“A secretary?” Perfectly sculpted brows rose in surprise but her mouth betrayed her disappointment. “Oh my poor Alyosha,” her voice dropped low so those around might not hear, and she slipped into Imperial Russian, a language she’d always felt belonged to him. “Have you become so neglectful of your abilities you can no longer keep track of your own time? Those mundane little mortals you favor will do that to you, I believe I’ve told you this often.”
It was a scolding designed as concern, and maybe a part of her genuinely was concerned. With the seemingly unending amount of time she’d been gifted Charlotte had sought all the magic and knowledge that that been denied and suppressed in her mortal life. She’d learned things in the centuries since that Alyosha’s professors at school couldn’t consider in their wildest day dreams. What a pity it was, that he’d wasted his years as a lapdog for a slowly crumbling dynasty.
“We certainly have,” Charlotte smiled serenely, “he has the most darling son who absolutely adores us both, I’d almost forgotten how much I love children.” There it was, the tiny hint of sincerity she deployed like a weapon to see how much of their time together he’d blocked out. Would he remember how she spoke of her own daughter, her own flesh and not just blood, taken from her far too soon? Or simply see the sinister monster he wished to believe she was?
“You have nothing to fear from me, nor I you.” The Russian was back, harsh against the smile on her face. “It’s time to clear the air, don’t you think?”
It was an insult. It may have been spoken with concern, spoken in a language and a pitch just for him, but it was an insult. But of course, it’s what came from Charlotte, with her preferences, with her apathy, with her disdain for mankind. Even if Alyosha should’ve expected it, the red hot coil that flared in his stomach should’ve been equally predictable to her. When he spoke, her switched to the same Imperial Russian, flawlessly at home on his tongue. “I am merely busy. I have work, I have commitments, and I have things to do. We maybe be immortal, but even our days are still limited to twenty-four hours.”
What would she know of work? What would she know of getting lost in proposals? Of having a never ending block of meetings, one after the other? She would scoff. She wouldn’t want to know. Or at least, that was how he’d always understood Charlotte. She was freedom as much as she was chaos. And just as he’d rebuked her definition of chaos, he rebuked her definition of freedom. His time was scheduled. His hands were bound by the laws he made. But he had chosen then, just as he had chosen to take her offer of immortality so many years. Just as he had chosen not to be her lapdog, but someone else’s – as she would say, probably.
His nose crinkled when she mentioned her new pet had a child, but any biting retort he might muster died on his tongue. Charlotte was chaos and cruelty and some shade of evil. But he remembered dark nights alone, quiet, candlelit where they spoke in hushed tones of their vulnerabilities, their dreams, and their truths. Of her past, too. (His was meaningless in comparison to hers. Short. Insignificant.) It was there in his mind to suggest she’d do some untoward to the boy. To hurt him as she’d hurt countless. But he didn’t. “You did,” he said, measured. “I have not forgotten.”
Did he not? The doubt glinted in his eyes. He glanced from face, smooth, pointed, pretty to look through the crowds. His guests paid them no heed. “Must it be tonight?” he asked looking back at her. He allowed his features to soften. Allowed sincerity to show on his face and in his words. “Can I not have a peaceful birthday?”
