Page 61 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Emillie paused and looked around. “I see nothing wrong with it.”

“Miss Harlow.” Madan grimaced. “Please.”

A strange, uncomfortable feeling curled in Emillie’s gut. She did not often do things to upset others, and it was rare for Madan to instruct them against any plans they had. He had seen them through many outings which were less-than-pleasant. A market night that ended with brawling in the streets, an over-indulgent evening at a fine restaurant at the edge of Lake Cypher, and numerous events which left him shielding Ariadne from the crowds so she would not get overwhelmed.

Despite all of that, this was the first time Emillie could recall Madan looking panicked.

“They are inside.” Emillie gestured to the door. “Let us go in, have a bite, and then we will leave. It will be fine.”

Madan’s jaw flexed. “If you insist, Miss Harlow.”

“I do.”

With that, Emillie turned and pushed through the front doors of the Drifter’s Bistro. Two steps into the establishment, she froze. Rusan vampires of every status, from servant to guild leader, turned to look at her. The wood floor creaked underfoot, and the tables scattered across the space wobbled at the center of mismatched chairs. A loud band played in one corner and a long, tall bar surrounded the back wall, stacked with liquor bottles.

Ariadne and Camilla stood at the bar like roses in a field of dying weeds, leaning in and accepting an unidentifiable liquid in small, questionably clean glasses. Emillie gaped and rushed forward, pulling her skirts out of the way of her feet. Clouds of tobacco smoke stung her nostrils, and leering gazes followed. She stumbled over several loose boards before coming to a halt beside her sister.

“Ariadne,” she hissed under her breath. “Maybe Madan was right.”

“Nonsense!” Camilla pushed a glass of liquor at her. “I come here all the time.”

That did not make Emillie feel better. She loved her friend more than she could ever express, but she knew what Camilla did when left to her own devices. She likely found the bistro thanks to a Rusan vampire she met by chance, if not by a servant of her own household.

Ariadne, on the other hand, ignored Emillie completely. She picked up the next glass of liquor and tossed it down her throat with ease. No grimace of displeasure or gasp for breath.

This was the Ariadne she remembered. This was what her sister had been like—almost as troublesome to their father as Camilla was to her own parents.

“Your sister has no self-control,” he had ranted to her one night after Ariadne had returned home from the Dodd Estate stumbling drunk. “She will never find a proper suitor when the time comes.”

That had been almost five years ago, before Ariadne’s first debut. Before they were pinned under the expectations of the Season. Before Darien and the dhemons and everything which changed her sister forever.

“Ariadne,” she hissed again and looked over her shoulder at a mortified Madan who watched on. “We can find another place and have a glass of wine—”

“I do not want wine.” Ariadne tapped the bar, and the tender poured another glass. She threw it back as easily as the others. “I want to forget.”

Emillie gaped at her. “Forget what?”

But Ariadne did not respond. On her sister’s far side, Camilla leaned toward a young, handsome Rusan man who appeared more interested in her ample cleavage than her face. Except, maybe, her mouth.

This could not be happening. Emillie turned to Madan, who stepped forward and leaned in so both Ariadne and Camilla could hear him over the boisterous music. “Misses, it is time to go.”

“No,” Ariadne said, turning to glare up at the guard. “If you do not like being here, then leave.”

Emillie sucked in a sharp breath.

Ariadne whipped around to her. “Do you wish to leave as well?”

Truthfully, no. Emillie had not seen her sister so at ease in a long time, particularly in a crowded and unfamiliar place. She would not ruin that. Not tonight.

“No.” She chewed her lip and looked apologetically at Madan.

The guard crossed his arms. “Fine. But as soon as this gets out of hand—”

“Relax, doll!” Camilla crooned up at him, placing a hand on his chest and adjusting the collar of his shirt. “I swear by the gods we are safe here.”

Before he could reply, Ariadne ordered a tall, foggy glass of ale and shoved it into his hand. “Please, Madan. I need this.”

“Fuck,” he swore loud as the music died down. Heads turned in their direction. He shook his head and stepped aside, setting the glass down without drinking.

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