The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen
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on either side, I have heard it said.”
James quickly changed the subject, as he often did when William countered a poorly-argued point:
“Alfonse des Louveteaux has also served. In Italy, and in the Crimea before that.”
“Alfonse des Louveteaux has no sincere interest in Babette,” William said. “None at all.”
“His father suggests otherwise—” James began.
“His father suggests a great many things,” William interrupted, “very little of which is of any consequence. I am well acquainted with the family, James, as you will recall. I have known them since before you were born, and I have watched Alfonse grow from a child to a…man. There is only one woman for whom Alfonse des Louveteaux has any honest affection, and that is Claire de Mirabeau. Not Babette. Anyone else will be a possession to him, at best. And if you believe otherwise, James, you are a fool.”
James looked at him in anger but held his tongue. Finally, he said, “If people learn that Babette is being courted by a stranger, by a German and a hussar, there will be talk!”
“You needn’t put so much concern in idle gossip,” William said.
After all, like any good Scion he knew that the best way to stop wagging tongues was to snap the necks they were attached to. William had arranged such things in the past to ebb the power of his own scandal. If Society took it upon itself to speak ill of Babette, he would attend to that as well. It was not at all unthinkable for a talkative noblewoman to be found murdered for her jewels, and scandals quickly changed their focus when the gentlemen whispering them turned up dead in the beds of harlots.
But James did not—could not—understand such things, and that made reassuring him tiresome.
“Idle gossip?” he demanded. “Father, this is Babette’s reputation we are speaking of!”
“I would rather they talk about Babette being courted by a well-bred German than about her being courted by no one at all!” William snapped. He took a breath to regain his composure and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “James,” he said, “I know that you want what is best for Babette. But you must understand, I do as well. And I know how to do that. Have I not always steered this family on the best course?”
James slowly nodded, and said, “You have, Father. You have.”
“Then trust me, James. Babette is not her mother. She is by nature a difficult girl to find a match for. Be happy that we seem to have found one and see where the summer takes us. At worst, there is always the good Captain des Louveteaux. His interest will never wane, so long as his father lives. I can assure you of that.”
“If you say so, Father,” James said, smiling hopefully. He seemed overly pleased at the possibility of that contingency.
William smiled back, but it was a lie. He would never allow his flesh and blood to be mated with the likes of a des Louveteaux.
Never.
Chapter Six
Summer, 1861
Babette flew across the park, past the line of trees, astride her chestnut horse as it galloped onward, obeying her direction without hesitation. Caught in the wind, her hair streamed out behind her. She had lost her hat amid the chase and cared too much for the thrill of pursuit to stop to retrieve it.
Her vision had gone crimson like the color of her riding habit. She might have thought it was odd, but in the thrill of the moment, it seemed perfectly natural. The deer was no longer in sight, though she swore she could both hear and smell it. It was afraid. Elegantly afraid. It had fled for the trees in the first minutes of the chase and now lurked there—if a fleeing thing could be said to lurk—seeking an escape that would not come.
It was already dead and she knew it.
That realization formed a warm tingling on Babette’s tongue. It made her hungry. Eager.
In a rush of leaves and brush, the deer burst from the trees and tried to cut across Babette’s path. Korbinian emerged a moment later atop his dappled gray, driving the deer into her path.
“Shoot!” Korbinian shouted.
Babette reached for the carbine in the scabbard in front of her saddle. It did not come free. She pulled harder, growling in frustration. Ahead of her, the deer continued running. Babette nudged her horse after it as she continued to tug on the carbine. She leaned forward, pulling with all her might. The back of the horse struck her in the chest twice, knocking the breath from her.
The wind was too fast, too hot for her to breathe. Suddenly she was suffocating.
No matter. Either the deer would die or she would die. She would not give up her prey.
Finally the carbine came free. The jerk of motion nearly knocked her from the saddle, but she grabbed her horse’s mane and held on hard.
Righting herself, Babette banked her horse to the side and reined it in. The creature whinnied at being denied the chase, but it obeyed. Ahead, the deer kept running, no doubt entertaining some illusionary hope of escape.
Babette raised the carbine and fired, just as Korbinian had taught her. The deer jerked, stumbled, and fell, pierced in the chest. Babette kicked her horse and hurried across the field to where the deer lay.
It was not dead—far from it, indeed. It thrashed about, trying to stand again that it might yet escape. Babette tilted her head and watched it with a sort of dread interest. How strange to see the weaker animal struggling for survival. How cold and detached the sensation, far removed from the delicious bloodlust of the chase.
Korbinian rode up alongside her and drew his rifle. It was a peculiar repeating weapon from America, a “Volcanic” as he called it. Babette watched as Korbinian took aim at the hapless deer and shot it twice through the head.
“The chase always begins in cruelty,” he said, “but ends in mercy.”
Babette felt the hint of a smile creep upon the corner of her mouth.
“As in love,” she said.
Korbinian took her gloved hand and pressed it to his lips.
“Ja,” he said, “but in the hunt, it is the prey who suffers cruelty and is relieved by mercy. In love, it is the hunter.”
“A gentleman should not speak of love so freely,” Babette said as she withdrew her hand. She reached up and touched her wild hair. “My hat is gone. I must retrieve it.”
“Leave it. I prefer your hair as you are: free and spirited.”
Korbinian caught her wrist and pulled it toward him. Babette gave a token resistance before allowing him to take her hand. She sighed as he pressed his soft lips to the underside of her wrist, just where the sleeve and glove met. Babette closed her eyes and allowed the sensation to enfold her senses. Soon there was nothing in the world but her wrist and Korbinian’s gentle kisses.
At length, Babette finally found the strength to pull away.
“My hat,” she said, opening her eyes.
She thought that Korbinian would be angry with her, as men were when they did not get their way. Instead, he smiled at her with his mysterious, knowing expression and said:
“Fetch it, then.”
Babette turned her horse and retraced their path along the park. After a few minutes, she found the hat where it lay discarded among the grass, black upon green. She dismounted to claim it and walked back to Korbinian, leading her horse by the reins.
When she returned, she found Korbinian stripped to his shirt and vest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal long, graceful arms. He had his knives and tools spread out upon a blanket of leather on the ground and was already in the midst of butchering. Babette caught the scent of