Syringa

"What are you doing?" Aubrey repeated.

Ruthven stood to his full height. "Nothing harmful, I promise. I wanted only to look."

"This is my mother's room," Aubrey replied, stalking toward him, hands balled into fists, all but vibrating with renewed anger. "I cannot believe you would dare—"

A finger was placed over his lips, startling him into silence. "Have a care, unless you want your father to find us here."

"Then I could tell him—" Aubrey cut his own words off, realizing just how poorly the conversation would go were he to reveal he had known all along that Ruthven was problematic.

But that was selfish, and this was his mother's room, damn it.  "No one is allowed in here," he said, but took care to be quiet.

Ruthven laughed softly, light from the hallway making him a just visible shadow. "Then why is it free of dust and well-cared for?"

Aubrey opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. He had noticed that very thing upon entering—there was no dust or odor of neglect in the room. Instead, everything smelled of furniture polish and fresh linens.

The scratch of a match filled the room, followed by the noxious smell of sulfur, and then the lamp on the vanity cast a warm orange glow across their small circle of the room.

Aubrey frowned, reaching out almost without thought to pick up a delicate glass bottle which stirred some foggy portion of his mind. He remembered this bottle…

His mother's perfume, of course, but he had never remembered anything about her before. Not really. Vague impressions that like as not were pure whimsy.

But as he pulled the stopper and inhaled the scent, it struck him hard, as only a true memory could. He remembered this scent; it was not merely wishful thinking. As a boy, he had not recognized it. Now, he did. Honey flower and Marianthus. There were traces of other things, but those were the dominant scents.

He set the bottle back down slowly, ignoring the way his hand trembled slightly.

The night of his mother's death was a complete blank. He knew from others that they had gone shopping, that they had bought flowers for Carmilla…

He sort of remembered his father, being relieved when Sangre had arrived, but not much more than that.

The sound of movement jerked him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see that Ruthven was helping himself to the contents of a writing table. "Ruthven! We are leaving!"

Stomping across the room, he reached out to snatch away the book that Ruthven held in one hand—spilling the pages out all over the floor. Heaving a sigh, he knelt to pick them up.

Ruthven had lit another lamp, making most of the room visible now. It was striking but pretty. Not at all what Aubrey had imagined all these years—yet he remembered the way his mother smiled in the portrait in his study, and thought perhaps he should not be surprised after all. It had not been the smile of a delicate woman who simpered in delicate pink and eggshell lace.

The walls were painted a rich cranberry, with accents of cream and pale browns and golds.

On a small table near the window was a crystal vase, filled with dried dog roses, the withered leaves scattered across the table and on the floor.

He bent to gather more pages, crawling over the floor and stretching out to snag one which had landed by the table with the dead roses, slowly righting himself as his eyes absently skimmed the faded writing.

The words Freedom for Pets Rally caught his eye, and despite himself, Aubrey started reading.

It seemed to be a journal entry. Not in diary fashion, but a clear and concise documenting of events. As though his mother had been writing a report.

Without even noticing, he moved to sit in the chair, absently brushing off a few dried petals and leaves, utterly absorbed in the page and all the others which he still held.

He sat in silence as he finished reading what he could of the few pages he still clutched, setting them down amidst the dead petals when he realized his hands were trembling. "My mother…"

Ruthven's steps were soundless, but Aubrey heard him anyway. Felt him, maybe. He sat on the arm of Aubrey's chair, taking Aubrey's hand in one of his own. "Master?"

"She…" Aubrey shook his head and looked up. "My mother hated the situation with Pets. She hated they were slaves. She was fighting for their freedom. These journal entries are all about the rallies and fundraisers and meetings she attended. Scores of them, and so much correspondence—she logged what she sent to whom, what she received… She was quite thorough; she wanted nothing missed."

"Mmm," Ruthven murmured. "That is certainly where you get your thoroughness, then. Your father does not miss things, but he lacks the…focus, I suppose is the word, that you possess. That your mother obviously possessed."

Aubrey looked at him. "You haven't been here long enough to know all that."

"I am observant," Ruthven said mildly. "So you did not know your mother was an activist for the rights of Pets?"

"Of course I didn't know," Aubrey said. "My father is so strict and old-fashioned, he would never have allowed such behavior in his wife…but she could scarcely keep all this secret." He shook his head. "I had no idea she was so intent upon this."

Ruthven was silent.

"I wonder if it was Mina," Aubrey said. "She must have loved Mina very much."

"Indeed," Ruthven replied. "It is obvious that Mina was as cherished and adored as your mother."

Aubrey nodded. "If my mother loved her that much, of course she was cherished and adored. My father loved my mother deeply; he must have indulged her greatly." He let out a soft snort of disbelieving laughter. "I cannot fathom my father being that generous."

"No?" Ruthven asked. "I think you are too harsh."

"Bah," Aubrey said. "I do not think he will ever forgive my defiance in going away to school. My defiance in general. Gilles is much more the son he wants." He could not help the bitterness in his voice. He shouldn't be confiding in Ruthven so, but something about the setting, the discovery, drew the words out.

Ruthven let go of his hand, then cupped his chin, turning his face and tilting it up. "You do not see as clearly as you should, Master," he said quietly. "That seems to be a problem around here. Some of it is willful, some of it is not. You should speak with your father; you are not the disappointment you believe."

"Stop calling me that," Aubrey said, jerking away. "We both know I am no master to you, for whatever you are, it is no Pet. No Pet in the ordinary sense, anyway. That word you used before…"

"What word?" Ruthven asked.

Aubrey reached out to pick up a dried rose petal, rubbing it between his fingers. "Vampire," he said softly. "That's what you said before—vampire. That word has not been used for centuries."

"I must have read it somewhere," Ruthven said with a shrug.

"You're a liar," Aubrey said. "I simply cannot tell if you're a poor one, or far too good a one."

Ruthven grinned, all fang. "Which would you prefer?"

"I prefer honesty," Aubrey snapped. "I have no desire for a Pet, but if I must have one, then I would prefer you be normal."

"What is a normal Pet?" Ruthven asked, and Aubrey realized his chin was still held fast by Ruthven's fingers. "Elisabeth? François? Mina?"

Aubrey scowled. "Not you."

Ruthven laughed and let him go, fingers pulling away slowly in a lingering caress.

Pretending he could not feel the way the touch lingered, the traces of warmth left behind, Aubrey gathered up the papers and stalked to the writing desk. Sitting down, he slowly sorted through the pages, finding the ones he had not read, and losing himself once more to the words written by the woman who had been his mother, who had been brutally murdered by bandits more than a decade ago.

"What were you doing in here, Ruthven?" he asked a few minutes later as he carefully set the journal back on the writing desk, then pulled the cover down over it before sliding the chair back into place and stepping away.

He wanted to stay, to read more, to learn more. His mother had hated slavery as much as he did…but she had done something about it. What had Aubrey ever done except complain and avoid Pets as much as possible?

She had harassed and cajoled and fought and argued and made a stand. He'd done none of that. If she had lived, would he have wound up helping her? Would she be disappointed in him now?

He rather thought she would. His fingers twitched, and he barely resisted an urge to open the writing desk once more, to glean from it all he could about his mother, about Mina, about the cause his mother had fought on Mina's behalf.

"You look as though heavy thoughts weigh you down," Ruthven said, his calm voice soothing.

It just vexed Aubrey further. And yet, what would he want with a Pet who was 'properly' compliant and biddable?

"I was thinking about my mother," Aubrey replied. "I wonder if she would still be doing this if she had lived. If she would have accomplished something by now…if I would be helping her."

Ruthven quirked one thin brow. "Master?"

Aubrey frowned in thought. "Do people still try to free the Pets? Even in the city, I never heard of such things."

When he replied, Ruthven's voice was so soft, Aubrey could barely hear him. "There will always be a voice of dissent."

Nodding, decided, Aubrey spun away from the desk. "I am going to continue what my mother began."

"What?" Ruthven asked, and for once, that cool voice slipped, surprise slipping into it. "I do not think that's—"

Aubrey spun around to face—and collided hard with Ruthven, breath whooshing out of him. He stumbled back, but was caught about the waist by Ruthven. He stared up and was immediately lost in those dark, unfathomable eyes, the words he'd been about to say skittering away, lost and forgotten.

Ruthven stared back, eyes unfathomable in the weak light, a tall shadow with the lamps behind him.

"What were you doing in here, Ruthven? Do not think I've forgotten you have not answered that question."

"Only looking, Master," Ruthven replied.

Aubrey snarled. "Stop calling me that! We both know you use it mockingly."

Ruthven shook his head. "No." He leaned in close, until his words were almost more an impression than actual sound, so close that Aubrey had only to twitch and those lips would be against his, and he hated himself for even thinking about it. For wanting something Ruthven was not truly free to give. "Your blood I have tasted, and so to you I belong."

He shifted, and Aubrey jerked, shoving hard, the movement causing him to stumble, taking the hard fall on his backside from which Ruthven had saved him a moment ago.

Grunting in pain, he slowly dragged himself back to his feet.

Ignoring Ruthven, deciding he would get answers later, he started to stalk back to his own room.

Ruthven's words drew him up short. "Is this really what you want to do, Master? Attempt to free Pets?"

"Yes," Aubrey said. "It's what my mother would want."

"That is what you want? For me to be free?"

Aubrey turned around. "You don't want to be free?"

"It's not about whether I want freedom," Ruthven replied, walking toward him, hair gold again in the light of the hallway lamps, skin gleaming where it was not covered by dark silk. "I asked if you want me to be free."

He stared at Ruthven long and hard. "You should not be a slave, even if you are the most confounding Pet I've ever encountered or heard about."

"You think me so unusual? Yet you know nothing about Pets, you have said so yourself."

Aubrey shrugged. "Then the first step is the one I have already begun—learn more. I do not particularly care, though. Slavery is slavery, and no person should be a slave. But right now, I'm tired of discussing this. We are going back to my room, and you are giving me the key to my mother's room."

"I cannot," Ruthven said. "I promised to return it."

"To Elisabeth."

"Yes, Master."

Which reminded Ruthven of the bizarre exchange between them. "Why did she kiss your hand?"

"I do not know," Ruthven replied, and as quickly as that, he was his false, demure self again, bowing low, looking at Aubrey through his lashes. "Maybe she simply thought I was that pretty."

Aubrey snorted. "Pretty is as pretty does. If you appear as what you are, Ruthven, then I would say you look like trouble."

Ruthven grinned and bent in a deep, formal bow. "You flatter me."

Rolling his eyes, refusing to be amused by the situation because there was nothing funny about any of this, Aubrey turned away and resumed his walk down the hall. He paused as he reached the main landing, realizing for the first time that he was hungry.

He turned back, and watched as Ruthven slipped the key behind a painting that hung above a small table next to Sangre's bedroom door. The painting was of a little girl—Aubrey's grandmother—playing on a swing, clutching a small bouquet of milkvetch.

"I'm going to get something to eat," Aubrey said as Ruthven approached him.

"Yes, Master," Ruthven replied, and his tongue flicked out briefly to lick his lower lip.

Aubrey turned hastily away. "You can join me or not, as you like—but don't touch me. You fed earlier, and I know you had more than enough."

"I can never have enough of you."

"Ruthven!" Aubrey hissed, drawing to an abrupt halt on the stairs, turning sharply around to glare. "Cease that nonsense at once!"

Mouth quirked in a smile that held entirely too much smirk for Aubrey's taste, Ruthven leaned down until their noses were just barely touching. "No, Master."

Then Ruthven moved past him, strolling down the stairs as casual as could be.

Aubrey was left sputtering. "You! You are incorrigible, and sorely in need of a thrashing." Not that Aubrey would ever seriously consider doing such a thing.

Ruthven stopped at the foot of the stairs, grinning up at him. "I did not know you liked such things."

Aubrey's face suddenly felt as though it might burst into flame. "Ruthven!"

"Yes, Master?" Ruthven asked, all innocence.

Aubrey quickly finished descending the steps. "You—" His reprimand faltered as he caught the faintest hints of music. Piano. Someone was in the music room at this horrendous hour? "Who the devil is in the music room?"

"I could not say," Ruthven replied. "Did you want to beat him too?"

"You!" Aubrey sputtered. "Do not say such things. I do not permit it."

Ruthven dipped his head and looked up through his lashes. Aubrey wanted to tear his eyelashes off. That look drove him positively mad—and he rather suspected Ruthven knew it. Infuriating bastard. "Shall we adjourn to the kitchen?"

"You did not agree to stop saying such things," Aubrey said.

Ruthven only smiled, then turned and walked away.

Rubbing at his temples, Aubrey gave up for the time being and followed Ruthven to the kitchen.

When he reached it, Ruthven was at the farthest end, staring out the wide window over the bank of sinks. Aubrey frowned, for there was something to the set of his shoulders that spoke of discontent.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, I simply thought I saw…" Ruthven drifted off, and then suddenly leaned forward, one hand braced on the windowsill.

"What is it?" Aubrey snapped, striding across to join him.

Ruthven turned and caught him by the shoulders. "Nothing, Master," he said firmly. "You look sleepy. Sit down and rest a bit, and I will return in a moment."

Aubrey blinked, caught by the dark eyes—and a sudden, overwhelming yawn. "Did you see…"

"You should go to bed, and I will fix some tea and bring it up to you once it's ready."

Aubrey tried to argue, but the words only came out a yawn, and before he even realized it, he was headed back upstairs. In his room, he paused only to remove his clothes before he climbed into bed and fell promptly to sleep.