her, of that she was certain. But love the likes of which she felt from London when she was in his arms? That was something she did not know if she would ever feel from her Master.
"Do you love him?" Asher whispered, and then changed his mind about hearing the answer. "No, don't answer. I do not have the right to ask you that question when you sit here in my arms knowing that I am, in fact, in love with two other people." He thought, and I have yet to find the courage to tell you that I love you too. That I am falling so deeply in love with you that I would be willing to bring another into our relationship if it is what you wish. God! Don't let me make a mess of this as I have of so many other things in my life!
Penelope got up and walked over to the desk, tracing her hand along the plastic covered wood where not twenty minutes ago she had screamed out Asher's name. What could she say? That yes, she felt things for London that she thought she would only ever feel for Asher? That yes, her heart broke just a little bit every time she thought of him? That yes, in her darkest fantasies she imagined both men entwined around her body? That something about London's power called to her magic?
What had been happening with her magic was the hardest to explain. Love was love, but her magic had recently come alive with a heat and a passion that it never had before. Asher had awakened something inside of her and it was very potent. Every time they touched she felt her magic rear up like flames licking at an inextinguishable source, reaching out and bringing Asher closer to her, consuming him, and then regenerating him all at once. Each time they made love it got stronger, and part of her feared that if they let go completely, it would engulf them entirely.
But then her magic would remember what it felt like to reach out to London, just that little bit, and it wanted more. She felt that perhaps London's own growing power had something to do with it, especially since both he and Asher were of Belle's line. She had begun to wonder if they needed London. She and Asher. If they needed him to keep from consuming one another.
Asher slowly came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. As always with them, even thin layers of clothing were not enough to keep their skin from jumping when they touched. He drew her into his embrace wrapping his arms around her, but not turning her around. He rested his chin on top of her head.
"Penelope?"
She gently pulled away from him and went to the other side of the desk to face him. It was going to be too hard to say the words when he was touching her.
"I can't lie to you, Asher. I feel something strong for London. You know that we wrote to each other for a very long time. But I don't know enough about love to know what to call what I feel for him. I am very grateful that you did not exact retribution from him. It would have broken my heart to see you fight one another. I feel such tension from you concerning him and I know that it is not all because of me. You choose to hide the true nature of your ill feeling towards each other, and I will not press you for the memories. When you are ready to show me, you will. You're right though. I know that London is in love with me.
I also know that I love you. I'm in love with you. I have accepted that you might never feel exactly the same way for me, and I do not want you to say something you don't feel just because you're afraid I will forsake you if you don't. Death is the only thing that will part me from you now."
It was the first time she had said 'I love you' to him. So many times in the last few weeks she had held back. It was most difficult when her pleasure exploded inside of her, and his body kept telling her that he just might love her too. So many nights she had wanted to scream out to the heavens how much she loved him. But she always held back. She could hold back no longer. It didn't matter if he couldn't love her in return.
Her words tore Asher in two. He did love her, but if he said so at this moment, even with their marks wide open, he doubted she would truly believe him. So instead, he said nothing.
Penelope took his silence to heart and then asked a question that had also plagued her for some time.
"Why have you not gone to Jean-Claude's bed since we returned from the cottage? Or Anita's?"
Asher was taken aback. Jean-Claude had been climbing into his bed for the day whenever Anita didn't stay over. He would snuggle in behind Asher, as Asher snuggled in behind Penelope, and then he would leave as soon as he awakened. Jean-Claude was always gone by the time Penelope and Asher awoke. Asher had no idea if Anita knew this, or if Penelope had noticed. Neither woman had mentioned it. But since the cottage Asher had not left Penelope at night. And although he and Penelope had indulged in their pleasures several times a day, he had not had sex with either Jean-Claude or Anita for several weeks. Most of the last two weeks were spent organizing and planning Veritas's construction, but Asher knew in his heart that he had used that as an excuse not to bring up his relationship with Jean-Claude, and Anita to Penelope.
"There has been no time." Asher knew his lie would not go unnoticed.
Penelope gave him a look that screamed, I'm not that stupid.
"Asher, you and I both know that is untrue. Have I ever once asked you to give them up? Have I ever once given you an ultimatum, my bed or theirs? Asher, I knew before I arrived here that I would be sharing you with others. That was never a problem for me. You shared my sister with Jean-Claude and the three of you were very happy. I hoped I could carve out a place in your heart, not usurp places already claimed. So, why are you breaking the hearts of those you profess to love?" She didn't say what she was really thinking. Was Asher staying with her out of guilt? If Asher could do this to Jean-Claude, break his heart without remorse, what could he do to her?
"It is not as easy as you might think to leave you."
"So am I to blame myself for the fact that you reject those you love? Because you are afraid to leave me alone?"
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
"What exactly did you mean then?" She barely disguised the anger and confusion in her voice.
Asher moved around the desk to take her arms and bent so he could look into her eyes.
"I am with you every night because I want to be with you. I want your skin to be the last thing that touches me before I die for the day. I want your soft breathing to be the first thing I hear as I come alive." He could not help the tears that stung his eyes as he looked into hers for belief.
Penelope searched his pale blue pools, so human in their plea, and knew that he meant every word. She put her head on his chest and let him stroke her hair and wrap his arms around her. Penelope sighed. Asher's arms always made things seem better. Clearer. Hopeful.
"I love you," she whispered into the silk of his shirt.
Asher could feel her pain, and he knew he had the power to bring it to an end. Jean-Claude was right, he had to deal with his past with London, before he could start his future with Penelope.
For the first half of his existence, Asher lived a life of debauched excess where the pursuit of pleasure and self-indulgence was his only concern. Then for three centuries he lived struggling under the yoke of pain and humiliation. Perhaps that was his earthly penance. Regardless, he now had everything he ever wanted within his grasp. Love, happiness, safety and power. He finally had a chance to make up for all of the foul deeds he did in Belle's name, and to right a centuries old wrong in the process. Asher had a second chance to bring three people together in happiness, without threats or jealousy. He would do this for her. He would do this for them.
*I cannot believe that you would actually consider Italian wine to be the equal of French!
**no panties
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Chapter 11-Correspondence by nicola71
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My great thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, as well as supporting me throughout the writing of this fic...I truly appreciate all of your reviews and help!
In this chapter I have separated the letters between London and Penelope by years with ********* The letters are simply a sampling of a 150-year correspondence. I hope you enjoy them.
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London had successfully avoided almost everyone over the last week. He had retreated to his old ways of skulking about with a frown, speaking to few and interacting with none. To his surprise, Anita came to see him one day shortly after he awoke. She had noticed his absence keenly and probed as to why he had quit her so suddenly. She could tell that he was not well, and although his love for Penelope had almost kicked his ardeuraddiction, he still suffered the withdrawal effects.
"London," she stroked his arm gently, "tell me what's wrong." Their relationship had always been thus, gentle. Anita carried a heavy burden for re-addicting him to her ardeur, and it took them a few weeks for her to even feel comfortable around him. But after the initial shame they actually became quite friendly. The sex was passionate by nature of the ardeur, but sad.
"Anita, I appreciate your concern, but I do not wish to talk about it."
"Perhaps if you feed the..." Her only intent was to make him feel better, but London did not want to feel better. He did not want to feel anything.
"No, Anita. But thank you."
"London, I know that you've gained quite a bit of power over the last few months, and I've grown quite fond of you." Anita, of course would have been happy to pass London off to another woman, if for nothing than to simplify her life. But the power he had gained from feeding the ardeur was considerable, and she did not wish to stunt that. However, if he didn't want to feed the ardeur tonight, she most certainly would not force him. She truly liked him, and he had proved himself a valuable asset to Jean-Claude.
She left him with a gentle kiss on the cheek and the offer to feed the ardeur without sex if he should wish, which was her preference anyway. It was a kindness that he never received at Belle's court.
London liked it here in St. Louis, and had no desire to leave. But unless something changed, he knew that he could not be this close to Penelope and not have her in his life. At this point he would happily go back to the way things were before he so foolishly declared his love. The talents of the Courtly Lover he had been in life, despite the powers of Belle Morte's line, had failed miserably when it came to real love. The song! The song was a mistake. Going to Penelope's room alone was a mistake. Not listening to Requiem was a mistake. And taking out his frustration on Meng Die was also a mistake. He had gone to her room with the intention of fucking away his misery. In the past it was a successful plan. But as he touched Meng Die and roughly kissed her, all he could think of was the passion of Penelope's kiss. The sting of Armagnac as it burned his lips and the heat that boiled off her skin, searing him to his bones. He left Meng Die's room that night unsatisfied, and ashamed.
I could have lived happily enough the way things were, he thought. Teaching Penelope to play poker, listening to music, allowing Jason to make fun of their old fashioned ways. This Courtly Lover was content to put his lady at the center of his universe and worship her. It mattered not who else loved her, as long as he was allowed to love her as well. The innocent nights they spent together were some of the most precious of his life, and yet for her, they were just nights without Asher. How could I have been so stupid!
Tonight he did the same thing he did every night since he'd stolen that moment with her. He carefully unfolded the scented parchment of Penelope's letters and re-read them. The oldest were already near to tatters. Her delicate sсript, the ink blots she would always apologize for, the tea stains that still retained the faintest scent of mint. He ran his fingers over them and imagined her hands, her fingers as they gently folded each letter and placed it in the envelope. Her seal. Scarlet wax with a golden 'P'.
London sat on the floor and sifted through boxes of her letters. The ones dearest to him lay scattered on the floor in front of him. If the fireplace had been real, instead of propane, he might have burned them a dozen times over by now, for they delivered as much pain as pleasure.
His hands trembled as he carefully unfolded her very first letter and the dry and yellowed parchment cracked under his touch. It was a response to a letter he had written to her simply by chance.
Requiem had been writing to her for some time, trading court gossip for poetry and information. They had never met face to face, but a chance encounter at the Vampire Council connected them irrevocably. Requiem told London that Penelope had access to many rare documents, so he took a chance and asked for her help. If he had known that he would be sitting here in the present savaged by grief and pain, he might not have put pen to paper that night in 1857.
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27 September 1857
Miss Penelope,
It is my great hope that you do not think this a breech in protocol. Requiem, whom I have the great pleasure in being acquainted with, has spoken favorably of you often and tells me that you have access to a great library. I do not wish to trouble you in any way, however there is some information I would like to procure. I can offer you precious little in return I am afraid, save for my gratitude and perhaps some information about the outside world. Please do not be cross with Requiem for informing me of your cloistered state, for he esteems you highly, and would be sorely vexed with me if his confidence of this knowledge led you to disregard him. That said, I have included a list of items I wish to research. If it pleases you to send the information in your next correspondence to Requiem, I would be much obliged.
With sincerity
London
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19 February 1858
Dear London,
Please forgive the lateness of my letter. It is not my practice to make my correspondents wait so long for a reply, however I must admit that some of what you requested was rather obscure. Obscure in that I had to consult many texts and write several letters of my own to obtain the information you sought. It was the most exciting treasure hunt that I have been on for a very long time! I have enclosed the book you requested, although I do not understand how it will be of any use to you. It comes from a very old library in Damascus, and is in an ancient form of Arabic. It is my hope that you may find someone to translate the parts that you need. If not, please send it back to me with the pages marked and I will translate for you. It would be my pleasure and a welcome diversion from my usually duties. The pages of music were far easier to come by, and a great joy for me to transcribe. Please forgive that I was unable to send you the originals, but they are very old and unfortunately in a sorry state of preservation. I hope you do not mind but I asked one of the other servants with a talent for music to perform them for me. I wanted to know what it would be like for you to hear them. There is precious little time for music in this place, and I will be thinking of them and hope that you enjoy them as much as I did.
If it would not trouble you, I would love to know what you thought of the music, and if you could perhaps send me some sheet music for something new and popular. It would bring me and the other servants great joy to hear something of the modern world.
Sincerely
Penelope
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London could not remember what it was that motivated him to actually respond to her letter. He had not been one for correspondence. His time at Court, though brief, had broken his spirit, and he had no wish to make further connections. His friendship with Requiem was one of mutual misery. Of all the vampires in their kiss they were the only two who had been touched personally by Belle's wrath. Whatever the reason though, the tone of her reply, the curve of the 'L' as she wrote out his name, or the soft perfume of the parchment, London did respond, and the letters continued to flow for decades.
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14 August 1871
Dear Penelope,
It has been an unforgivable summer. We have been traveling to the countryside on a regular basis. There has been a growth in the popularity of the occult, and so I find myself involved in more than four seances a week, if you can believe it! It is dreadfully boring. These humans in their large 'country houses' cannot get enough of ghosts and spirits. If true ghosts decided to make their presence known, these puffed-up bourgeoisies would certainly die of fright. I have heard of vampires who can call ghosts, but I have never seen one. Nor do I wish to. Thankfully most of the time I am needed as a guard for my Master. Skill with a blade has bought me more than one reprieve. I sometimes find our night to night activities to be less than satisfactory. At least I am no longer required to go out and earn my living luring strangers into dark alleyways. I know that does not shock you, and I am glad that I can confide my feelings about it to you. I am still expected to entertain, but I have earned my place here now, and although still sixth in power after Requiem, in a kiss made up of almost all Belle's line, that is not so horrible. At least the clients I am entertaining bathe on a regular basis. But I did not write to you to complain...
I saved enough money to purchase a new lute and have been playing regularly. I have also dabbled with the piano, however I once heard Chopin play and know that I will never be quite that good, so consider yourself the only one who even knows I can plunk out notes. I know you can keep a secret...
Yours
London
12 September 1871
Dear London,
Contacting the dead now, are we? Isn't that a little redundant? Nevertheless, I'm sure the ladies and gentlemen you entertain find the safety of your arms a comfort after such frightening delights! It must be an interesting existence to say the least. The powers and pleasures of Belle's line would surely make for an exciting soiree, real ghosts or not. Although our correspondence tends to revolve around music and popular culture, you certainly know that I am not naive to the nature of your line. You once compared me to a cloistered nun, and I do not dispute your description, although perhaps I lament it. For a short time it was not so, but I do not like to speak of it, so please do not ask me to explain further. Suffice to say that the pleasures of the flesh, although not practiced, are not unknown to me. It would please me though, if you would sometime describe to me the grandeur of the opera balls you attend, or country estates you visit, or any other activity that might seem foreign and exciting to me. Requiem takes pages and pages to do so, however I cannot quite get the feel for it from reading his fustian language. (Please do not tell him I said so!).
Chopin! You never told me! I never thought that I could be cross with you, but I was wrong! I expect a detailed description of the concert right down to the color of his stockings!
Your Penelope
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22 June 1890
Dear Penelope,
I can scarcely believe that we have been writing to one another for over thirty years. Requiem and I were discussing this just the other day when your generous package arrived for us. The rare books have filled our evenings with joy beyond compare, particularly the one about Vampyre Lore and Legend. Our Byron, who you know has never traveled outside the boundaries of the Isle, was most alarmed, and if it were possible for us to have nightmares during our daytime sleep, I fear he would have suffered greatly! In return for your kindness I have sent along with this letter several yards of fine silk and a book of dress patterns. A lady I am acquainted with owns an exclusive boutique that sells the latest styles directly from Paris. Charles Frederick Worth, whom I am informed is proprietor of the most celebrated of all couture houses in Europe, designs them. All the finest ladies in England and the Continent covet his designs. These copies were obtained through a bit of ruthless vampyre trickery, but I did not think you would mind the dubious nature of their origins. Regardless, it is my sincere hope that you will put them to good use. I do not even know what you look like, or what color your hair or eyes are, but I chose two shades of red that in my eyes were attractive…
Yours
London
3 August 1890
Dearest London,
I must scold Requiem. He has maligned your character to me these several decades and I honestly do not know why! He paints a portrait of a peevish man, more interested in martial pursuits than musical, and one who would feel more at home in the darkened corner of a musty old armory rather than a salon of fashion and artistry. I have told him time and again that he must simply be speaking of a different London altogether! In truth, my dearest London, I do wonder why you seem to reserve your pleasantries for me, someone who you most likely will never lay eyes upon, instead of the multitudes of admirers you could have at your beck and call. A vampyre of Belle’s line should be center stage, not skulking in the shadows of the wings. Forgive my bold speech, for I in no way wish to offend you. Despite the miles and inordinate obstacles of my existence, I have grown quite fond of you and only wish for your happiness. Enough of my rambling. Requiem be damned! (I can hear you snickering!) He obviously does not know you the way that I do, but I believe he is still the more fortunate for your presence in the flesh.
The dress patterns and yards of exquisite fabric caused quite a commotion here, I must tell you. Our Master was less than pleased, but no matter! The color was exactly to my taste, and you sent so much that we will be able to make several frocks. It will be nice to have something pretty, even if only for our own pleasure. I sometimes wonder if I myself will ever leave this place. No matter.
As to my appearance, my hair would be called a Chestnut Brown by all accounts, and my eyes at first glance, to match, but with tiny flecks of gold. My Grandmother said I inherited them from her own mother. Requiem says your hair is dark brown with soft curls and eyes that would to me look like the Mediterranean at midnight. Truly a dark knight.
Your Penelope
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It was only at the turn of the century that London allowed the darkness of his feelings to invade their relationship, and even then, he held back the darkest of his thoughts. As he looked down at her yellowed reply to his depressing New Year's tidings, he smiled at her inherent cheerfulness, touched with her own sadness. It was then that he first surmised the depth of her loneliness, and he embraced it.
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31 December 1899
My Dearest Penelope,
I write this letter on the eve of the new century. It is difficult to put into words all that I am feeling at the moment. What sights of both beauty and horror I have seen and endured over seven hundred or so years! It is unimaginable that I will be here to see yet another century burn away, or yet a new millennium. These days I find myself thinking of the past more than I should. Tis true that I am what Requiem has accused me of all these years, a dark reflection of the knight I once was. Tonight, the kiss celebrates, and I am at my desk, oil lamp ablaze, pen in hand, writing to you. I do not know what you are doing at the moment, but I will be thinking of you at the stroke of twelve.
I do not believe I will be leaving England anytime soon. Travel has become very dangerous for us ever since the popularity of that insane Stoker's novel. It seems as though every other human is a vampyre hunter, and although we are more than capable of protecting ourselves, the idea of bringing any attention to our existence is more than our Master can handle. I sometimes wonder if he is losing what is left of a once great mind. Perhaps he has lived too long. Perhaps so have I. But do not worry, Penelope, for I have no intention of meeting the dawn before I finally set eyes upon you. We have been friends for far too long now through pulp and indigo. I vow to you that before I meet another century, I will have looked into your eyes that I have imagined over and again. Requiem is standing behind me and bids I end this letter and join him for a New Year's toast. He sends his love and says he will be sending you the poetry you requested.
As for me, I wanted to thank you for the beautiful carol music you sent for Christmas. My collection has grown exponentially because of you these last fifty years. One day, you will hear me play.
Yours through time
London
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3 February 1900
Dearest London,
Your letter reached me a few days ago and it is only now that I have a moment to sit and write. As my pen hits parchment, the morning sun is peeking over the distant mountain and spreading it's glowing fingers through the olive groves that pepper the landscape of my Master's palace. It has been a demanding month and I am tired, really and truly tired for the first time I can remember, which means my Master is also tired. It is troublesome. We are working around the clock on Council business, things that you know I am forbidden to speak of save that they are of an urgent nature. But enough about my troubles. I share your feelings about the century's close. I have seen such changes over the past one hundred years, and expect that the future will change faster than you or I am willing to accept. It saddens me that your Master has forbidden travel, however even if you could make your way to our island, Master Socrates has not entertained visitors in many years and seems to have no inclination to resume the practice. Our work is done entirely by courier now and he rarely leaves the sanctity of the library, having moved a coffin into the main rotunda so he can work right up to sunrise each morning. It is an exhausting pace for all of us.
Perhaps the new century will bring new happiness and love into your lives. I have seen photographs of ladies in some of the new books we have received. Such beauty cannot go unnoticed! The hats are so large these days! And such adornments. I do not think I have the grace anymore to wear such fashions. However, if you come across any pictures, I would greatly appreciate them. It does not hurt to dream!
The poetry reached me safely and I will thank Requiem in his own letter. However, the William Butler Yeats that you sent is currently on my bedside table, and I thank you for introducing me to that sublime Irishman's poesy.
Your Penelope
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The 20th century brought new troubles for the human world as well as their own. London had watched his beloved England struggle through what they referred to as The Great War. Through it all, Penelope's letters were a comfort to him.
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24 May 1925
My Dearest Penelope,
You have often asked me to describe for you the decadence of the age we live in and I have tried over the years to do as you ask. I wish that I could infuse my illustrations of such events with the vitality of others of my kind, but I cannot, and for this I ask your forgiveness. I thought that the Great War would leave an indelible mark upon the denizens of the city that bears my name, but it seems as though the photographs of the dead and dying in the trenches of France and Germany have been forgotten. Humans so carelessly throw away the lives they are given in the pursuit of land, money and power. I guess that my kind are no better, save for our power to endure. The others will regale you with tales of glamorous parties and limousines, (yes automobiles are the only way one travels these days unless one can fly!), but I find no joy in these things. I do what I must, and retire to my room to listen to a phonograph recording, or read, or play my lute in solitude. Which leads me to a question - did you receive the Victrola we sent you? I would like to send you recordings on a more regular basis that I think you would enjoy.
Yours
London
4 September 1925
Dearest London,
Will you ever forgive me for taking so long to respond to your letter? And for the brevity of this one? First off, yes, I did receive the Victrola and it is the most popular attraction here! When the master sleeps we listen to it constantly. He, however, has barred us from playing it while he is awake; he says it hurts his sensitive ears. Cèst la vie. When you mention the Great War it has little meaning for me here. The war did not extend to us, nor did we hear much except what came from the Council. It was a tragedy, and one that perhaps I feel more than a small amount of guilt over. Someday I will tell you about it.
We have had visitors for the first time in decades, but I cannot say I was pleased to see them. The Dragon herself. Even that small bit of knowledge would earn me a punishment, so I trust that you will not divulge this information to anyone. I think you may be able to discern the larger implications of her visit without words from me. To that end, I was wondering if in your next package you could send me a selection of newspapers? I am interested in seeing what the rest of the world is thinking.
Your Penelope
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Penelope had successfully dodged most of his questions over the years as to what exactly she did besides catalogue books, but finally in 1939 she opened up to him. The world had not learned from the carnage of 1918, and it seemed as though once again London would languish in impotency while his countrymen shed their blood. But this time, Penelope was not safely tucked away as she had been years earlier, and she risked her own safety to warn him and others of the impending disaster.
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3 June 1939
Dearest London,
This is a warning, and I care not what happens to me because of it. There is something happening in the library as I write this letter. The Dragon is here once again and she is not alone. There are several high-ranking German officers with her, dressed in black. I am unsure as to their purpose because for the first time since I have been his servant, my Master has banished me to my chambers. I am completely shut out, and I have my suspicions as to why which I do not have time to enumerate here. I should have been more suspicious of her visits over the last 14 years, but Socrates always busied me with other things, as if he did not trust me, or did not want me involved in any way with her designs. It has been very frustrating to say the least. But I think...
4 June 1939
As you can clearly see I am continuing this letter today, June 4th. As I was writing my Master called to me, he called to us all, for a great battle took place in the library. The details of how it began are not important, but suffice to say that we lost two servants and five students in the melee. The Germans were all killed and The Dragon left with threats of returning. My dearest London, something very bad is going to happen in Europe, and The Dragon is behind it. Please be careful, and know that we are doing what we can here to stifle her plan, but I fear it is too late. The human world will have a great test before them soon, and I'm not sure where our place will be when it is over. Or if there will be anything left. We are leaving the palace for a hidden fortress whose location I cannot even put to paper. I will be busy casting charms to render us as invisible as possible for as long as possible. Master Socrates says we must hide, so I am asking you to do the same. Please. I don't know how long it will take you to receive this letter, or how long it will be until I can get another to you. I fear for your safety, yours and those I have come to know through your letters. Please share this with Requiem, and your Master, of course, for I have but time to write one. I will think of you everyday. I will think of you all.
Your Penelope
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10 April 1947
My Dearest Penelope,
Your letter reached me, finally, and I am overjoyed to hear from you. More than overjoyed. Elated, ecstatic, happy. You will find in the box every letter I have written to you over the last seven years. I never ceased, you see, and always planned to send them to you en masse once you sent word that you were home and safe. I was sorry to hear that your Master's palace was damaged during the bombings, but buildings can be repaired with ease. It was you that I worried about everyday. When I read what happened in Greece during the war I was frightened for you. I know you and the others are more than equipped to handle what would kill normal humans, but that still did not allay my fears, for as you and I know, the enemy also had magic on their side. But enough of that, you are all right and that is what matters. The war took its toll on my city, but we are on the mend and I have confidence that the Empire will rise again in some way. We Brits are made of sturdy stock! It will take more than bombs to destroy the hearts of Englishmen. Enough for now. Read the letters. Know that the warmest I have felt since the war began was the night I arose to find an envelope with my name on it in your handwriting.
Yours
London
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Years later, as the world recovered, their letters and friendship endured. He wrote to her of Rock and Roll, of sexual revolutions and of the growing popularity of his kind. But as the world got smaller, London found himself falling into that same chasm that had engulfed him at the turn of the century. His old fears rose like a cobra, threatening to strike and swallow him. Penelope was there through it all.
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14 March 1969
Dearest London,
Where did you find that music you sent? I LOVE IT! But is it not strange that a group of British musicians would name themselves after a heavy German dirigible? In any case, it is very different, although I have to use the headphones you sent along when I listen to it. I also loved the catalogues you sent and am getting together an order for clothes for us all. It will be nice to finally have some color in a wardrobe made up almost entirely of black and brown. Oh, I know you still favor black. Requiem says it is your signature color. I want to see you wear something other than that when we finally meet. I hope you are not angry with me that I refuse to send you a picture of myself. I feel that we have waited long enough to see each other, and I like the suspense. I feel confident that we will set eyes upon each other before the close of the century, so I prefer to wait. Requiem has described you in detail, so I have that to occupy my thoughts until then.
I do have something important to ask you. Requiem writes that you have recently secluded yourself from the others more than usual. I wonder if you are overcome with ennui, which for a vampire leads to one ultimate conclusion. I believe Socrates suffers from this ailment. My Master has not taken a new servant this century, nor any new students. He seems to be slowing down. He has inquired about handing off many of his servants to other vampires. I ask if his intention is to sell me as well, but he never answers me. Regardless, I am worried about you. Your letters to me are merry on the surface, talk of rock music and modern art, the sexual revolution and vampire politics, but I imagine something deeply buried underneath a cheerful facade. Do not be angry at Requiem for informing me of your state, for he cares about you, and considers you a great friend. In your world I know that friendship is hard to come by. Talk to him, if you cannot talk to me.
Speaking of talking, Master Socrates is still adamant about us not having a telephone. Thank you for the pictures of them though. I plastered them up in the library for all to see.
Your Penelope
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4 April 1971
Dearest Penelope,
It is my turn to beg for forgiveness for the lateness of this letter. I cannot believe that it has been almost two years since I wrote to you. There are two reasons for this. The first, and perhaps most difficult reason, is that I did not know how to respond to your last letter. It is true that I have fallen into a darker than normal state. Not to frighten you with how much I rely upon contact with you, but I chose to further my pain by cutting off that which gave me joy, namely writing to you. It was stupid, and I am sorry, more for myself, but also if I caused you any pain. You kept faithfully writing even when I did not respond. I cannot imagine why. I know that Requiem must have told you I was in no physical pain or danger, and yet you wrote as if I was not ignoring your letters. Can you ever forgive such idiocy? If you can, I will be at least as happy as I can be.
The second reason I was unable to bring myself to write to you concerns Belle Morte. She once again made a request to visit England. My Master believes she has no intention of actually leaving France, but from time to time she enjoys menacing Masters of The City with threats of an imminent visit. Everyone knows that of all the Council Members, save the Dark Mother herself, Belle Morte is the least likely to leave her palace. It seems that post-war France is as decadent as ever, and the new social mores suit her tastes completely. In plain terms, I am terrified of her. The thought of her in the same country, let alone the same room, is enough to make me take to my coffin and beg for the cross and chains. She is one of only two things on this planet that I fear. The other I will share with you in person one day, that is if you still desire to meet me in the flesh...
Always yours
London
12 April 1971
Dearest London,
Of course you are forgiven. And when you truly want to speak about what is at the core of your sadness, I will listen. Now, on to my critique of your latest selection of music...
Your Penelope
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Finally the sunset of another century was upon them, but the promise of finally meeting each other was shadowed by fear and horror. Just when London thought he might actually have some hope, the bogeymen of the vampire world threatened. Again it was Penelope and her careful strokes of ink that comforted him in the face of disaster.
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16 June 1997
Dearest London,
It is with great distress that I respond to your letter. I have consulted my Master about what you say is going on within your kiss and he says that he is forbidden to speak of it, but that he will begin to write the necessary letters. I know what is happening. Please, please, please, be careful, and know that we are working tirelessly to save as many of you as we can.
London, you will survive this. I know it. I will think of you every hour of every day and night until I know you are all once again safe. I promise.
Your Penelope
22 June 1997
My Dearest Penelope,
It is too horrible to describe, and I could not, even if I wanted to, for it would mean certain death. Death may be certain anyway for all I can tell. I write this as Elinore and Requiem prepare to put me into a cross wrapped coffin. The last thing I shall see is their faces as they step away to allow the Blood servants to bind and chain me. The only thing I bring in with me is your letter. You know why this must be done, for I have written to you of my addiction. I am ashamed, and don't know what else to say. I have heard that if any of us survive this, we may be sent back to our Soudre de Sang. You know who mine is. I cannot go. I will not. It has been more than my life's worth to know you these many years, and even if I never do see your face please know that it is you who I will think of in my darkest hour. (erased sentence).
London
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He kept her last letter to him on his person at all times. It was both a comfort and a torment, a reminder of what would most likely never be.
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4 October 1997
Dear London
You cannot possibly imagine the depth of my happiness in knowing that you, that all of you, will be safely in America within the next few weeks. My Master knew that Jean-Claude would come through for you, and he tells me that you are in for some interesting adventures in St. Louis! Perhaps some of those American vampires will finally get you to use a computer so we can email rather than wait for the post! I don't want to say too much, but if all goes as planned I may be seeing you in the flesh after all. My heart is thumping in my chest just thinking about it, but for now I will keep the surprise to myself. And don't poke Requiem for my secret! He has given his word that he will die with it upon his lips!
Would you please do something for me, London? I want you to see sanctuary in America as a new beginning for you. Please try to find some happiness, for I know it is out there for you. I know it. For when I at long last get to see your face, I want to see you smile at me.
Your Penelope
14 October 1997
My Dearest Penelope
I am writing this as I wait to get on a private jet that will take me to our new home, so I must be quick for I want to mail this before I leave for America.
The true depth of our, of my, gratitude can never be truly expressed. We know that you and your master made impassioned pleas for our survival, and for that there are no words in any language that say thank you enough. We are all excited about going to America, although I believe that Jean-Claude is getting more than he bargained for with so many of Belle's line joining his kiss. It is unprecedented to have so many of us in one place, with a Master of the City also of Belle's line. And of course, as you know, Asher is there as well. It will be interesting.
Your concerns about my addiction were well noted, and I will speak with Jean-Claude upon arrival. We have many things to talk about including some painful memories, which I will not burden you with, but that must be addressed if I am to stay in St. Louis. It is my sincere hope that I can.
Sadly, this will put me even further away from you. Although the speed of the post is far better than when we first began to write! As for a computer and email, although I commend you in convincing your Master to dive into the 21st century, I do not know if Jean-Claude will feel the same. He was always embedded in many of the old traditions. We shall see.
I promise not to threaten or maim Requiem for your secret, but remember that you promised we would lay eyes upon one another before the close of another century. That is a promise I want you to keep. I must go...
Always Yours
London
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Not having time to put them away, and knowing he would simply drag them out to read again anyway, London left the letters strewn around his chair, gathered his things, and went to work.