A Loom of Years

Twenty Second Weaving
@Anne E. Fraser 2006

Pleased that Genevieve had not been deposed or executed, Blaine and Olivia permitted themselves some relaxation time before the next meeting, which would be in Florence. It was bound to be a tempestuous meeting, although likely not as much so as the one back in 1790 had been. Undoubtedly once again, though, the German Prince would have been killed.

And, indeed, Blaine felt him die. Lothar had been disposed of; presumably by Wilhelm, his successor. There was no word from the German court; not one of the spies of the various Princes reported on what was happening there. Blaine knew what that meant. Wilhelm had staged a bloody purge, ridding his court of all Lothar's supporters and the spies of the other Princes. It was fairly standard behaviour for a new Prince who'd come to the seat by violence.

Of course, no other Prince had been possessed and left brain-dead by a demon before.

"Lothar's gone," Blaine said to Olivia.

"Good riddance."

"Olivia!"

"Oh, come, Blaine, you can't pretend to be sorry Lothar's dead. Poor Wilhelm. Prince thrust upon him."

"And another investiture ceremony," Blaine sighed. "I detest those." New Princes had to be accepted by the Council, and then sworn in during a ceremony wrought with mystical meaning that bound them to the Council and each other. It tended to be long and taxing, in more than one way.

"What goes on in them anyway?" Olivia asked. He hadn't told her yet, but there was always a chance he'd break down one night.

"Secret stuff," Blaine replied. "It's all dreadfully boring."

"I'll bet other princes tell their consorts," she wheedled.

"Darling, there are only two other consorts," said Blaine. "I doubt if Yves bothers to tell Katja the time of day; and Jean is not someone I personally would confide Council secrets to. Gen wouldn't, I'm sure."

She pouted, prettily. "Please?" She tried hard to look cute and appealing. "Look, Bambi eyes."

"Olivia, if anyone showed you Bambi eyes, you would shoot them."

"Sometimes, I think Jean was right about the Council. C'est tout en spectacle, indeed."

"More than you realize, darling. More than you realize."

Olivia finally gave up trying to tease the information out of Blaine. She knew better than to ask Diccon, who was so utterly devoted to Blaine that he wouldn't have told Olivia the time had Blaine forbidden it. Successors were privy to the secret Council meetings when new Princes were invested. Consorts were not.

Blaine had not named Olivia as his successor because she was not from his bloodline; which was fair enough, and also because she did not really want to be Prince. After having been married to one for over six hundred years, she could not understand who would want to be Prince. It was a difficult job, depressing and demanding. And Blaine was one of the fortunate ones, blessed with few troubles to solve or rogues to hunt. He'd never had a vampire-mage war tear his court apart, or anyone try to assassinate him (apart from Olivia herself, of course, but that didn't count) or been forced to purge his court of spies and rebels. He knew perfectly well who all the spies of the other Princes were and treated them quite well. He didn't trust them, of course, because only a fool would do so and Blaine was no fool.

One thing that happened, in the lull between Belgium and Italy, was that Jean de la Mare forgot his position as Consort, which carried certain obligations as well as privileges, and insulted Carmine, publicly. More than once. Carmine was furious with him, especially with this coming so close on the heels of Gen's deposition trial–she would not survive another one and it would be easy for an inimical Prince to call for one if she could not control her consort.

Fortunately, Jean seemed to realize his error and offered an apology. But it was too late, and not enough, so he agreed to go to Italy and accept whatever punishment Carmine chose to mete out to him.

Some were afraid Carmine was going to take Jean's head. Under Council rules, the Italian Prince would have been entitled. Blaine doubted very much if Carmine would behead Jean for a mere insult, and sent the Italian Prince a hickory cane, the sort once used to flog British schoolboys on the hands and bums. He jocularly suggested that Carmine should apply this a dozen times to Jean, where it would do the most good. He never thought Carmine would take him seriously.

Carmine used the stick, but on Jean's bare back, hard enough to draw blood and leave scars, even on vampire flesh. Then he had Jean escorted out of the country and left on the borders, although he did publicly state that if Gen forgave her consort, then so would the Italian court and Jean would be welcome to return.

And Jean vanished, for two weeks. Genevieve was frantic. Blaine was heartsick that his little joke had been misused, although he did feel that Jean had pretty much gotten what he'd deserved... to publicly insult a Prince was no joking matter. The French consort did reemerge after two weeks, weakened, deeply ashamed, having failed in some rescue mission Carmine had given him. He was welcomed home effusively by Gen and nursed back to health and a state resembling his former exuberance. Whether he had learned his lesson about holding his tongue remained to be seen.

Olivia thought about this as she decided what to pack for the Council meeting. They'd be spending several days in Italy–at least two for the Council meeting itself, which would have to expand those days to encompass the investiture ceremony for Wilhelm, plus Carmine had invited them to stay and enjoy the villa as his guests. Blaine and Olivia had accepted, since it was a rare treat to stay in Florence. Or, more properly, Fiesole since that was where the villa was located.

Council meetings were always formal dress; and Princes wore sashes with their country's colours (or, in the case of Princes with more than one country, rather gaily decorated sashes) over their clothing. Blaine always wore, these days, a rather rusty-looking tuxedo with a bow tie slightly askew. He'd probably have worn a derby if Olivia had let him get away with it, but he was pushing his luck with the tux already. She kept threatening to sneak in and replace it with a decent one, but it was part of his camouflage so she let him keep it. Carmine often showed up with an unbuttoned silk shirt, slacks, and no shoes. Genevieve usually wore one of those vintage Dior gowns that made Olivia think of old Hitchcock movies. Kalonice always looked cool and composed, Monique like a well-dressed slut, Zalyina generally a bit mousey. The men, apart from Carmine, wore either tuxedos or some faux military style that allowed them to carry swords.

Consorts, successors and other retainers were expected to maintain the standards and wear formal dress, showing their colours. Olivia had a lovely little United Kingdoms flag jewellery set (a Union Jack pendant, earrings with the Scottish thistle in one ear and the Irish harp in the other, and the Welsh dragon on a bracelet) she wore. She chose a couple of gowns guaranteed to catch male eyes (it never hurt to keep Blaine on his toes, after all, and she loved having Carmine flirt with her) and packed other necessities for the trip. Yes, she had servants, but there were things a consort had to do for herself.

Speaking of consorts... would Jean come to Florence? How would he handle it? How could he face Carmine, after Carmine had publicly flogged him? Well, she, Olivia, had no plans to mention his shaming to Jean. She would be especially nice to him and put him at his ease–if he came.

He was proud, Jean was. He would come. He would not further embarrass Genevieve. Olivia had faith in them both.

Alas, that going to Italy meant flying. She had asked Blaine to consider driving–what had they gone to all that trouble building the Chunnel for, if not to avoid flying to the continent?–but he had adamantly refused. When she'd pressed, he'd threatened to ask Carmine to return the hickory stick. Olivia had dropped the subject–not because she thought Blaine would beat her (she knew he would not), but because she knew she wouldn't win. It was better to retire gracefully from the ring than limp off in defeat.

So she found herself boarding the private jet with Blaine, Naomi, the two pilots, one or two weres and Nameless Ones and their assorted luggage. She sat white-knuckled through take-off; she not afraid of actual flying so much as the small aircraft itself. Claustrophobia ... it was a bitch, really. She tried to look out the tiny window, but it didn't help.

Blaine, veteran of many flights with an unhappy and terrified consort, knew better than to attempt conversation of any kind. Soothing her had only made her worse, he'd discovered. Best to let her get on with it. He unfolded the Times and absorbed himself in the mundane affairs of modern humans.

Donald informed him that they'd received a communication from Fiesole. Laurent Martin, the boy turned by Corbeau who'd been presented by Monique as suitable candidate for French Prince, had been spotted near the Italian border. Carmine's security team was doubling its efforts to capture him; meanwhile, all Princes landing at the airport were being asked to remain on board their aircraft until they were given the all clear. It was felt Martin might mean to do the Council harm, since he had been denied his chance at Princedom. It was highly suspicious that he had come to Italy.

Blaine nodded his understanding, only half-listening because he was doing the crossword puzzle. It was doubtful that Olivia had heard at all.

They duly landed at Fiesole.

"Ah, safely down," said Olivia, as the jet touched the tarmac.

"You aren't still nervous of flying are you, my dear?" asked Blaine, amused.

"Forgive me," Olivia said sheepishly. "I still cannot bring myself to believe that large pieces of metal can stay up in the air. It is against all common sense."

Members of the British court smiled. Like any good Prince, Blaine kept a mixture of species around him for extra security; so those on the plane included a witch and two Nameless Ones as well as vampires. Carmine was the only Prince who did not employ members of that strange warrior race. Blaine had left Tess at home because she had foolishly broken a leg the day before, pursuing some kids who had spray-painted the door of the Kensington townhouse.

"Prince Carmine sent us a message that he would have his security people meet us," said the copilot, once he was able to unbuckle himself and come back to talk to his passengers. "He has requested, respectfully, that you remain on board the jet until they can get here."

"Oh, please no," said Olivia, looking up at him. "I must absolutely get off and stretch my legs."

"Carmine wants us to stay put," Blaine replied.

"No, I can't, I can't..." her eyes were wild, a look Blaine knew well. He caved in.

"We will be perfectly fine," Blaine assured the copilot. "But my consort dislikes airplanes; we won't go far." His Prince had spoken; it had been polite, but still an order.

The copilot bowed. He was not only a vampire, but one of Blaine's fledglings. He'd been turned _after_ acquiring his pilot's license. "As my Prince commands," he said. He turned back and talked to the pilot, who shrugged.

Her responsibility was the aircraft and the passengers when they were on it. If they chose to leave the jet against sound advice not to, it wasn't her problem. Anyway, she was human and in no position to say no to a vampire. She gave permission to have the door opened and the stairs lowered.

Had Tess been along, she would not have permitted her Prince and consort off the plane. But the head of security for this trip was Donald, one of the Nameless, and he did not feel up to the task of stopping Blaine and Olivia. He watched unhappily as the stairs were let down.

Blaine assisted Olivia off. Had she been human, she would have been shaking; as it was, she leaned momentarily against her husband when they reached the ground.

"Thank you, luv," she said, and then somebody shot her.