Phoebe stopped her nervous shifting, and the room was so quiet that even a warmblood could have heard a pin drop.
“But you need not worry.” Fran?oise folded the smooth pillowcase into a sharp-edged rectangle before taking another damp one from the basket. “You will not have liberty, but you will succeed at your job—because I will be doing my job, protecting you from those who would do you harm.”
“Excuse me?” This was news to Phoebe.
“All newly reborn vampires need someone like me to take care of them—and older ones, too, when they are in society. I dressed Madame Ysabeau, and Miladies Freyja and Verin.” Fran?oise took no notice of Phoebe’s startled reaction. “I took care of Milady Stasia back in the winter of 802, when she was taken ill with the ennui and would not leave her house, not even to hunt.”
Fran?oise finished her pillowcase and took up a sheet. The hot iron hissed and spit against the damp cloth. Phoebe held her breath. This was more ancient de Clermont history than she had ever heard before, and she did not wish to interrupt.
“I attended on madame when she was in the past with Sieur Matthew, and made sure she did not come to harm when he was about town on business. I kept house for Milady Johanna after Milord Godfrey died in the wars, when she was in a rage and wished to die. I have cooked and cleaned for Sieur Baldwin, and helped Alain take care of Sieur Philippe when he came home from the Nazis a broken man.”
Fran?oise fixed her dark eyes on Phoebe. “Aren’t you glad now that this is the life I chose: taking care of this family? Because without me, you would be eaten up, spit out, and ground under the heels of every vampire you meet, and Milord Marcus with you.”
Phoebe wasn’t glad, precisely, although the more Fran?oise spoke the more grateful she was for the advice the woman was delivering. And she still couldn’t understand why anyone with her full faculties—which Fran?oise obviously possessed—would choose to look after other people. Phoebe supposed it wasn’t dissimilar to Marcus’s choice of medicine, but he’d gone to years and years of schooling for that and it seemed somehow more worthy than Fran?oise’s path.
The more she considered Fran?oise’s question, however, the less sure Phoebe was of her answer.
Fran?oise’s mouth began to curve upward in a slow, deliberate smile.
For the first time since becoming a vampire, Phoebe felt an unmistakable flush of pride. Somehow, simply by keeping silent, she had earned Fran?oise’s approval. And it mattered to her a great deal more than she might have expected.
Phoebe handed Fran?oise the lump of sheet that was uppermost in the basket.
“What’s ‘ennui’？” Phoebe asked.
Fran?oise’s smile widened. “It’s a type of sickness—not so dangerous as Sieur Matthew’s blood rage, you understand, but it can be deadly.”
“Does Stasia still have it?” Phoebe settled back onto her stool, watching Fran?oise’s movements and taking in how she managed the lengths of damp linen without letting them drag on the floor. The two of them would be spending a lot of time together. If housekeeping was important to Fran?oise, Phoebe should at least try to discover why.
“Middle-aged white women,” Miriam said as she entered Fran?oise’s territory.
“What about them?” Phoebe asked, confused.
“They were sample eighty-three—the one you claimed to like second only to cat’s blood,” Miriam explained.
“Oh.” Phoebe blinked.
“We’ll get you some more. Fran?oise will have it on hand—but you have to ask for it. Specifically. Unless you do, you’ll have nothing but the cat to feed from,” Miriam said.
Whatever was the point of that? Phoebe wondered. Couldn’t she just say, “I’m hungry,” and rummage through the fridge?
Fran?oise, however, seemed to understand what was going on. She nodded. Phoebe would learn later why this ridiculous rule was being imposed.
“The cat will be sufficient, thank you, Miriam,” Phoebe said stiffly. She simply couldn’t imagine being in such need that she would utter the words “give me the blood of a middle-aged white woman.”
“We’ll see,” Miriam said with a smile. “Come. It’s time for you to learn how to write.”
“I know how to write,” Phoebe said, sounding cross.
“Yes, but we’d like you to do it without setting the paper on fire with excessive friction or carving up the desk.” Miriam crooked her finger in a way that made Phoebe shiver.