"you are good to come, madame, though i have my doubts that she will see you willingly." he speaks quickly and quietly, as though reluctant to awake the remains of the house. he is breathless with it, an impatience that feels like hunger - listening for Gabrielle's rattled coughs as she moves against her pillows, for Nicki's irritated huffs of breath as he fights the lull of sleep, to La Dame Blanche's steady beating heart as she moves by his side. one last hope. "my mother has always been stubborn."
⠀ jamie had not wanted her to go—they'd fought furiously about it, the same way they'd fought over l'hôpital des anges, the both of them hardened and bitter in their utter conviction.
⠀ "i don't see how this is any bloody different!" she'd shouted, her cheeks hot with outrage, and jamie's face had contorted in disbelief.
⠀ "christ, claire!" he'd spat, turning away from her to stalk toward the hearth and then back again like some kind of caged animal. "it's entirely different! first of all, i dinna like this lestat—"
⠀ claire had released a wild, disbelieving noise at that, and jamie had whirled around, his expression murderous. "of course you don't," she'd sneered. "you can't stand any man who so much as looks at me, can you?"
⠀ jamie's face had flushed a mottled red, and a muscle in his jaw had jumped, the tendons in his neck in firm relief against his throat. "this isna about jealousy," he'd said, speaking low and carefully controlled, as though balancing upon the tightrope of his restraint. "do i really have to remind you of the night you were nearly killed on the street?"
⠀ "oh, clearly!" claire's temper had overflowed its bounds, then, and she'd trembled with the force of her fury. how dare he suggest something so utterly demeaning? as though that attack hadn't played in her nightmares since the moment it happened, as though it hadn't laid ruin to mary's future, and alex's, and nearly their own. as though she hadn't feared for the life of their child from the moment they set foot in france and every second afterwards. "you mean when i had to watch as mary hawkins was raped? no, it had slipped my mind completely!"
⠀ jamie had crossed over to her with such rage that for a moment, claire thought he might hit her. "damn it, woman!" he'd snarled, pressing his face right up against hers, so she could smell the hot, sweet scent of his breath. "you're not going!"
⠀ it had taken a great surge of willpower to keep from throwing herself at him, from clawing at his hair and clothing and skin and toppling them both to the parlor rug, where she would hitch up her skirts and yank at his hair until he cursed and sink down atop him and—
⠀ claire shuts the door on that line of thought and leans her metaphorical weight against it. she inhales deeply, trying to settle her nascent arousal, which is mortifyingly inappropriate given the current circumstances.
⠀ "it's really no trouble," she says, granting monsieur de lioncourt a small, closed-mouthed smile. although she tucks her chin deferentially toward her chest, her eyes sparkle with humor, and she leans a little closer—a play at speaking in confidence. "i'm well-versed in difficult patients."
⠀ from what she has gathered, madame de lioncourt is doing quite poorly; claire fervently hopes that her situation has been exaggerated, as often happens when receiving a report directly from a patient's loved one. it's easy to allow fear to color your judgment, the harrowing anticipation of a grief too great to bear.
⠀ "i only hope i can be of service."
⠀ she follows monsieur de lioncourt through the apartment, which...is not entirely as she had anticipated. it's beautiful, certainly, evidencing the same elegance and attention to detail as their house in rue tremoulins—a hallmark of parisian aristocracy. but there's a feeling of neglect that prickles against the back of claire's neck; here and there, the paper curls back from the walls, like the first peel of flayed skin, and she's certain she glimpses a few places where the plaster itself has begun to crumble, though it's difficult to tell in the limited light they have.
⠀ beneath her cloak, claire presses a protective hand against her abdomen, fighting back the momentary swell of unease. a serious illness would command a great deal of attention and resources; of course the household hasn't had the opportunity to properly maintain itself. it's only her fight with jamie and her fluctuating hormones that have set her nerves on edge.
⠀ she glances at monsieur de lioncourt, drawing her focus back to the matter at hand.
⠀ "has the madame been bedridden long?"
