magically disappear the moment she reached home. Everyone was still expecting her to marry the selfish bastard upon crowning. She cleared her throat and inhaled deep in attempt to banish the emotion.
There was one other thing—a person—her racing mind did allow, seeping inevitably into the fine cracks of her fine misfortune.
Just one.
Ears burning, she dared swivel to peek at Garin, whom she knew heard every last word. The kitchen table and its four chairs had been pulled out from the nook and placed beside the hearth. But he was nowhere to be found.
“Dinner’s ready, madame.” He’d appeared in front of her cushion, one arm extended as he helped Sable to her feet. “I apologize for not doing so earlier, seeing as we had quite the scare there,” he said politely, his accent posher than ever. “But I wanted to express our appreciation for your and Jeanare’s generous hospitality.”
He bowed his head to press his lips briefly to Sable’s hand. The old woman laughed, blushing right through the fine lines on her face. Garin winked at Lilac and extended his free arm to her.
She declined, matching his courteous tone. “I’ll be right behind you.” Letting him pass, she pulled her cloak tight across her front and trailed them to the small wooden table.
It was as if Hedwig herself had popped in as Garin’s assisting chef. The table setup was much smaller than she was used to, but impressive all the same. He had scooped the contents of the iron pot into a boat-shaped serving dish and placed four plates and utensil sets, one on each side of the table. In the middle of the stew dish sat the plump bird he’d killed outside.
The image of Garin snapping its scrawny neck suddenly flashed through her mind; almighty-hunter-of-man, reduced to vicious rooster killer.
Lilac bit her bottom lip to stifle a giggle.
“Coq au vin.” Garin said. “I hope that’s all right.”
“It smells wonderful down here,” boomed Jeanare descending the staircase and making his way into the room.
“Thank you, sir. My own mother’s recipe.”
Lilac took the seat closest against the wall while Garin took the one to her right, his back facing the hearth. Jeanare sat across from her, and Sable across from Garin. Lilac was the first with her fork and knife in hand, ready to help herself to the aromatic stew, when Sable cleared her throat.
“We mustn’t forget prayer, lass—it’s quite all right, I know how starving you must be. Will you do the honor?”
Lilac cleared her throat to stall. There were none she knew by heart. “My apologizes. Er—”
“I’ll do it,” Garin said quietly.
She shot a look at him. Vampires were deterred by religious artifacts and couldn’t enter hallowed ground. Weren’t they? Yet, there he was, offering a prayer.
They all joined hands and bowed their heads. When she was sure the couple’s eyelids remained softly shut, Lilac opened hers to observe Garin in wonder while he recited the Lord’s Prayer, first in French, then in perhaps his parents’ native tongue, sounding so foreign yet oddly familiar at the same time. With his back illuminated by the hearth, he looked like some celestial being bent on evoking world peace.
“Amen,” he finished, then opened his eyes. They were different. The pewter fire in them had dimmed. “Shall we?”
Dinner was beyond anything Lilac could have expected of the vampire to prepare. The coq au vin was a hundred times better than Hedwig’s, richly satisfying and savory. Maybe part of it was the fact that she hadn’t eaten a real meal since the castle, but she was pleasantly surprised at how such a simple, single-course meal could be so deeply fulfilling. The chicken meat fell right off the bone to soak in the steaming broth alongside wild carrots and potatoes.
Garin, to her surprise, scarfed down his bowl of stew while indulging in eager conversation with Sable over Cornwall. Sable had revealed, after hearing the end of Garin’s prayer, that her parents had migrated to Brittany from the around same area that his ancestors, Aimee and Pascal had. With bits of soft potato hanging from his mouth, Garin told the story of how they’d crossed the Channel in the summer of 1335—how they’d left their hometown before the terrible malady wreaking havoc in London could reach Plymouth. Despite the calmer season, the churning currents had carried their rickety vessel a few kilometers west of the Roscoff docks, where they’d originally planned to settle. Once arrived on land, Aimee and Pascal embarked south through the thick woodland and