Blood Spirits Read Online Free Page B

and lined. If gravitas had not been supplied by his DNA, it had become so habitual that Lord Chesterfield might have used him as an example of it in those letters to his son.
    Gran set aside the tea things.
    Dad, Mom, and I stood up politely, but we could have been yodeling and swinging from the chandeliers for all the notice the not-yet-crowned King Marius took of us.
    â€œLily,” he said softly, advancing on Gran, who stood up.
    Gran and I (and Ruli) shared the same first name—Aurelia—which none of us actually used. Gran’s nickname had been Lily. Her twin sister Elisabeth, Ruli’s grandmother, had been known as Rose.
    Milo stretched out both hands.
    Gran laid her trembling fingers in his, and as he bent down to kiss them, she clasped his hands and offered her cheek. He acknowledged it with a peck then said, “Welcome. How was the journey?”
    â€œPlease sit, Milo,” said she. Her English was heavily accented.
    Only then did he take his place in an armchair, and that was the mode for the entire dinner: old-fashioned manners ruled them both. Each move, almost each word, had been inculcated by careful tutors and governesses almost a century ago, in lessons meant to get one through any eventuality in a civilized manner. They spoke in carefully enunciated English, a language not native to either of them. It, like this house, was neutral territory.
    But they couldn’t quite hide the effect of seeing one another after seventy years, a major war and several minor ones, relocations, births, and deaths. She had dumped him in front of the entire kingdom to run off with Armandros (who later returned and married Rose), leaving Milo duty-bound to take up Lily’s rejected crown as the Germans rolled over the border.
    The conversation was correct, and killingly boring, though Dad did his best to lighten things up by introducing easy subjects: the clock he’d made for Milo, the history of timekeeping, cultural views of time. Literature. Dad, who is a Roman History buff, ranged back and forth from Vergil to Voltaire, writers chosen to include my grandmother, though she scarcely spoke. Mom threw in a comment here and there, though she’d never been much of a reader. She’s more into movies, opera, and folk tunes. She prefers image to text.
    For me, the occasion exuded a false neutrality because from the moment I walked in, it was inescapable that Alec had been there. He had breathed this air, he had walked upon the polished hardwood floor where I now stepped. He’s married to Ruli.
    As I sat in a cabriole-legged Chippendale chair on which he might have rested, the present unraveled around me, blending with the evidence of his past. There was the Edwardian era portrait of a dark-haired woman with Slavic features; in it, the painter had reproduced, with inexorable detail, the Ysvorod diamond necklace that Alec had put around my neck the night of the masquerade ball. Opposite her hung a painting of a young woman in Regency era lace, ringlets, and puffed sleeves, who bore a strong resemblance to the Swedish princess, Sophia Vasa, whose genes were visible in several of us.
    Superficially, everything was pleasant, and the Linguine aux asperges et saumon fumé delicious, making me wonder if my mom had a hand in menu planning, or even supervising. But it was a relief when we rose at last, and Emilio said that coffee would be served in the parlor.
    As we followed Milo through a comfortable sitting room with great leather-backed chairs and floor to ceiling bookcases, my mother whispered into my ear, “We’ve got to get them to mellow out. I’ve never seen him that stiff, even at the duke’s funeral.”
    She stopped talking when Gran touched her arm, murmuring in French, “I think I had better lie down. Will you make my excuses?”
    â€œOf course, Maman . I’ll show you your room.”
    Mom walked away with Gran as the rest of us moved to a pale green salon