“I disagree,” Miriam said. “Better Phoebe learn here that incivility has consequences rather than on the streets of Paris, where the mere fact that she is to marry a de Clermont will have fledglings lining up to see if they can best her.”
“Marcus would never forgive me if his mate took to her knees before me.” Freyja shook her head.
“I’m not a great believer in modern parenting.” Miriam was quiet, but the warning in her voice was unmistakable. “Marcus knew that when he asked me to sire Phoebe. So did you. If my way of child rearing is a problem, I’ll move Phoebe to my own house.”
Freyja drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin. Phoebe didn’t have much information on Freyja’s origins, but the gesture confirmed what little she did know—that Marcus’s aunt had royal blood and had murdered her three young brothers rather than allow them to inherit the family lands.
“I promised dear Marcus I would not leave Phoebe’s side until she was reunited with him,” Freyja said coldly. “He must have had a good reason to ask for such an assurance.”
Before war could break out in the 8th arrondissement, Phoebe rose gingerly from her chair, careful not to put any pressure on the finely carved arms as she did so, and walked to Freyja as slowly as she was able to at this stage of her development. It took only two blinks, in spite of Phoebe’s best efforts to curb her speed. Gracefully, she knelt.
Actually, it started out gracefully but ended rather abruptly, her knees gouging shallow dents in the wooden floor.
Phoebe would have to work on that.
It was something about the sight of Freyja’s knees, bare and sculpted underneath the edge of her bright turquoise linen dress, freckled slightly from exposure to the sun while in the garden tending her beloved roses, that caused Phoebe to lose her senses. Like the rest of her, Freyja’s knees were perfect, elegant, and powerful. Freyja’s knees would never be forced to bend before another creature.
“I’m sorry, Freyja,” Phoebe began, sounding truly penitent. “I’m sorry that I’m being held prisoner in your house, against my will. I’m sorry Marcus didn’t tell the de Clermonts to bugger off so that we could do this our way.”
Miriam growled.
Freyja looked down at Phoebe with a mixture of astonishment and admiration.
“I’m sorry I don’t want to drink this disgusting mess of cold blood you’ve so carefully laid out for me so that we can determine whether I prefer cat to dog, rat to mouse, Caucasian females to Asian men. And I’m deeply sorry to reflect badly on my esteemed maker, to whom I owe everything,” Phoebe continued. “I am not worthy to share her blood, and yet I do.”
“That’s quite enough.” Miriam said.
But Phoebe was not finished making a mockery of her forced apology. She bolted for the table and began downing the remaining samples of blood with great speed.
“Revolting,” she proclaimed, crushing a wafer-thin glass tumbler to dust in her hands. She took up the next. “Gamey.” A silver-stemmed goblet snapped in two, the bowl separating from the base. “Putrid, like death.” She spat the liquid back into the shot glass, which was inscribed with the warning BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES. “Not bad, but I’d rather drink cat.” Phoebe flipped the empty wineglass over so that the bloody residue slid down the sides and made a sticky ring on the table.
On Phoebe went around the table, slurping blood and tossing glassware aside until she had consumed every last drop. In the end, only a single silver julep cup was left standing. Phoebe wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It was trembling, and dotted with splashes of blood.
“I’d drink that.” Phoebe pointed to the small, straight-sided cup with beaded decoration around the rim （made by a Kentucky silversmith around 1850, if she was not mistaken）。 “But only if there was no cat around.”
“Progress, I think,” Freyja said cheerfully, surveying the carnage on her dining room table.
A gasp announced the arrival of Fran?oise—who would, of course, be expected to clear away the mess.
But it was Miriam’s dark expression that held Phoebe’s attention. Miriam’s face promised punishment—and not within any predictable human timeframe.
Miriam banished Phoebe, Cinderella-like, to the kitchens to assist Fran?oise. It took several trips up and down the stairs just to clear the debris. Phoebe was grateful for her newly enhanced cardiovascular system, not to mention her vampire speed.
Once the table was cleared, the surface wiped, the floor scrubbed by hand with a brush, and the bits of glass plucked out of Phoebe’s knees and shins, Phoebe and Fran?oise busied themselves at the sink. Fran?oise took charge of all the breakable glasses, just in case, and handed Phoebe the ones made of metal.