A Loom of Years

Twentieth Weaving
@Anne E. Fraser 2006

Blaine and Olivia celebrated the turn of the millennium with a huge party, inviting their special friends on the Council and important mages, shifters and Nameless Ones. Music and laughter floated out into the night air; it was a grand affair with everyone dressed in their absolute finest. Even Blaine managed not to ruin the fit of his tuxedo, keeping his hands out of his pockets by dint of great effort.

Never had he been happier than on this night. Was it magic? It didn't matter, really, did it? It was not as if a mere date, an arbitrary number at that, mattered at all to them. It had only been an excuse to have a party, to see old friends. What really mattered to him was dancing with Olivia in his arms, her in her sparkly black gown with the low-cut back, her head on his shoulder, the hired orchestra playing a waltz, while the old millennium drained away and a new era began.

Later he was to be especially glad to have the memory of that night to look back on; moments in time like seeing Genevieve laugh as she and Jean assayed a tango; Kalonice smile brilliantly at handsome Brengy and the alpha were look rather startled in return; Tess the golden-eyed nearly pounce on a visiting Scottish wizard.

But by far the most powerful memory, the one that was to serve him the best, was of Olivia giving a little sigh as they waltzed, looking up at him and saying "I love you."

The year 2004 was not an overly exciting one. In England. Once again, all the adventures seemed to be in either France or America. Genevieve had finally met Julian of the many last names, the mysterious wandering mage who had appeared before the British court more than a century earlier. And she had, apparently, slept with him.

"Call it having sex, darling," Olivia admonished Blaine. "Gen doesn't sleep."

"What was she thinking?" Blaine asked, aghast. "What about Jean?"

"What about Jean? It's his own damn fault, you know. He keeps leaving her and coming back, wandering off to see if he can find a tamer woman in his bed and then discovering they're too boring compared to Gen. As for what she was thinking... really, Blaine. She is Prince. He is the most powerful magic-user we've met, and he's currently living in France. An alliance with someone like that is useful."

"You can have an alliance without sex."

Olivia snorted. "Stop thinking of Gen as some chaste lady in a romance," she said. "She's lonely, Blaine. Hardly surprising she wanted a night with Julian. Besides, they'd just fought all those lunatic monks or whatever they were. Spoils of war."

Blaine sighed. "I don't suppose you'd care to have a word with Jean?"

She shook her head. "He hasn't been named consort," she replied. "I doubt he'd listen to me anyway. You know how hot-tempered he is."

"One of these nights, that temper is going to get him into more trouble than he can handle. She should name him Consort. It might steady him up a bit."

Olivia laughed. "Can you imagine the expressions in Council?"

"I pity any Prince with a consort he or she cannot control," said Blaine.

"Oh? And since when do you control me?"

"I have you wrapped around my little finger, Olivia Hanover, admit it."

She surveyed the finger in question. "I agree with the general sentiment," she said. "It is the technicality of whose finger and who is the wrapee that is in some doubt."

2005 duly arrived, barely noted by the busy British Prince. He was settling a territory argument between two Welsh vampires; he and Olivia were staying up near Barmouth.

"Look," said Olivia and she and Blaine walked through the town after the argument had been amicably settled. "The medieval tower house is still here."

"Everything else has changed, though," Blaine said. "Although it still remains the site of my greatest failure as Prince."

"Every Prince has at least one failure," Olivia replied. "Amazing how many of those failures were named Etienne Corbeau."

"He was a monster," Blaine nodded. "And we will never know what made him so powerful and hard to capture and kill."

"There are some things man was not meant to wot of," Olivia said.

"Or vampire, apparently."

"Or vampire." She slipped her hand onto his elbow. "Let's not talk about him anymore. It was such a lovely evening, and that name cast shadows over it; feel how cold it's gotten."

"Olivia," Blaine's mouth twitched. "We are vampires, you know. We aren't supposed to be afraid of anything."

"Except garlic, crosses, silver, sunlight, bad press..."

He shut her up by kissing her.

Exactly what happened to lead up to the War of the Roses, Blaine never fully understood. Adele Blakesley, no longer the darling little girl who had demanded a frog from Blaine one night in South Kensington, had somehow or other appeared in modern times and had apparently fallen in love with Alex Goldanias. She had invited him to come to Paris, where she lived in the same house as Julian the mage, his lover Nimue ( the Nimue, apparently, and that was a story Blaine really wanted to hear but was doomed not to) and a few others, mostly domestic staff.

No sooner had Alex set foot in le Borget, the airport for private planes just outside Paris, than he, Adele and their party were attacked. Genevieve, who had rather taken a shine to Adele, had arranged for extra security at the airport because she had presentiments of trouble. A Prince learns not to ignore that nagging feeling.

Then, in America, the teenage twins who were the offspring of Michael Fairlawn were magically kidnapped. People naturally went to the rescue; at the same time, demonic armies attacked Julian's house, the Chateau de Monet and the homes of the Brotherhood of Darkness in Maine. Dark times fell on France.

Blaine wanted to drop everything and rush to Genevieve's aide. So did Olivia, for that matter, but they both received a message from the French Prince to stay put. Enough of her friends were putting their lives in peril for her. She did not want anyone else to risk themselves in a war with demons.

So the British couple, though it chafed, obeyed her wishes. And waited for word. Jean called them during a momentary lull in the hostilities to say that Gen had been wounded by a silver crossbow bolt, but was expected to recover. Blaine was on the verge of travelling to France at that moment, but then they received the news that the war was over. The demon behind all the fighting had been defeated. By the turn of a card in a hellish game of baccarat, the winner being Alex Goldanias.

"Thank goodness that's over," Blaine said, determining to travel now to France to see how Genevieve was recovering from her wound.

But it was not over.

A letter arrived from Monique of Belgium, summoning the Council to an emergency session. A motion had been tabled; a motion to depose the Prince of France.

No Prince had ever been deposed; although Ingrid had been censured once. Usually the first step was censure. A motion of censure was a heads-up to an erring Prince to mend his or her ways or face a deposition hearing. To cut out that step and go straight to a motion to depose a sitting Prince was a bold and ruthless move. Blaine had no doubt whatsoever of who was behind this latest horror. Rodrigo, Monique and Lothar; the axis of evil.

"They can't do this," said Olivia, re-reading the letter as if in hope that somehow the wording would change.

"They can," Blaine sighed. "They have probably bullied Yves and Paavali into voting with their little cabal."

"We will outvote them," said Olivia, firmly.

"It likely all depends on Carmine. Which way will he vote?"

Olivia looked shocked. She could not think badly of Carmine, no matter what his reputation. "He won't vote to depose Gen!"

Deposed Princes died. To prevent them from making a bid to regain the Council seat, they were beheaded, the body burnt and the ashes scattered on running water. Their consort, successor, immediate fledglings and closest advisors were put to the sword. If Rodrigo had his way, the entire French court would be murdered, Chateau de Monet levelled and the ground sewn with salt.

"I wish I could be as certain of that as you are, darling," Blaine sighed. "I'll tell Vaughan to have the jet ready. We're off to Belgium in five nights."

Go to the Twenty-first Weaving