Page 13 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Him. Emillie already knew the name of that particular dhemon: Ehrun. It had taken her father and Loren weeks to glean that information from her. Once uncovered, they had been able to trace the name back to the leader of the clan and the one who had likely ordered the kidnapping. To no one’s surprise, it was none other than the most infamous dhemon known to the Caersan. The Crowe.

The Crowe led dhemons all along the Keonis, choosing Rusan vampire villages to raid and raze. There were rarely any survivors.

Yet the attack on the Harlow family, she had overheard her father tell his closest confidant, Lord Orlyn, one night, was not random. It had been the Crowe who murdered his first family.

Emillie had been surprised to hear her father had been married before her mother. He never spoke of them, and everyone pretended they had never existed. But it seemed the dhemon king had returned to torment him once again by stealing Ariadne.

Emillie pulled herself from the spiral of thoughts and squeezed her sister’s hand. The returned squeeze was enough to tell her the conversation was over. Ariadne released her grip and turned to her yogurt.

They ate in silence for several minutes before a handful of servants stepped into the room, vases of flowers in hand. The closest Rusan vampire, made evident by her lack of blue veins webbing up her throat, curtsied and said, “These have all arrived, my Ladies, for you both.”

They set the vases before each of them. Two for Emillie, making her face heat fiercely, and twice as many for Ariadne. Roses, lilies, lavender, lilacs, carnations, and wild carrot flowers, amongst many others, popped from between evergreen and ferns and eucalyptus leaves. A different colored ribbon tied about the neck of each crystal vase held a card from whom the bouquet came.

“And whose fancy did you catch last night?” Ariadne asked, smelling the crimson rose closest to her.

A beat of silence as Emillie squirmed, looking at the cards and well wishes. “Lords Jaq and Moone, it would seem.”

She chewed her lip. The flowers were lovely and the Caersans who had sent them were kind and respectful. There should be no reason for her to feel so hollow about receiving their affections.

“You do not seem to share their sentiments.” Ariadne angled her head curiously, the color having returned to her cheeks since the distraction arrived. Anything to keep their minds away from what ended last night’s festivities.

“It is not that,” Emillie said slowly, rolling the corner of her linen napkin between her fingers. “I do not know…”

The weight of Ariadne’s hand on hers startled her out of the dark pit she spiraled into. Emillie looked up to find her sister searching her, calculating. Heat burned her cheeks under the scrutiny, and she checked the room and corridor beyond to ensure they were alone before admitting, “I am not attracted to men.”

Ariadne hummed as she took another bite of yogurt. She tapped the air with her spoon, swallowed, and said, “I figured that much.”

“Wait.” Emillie frowned. “What?”

A sly smile crept onto Ariadne’s face. “Dearest sister, I have spent the last century listening to you sigh over portraits of goddesses and pinpoint precisely how a dress flatters a woman’s body. You have recited just how much you adore the female form while sketching, and you gravitate to the most beautiful women in the room. Moreso, you have never turned into a puddle at a man’s feet the way you do when Hyacinth Hooke enters a ball.”

Emillie blinked once, twice. She gaped at her sister for a long moment, mind blank of any retorts. There were none. Everything Ariadne said was true. Even about Hyacinth, the most intelligent and beautiful woman she had ever met.

“Quite honestly,” Ariadne continued, “I am a bit envious of you. Men are awful.”

Emillie’s composure broke. She threw her head back and roared with laughter. Never once in her entire life had she heard Ariadne say such things. Dancing around a difficult subject or making light of uncomfortable topics had been her specialty prior to a year ago. Since her return, she was far more blunt. Emillie loved it.

“Huh.”

The monotonous tone caught Emillie’s attention. “What is it?”

“There is no calling card on this.” Ariadne frowned at the tiny vase hidden behind the rest, bearing a single flower. Six cream petals stretched out, each with a deep red streak up its center. “What even is it?”

Emillie lifted a brow. “One flower? It is a gladiolus tristis–the moonlight flower.”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “It was probably Alek Nightingale. He would do something dramatic like this. ‘A single flower to signify our life together’ or something of the sort.”

“What did he send you during your first Season?”

“Gods,” Ariadne breathed and shook her head. “A bouquet too large to carry upstairs.”

Remembering the event, Emillie snickered, much to Ariadne’s bemusement. “Is there one from the General?”

Now her sister bit her lip, slim cheeks flushing with color so deep, it nearly neutralized the shadows beneath her eyes. She pulled forward the largest bouquet of a myriad of red flowers. “Indeed.”

“Red is certainly his favorite color.”

“He is passionate.”

---