A November Witching Hour

Part VII

The eloquent people arranged themselves like a painting around the front room of the mansion. Verity arrayed her greenish black dress on the red velvet couch as she sat. James and Melanie sat on the couch facing her, but across the room, James rubbing Melanie’s satin sleeve between his fingers. Caedmon and Lenora stood near the window, the tips of their fingers holding them together. Caedmon forced a creeping dread back down from his stomach. Lenora was Reilly no longer, but sometimes a half-hidden-somewhat-leftover thought of hers peeked into Lenora’s mind. Reilly would have been nervous to meet Cicero, but Lenora was well practiced in keeping her regal bearing while submitting to authority. She had complete respect and love for Caedmon, and it was a pleasure to be under his headship, and she figured Cicero would be like him, if definitely more cold and aloof. Still, the thoughts of Reilly were not all sundered from her mind, kept still in a feeling of serene sorrow that clung to her like a bloody millstone. They all habituated themselves to similar weights in that room. Her eyes traveled around, until they were captivated by the wine glasses filled with crimson liquid on a table opposite her. She could smell the blood warming in the sunlight. For some reason she felt she should feel disgusted, but she couldn’t force the feeling, and mostly didn’t want to.

They heard the purr of an engine coming up the drive, the crunch of tires on the gravel. Cicero entered soon after. Everyone stood with sagacious grace, and he greeted them individually with the bearing of a Caesar. He came last to Caedmon, whose hand he shook with first one, then both of his own.

“How are you, my son?” he asked with a warm smile.

“Well, father.” Caedmon smiled in return.

Cicero then turned to Lenora, his smile going broader.

“And this must be Lenora. It is a pleasure,” he said taking her hand from her side. She hadn’t expected him to say so little to Caedmon.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she answered, her voice small.

He considered her whole aspect in a moment, and seemed pleased. Her left hand clenched and unclenched her silver-grey dress at her side. The motion was born of the Reilly part of her.

“Well, I wish we had more time for pleasantries, but we must be going. The Breton elders are expecting us,” said Cicero as he walked to the tray with the glasses. He picked one up and began to sip it. The others followed his example, and for twenty minuets they sipped the blood and listened to Cicero tell of the beauty of Ireland. They would be royally late.