Chapter Eight Samuel

Chapter Eight

Samuel

E ven though he knew he had the address correct, Samuel doubled-checked it against the note Shan had left him. He shouldn't have been surprised—she was, after all, a LeClaire. And in the day since she had arrived in his home and completely changed his life, he had tried to find out everything he could about her and her family.

It hadn't been much, but he had been able to verify a few things. The LeClaire family was an old bloodline, powerful, but the last few generations had been bankrupted. The late Lord Antonin LeClaire, very recently deceased, had found a wealthy family from the Tagalan Islands with a Blood Worker child, and, for an impressive dowry, taken her off their hands.

The family had paid to get rid of their daughter, as if she was some piece of trash. And while he didn't have a lot of sympathy for Blood Workers, even Samuel had to admit that was horrific. No one deserved a life like that, especially if the rest of the rumors about the late Lord LeClaire were true.

But that was the past—the woman had fled years ago in a scandal that had ruined what was left of the LeClaires' reputation, and in the wake of it Lord LeClaire had made them one of the most pitied Blood Working families in Aeravin. It was almost enough to make Samuel feel bad for this Lady LeClaire, but as he stood looking up at the grand townhouse she called home, he found that sympathy waning.

It rose high above him, a good three stories tall to a steeply tapered roofline, the entire structure painted a deep burgundy over the brick exterior. His gaze hopped from one bay window to another, the decorative gables and eaves a stylistic extravagance that was far beyond his experience, purely ornamental and ostentatious.

He had dithered on the street long enough—he was already close to being late. He squared his shoulders and climbed the stairs, knocking twice on the fine wooden door. It opened not a moment later, revealing a young footman in clothes finer than anything Samuel owned.

"Uh, hello," Samuel said, politely.

The footman blinked at him, clearly taking in his ratty shirt and faded trousers. "Lord Aberforth," the footman replied, his voice rising in such a way that it turned the greeting into a question.

Samuel winced at the title—though he knew that he had to get used to it—and nodded. "Just Samuel is fine."

The footman's brow furrowed, but he stepped aside and gestured for Samuel to follow him. "Lady LeClaire is expecting you in the parlor," he said. "Right this way."

He led Samuel into the house, moving at a brisk pace that didn't give him a chance to fully ogle the richness of the home. Just fleeting impressions of the solid pinewood floors, the lush curtains over the wide windows, the fine portraits that hung on the wall.

Everything was pristine and elegant, the design surprisingly tasteful and modern with its dark colors and harsh lines, as if the house had been recently redesigned. Probably with the money that the mother had brought in, now that he thought about it.

But still, the home was lovely, and that made him hate it all the more. It wasn't even something he could mock, gaudy and tacky and reeking of wealth.

"Lord Aberforth," the footman announced, and Samuel glanced up to see Shan in the parlor; a room that had been cleared and transformed into a makeshift tailor's studio, and she was talking with a woman maybe twenty years their senior.

Shan turned to him with a smile, and he was struck with how different she looked. The previous night she had dressed to make herself a shadow, to blend in with the crowds, to hide everything that marked her as different.

Today, she was a proper Lady, dressed in a deep blue gown that could have been plucked from the night sky, sprinkled with little sparkles that caught the eye like stars. It was fitted as if it had been made for her—and it probably had—with a tight corset and a skirt that spun out from around her waist. She wore her hair loose, a cascade of dark curls that edged on just the polite side of messy.

He wasn't a fool; he knew it was a carefully calculated choice on her part. She was showing off the riches that she had, that he could have, by wearing such a thing so casually. But even though he knew she was manipulating him, he couldn't deny the effect it most definitely had.

His mouth suddenly dry, he inclined his head to her. "My lady. Forgive me, I appear to be underdressed."

Shan smiled. "That's what we're here to fix. May I introduce Madame Laurens? She is the best tailor in Aeravin." She ran her hand down her bodice and towards her skirt, and Samuel was unable to stop himself from following the path of her fingers. "She made this. It's all the rage in the Courts of Lumerie."

Samuel had heard tales of the Courts of Lumerie, a nation to the south whose court was so decadent it rivalled the Blood Workers of Aeravin. They were the height of fashion and culture—what was popular one year swept out across the world the next, like ripples in a pond.

Laurens scoffed as she stepped up to them, an older woman with dark skin and strong features. She wore a suit of deep red, not the color of freshly spilt blood but of richest wine, tailored to fit her trim figure. "There is no need to talk me up, girl. You wore that dress for yourself, and you know it."

Shan made a noise of polite distress, but there was sudden laughter from the doorway. Samuel turned to find a young man leaning against the door, lounging in so deliberately casual a manner that it had to be affected. From the first glance Samuel knew that this had to be the brother Shan mentioned, the twin that his research had confirmed. The Unblooded one.

He had all his sister's elegance honed to a predator's grace. He was tall and thin and incredibly beautiful, and the smirk he wore proved that he was very aware of it. Samuel couldn't help but immediately compare him to Shan. They had the same features—the wide cheekbones, the wide nose, the narrow eyes. They were mirrors of each other, but he was harsh and brash where Shan was elegant and deadly. He was a club, and she was a blade.

His heavy gaze landed briefly on Samuel, then slid right on by to Laurens. "Glad to see someone here has sense."

"Well, if it isn't my favorite subject." Laurens grinned, holding out her arms, and he crossed the room to give her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "But I'm not here for you."

"Unfortunately not," Antonin said, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. "My sister has more important uses for you."

"That I do," Shan said, at last stepping forward. She linked her arm through Samuel's, guiding him forward, and the light touch sent shivers across his skin. "Samuel, this is my brother, Sir Antonin LeClaire, though you can call him Anton. Anton, this is Lord Samuel Aberforth."

"Ah, yes," Antonin—no, Anton—said, glancing down at him.

"Just Samuel is fine," Samuel muttered, and Shan swatted him on the arm.

"You're a Lord," she said, "and he is not. You should go by Aberforth amongst your lessers, at the least, unless they are amongst your most intimate friends."

Samuel frowned. "And we are not friends?"

Anton laughed. "No. Not yet." The coldness of his gaze made Samuel think that they might never be friends, that Anton might not want them to be friends, and he forced himself to look away.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to even ask. He looked to Shan for help, but she just gestured Laurens forward.

"We still have work to do," Laurens said as she pushed past Anton, who broke off from the group. She took Samuel by the chin, turning his face left and right as she studied him. "He's a fine specimen, though a bit on the skinny side. That's all right, though. Long lines and lean silhouettes are in this season."

"You'll dress him, then?" Shan asked.

Laurens smiled, and there was something hungry about it. "If you're going to parade him around Dameral, girl, he might as well have the best."

Samuel quickly glanced between them. "Is this really necessary?"

"Consider this your first lesson, Samuel," Shan said, as Laurens pushed him onto the pedestal. "Appearances matter more than almost anything else."

He stood there, following Laurens' wordless orders to lift his arms. She circled around him, suddenly quiet and serious, as she took his measurements. "I'm sure there is more to it than that."

"Yes and no," Shan admitted. "But if you came before the King in those clothes we'd get nowhere at all. A proper outfit opens many doors, but it's still up to you to walk through them."

"So that's it? We're getting me a suit?"

Laurens scoffed behind his back. "To start with. Then a whole wardrobe from there."

Samuel looked at Shan in shock. A suit from a tailor, even one who wasn't as talented or popular as Laurens, was already an extravagance. An entire wardrobe was too much to bear thinking of. "No, that's too much."

Shaking her head, Shan stepped forward. "You will be needing the clothes, and, believe me, in a matter of weeks you'll be thanking me for the foresight. And don't worry about money, this is an investment on my part."

"And she's getting a discount," Laurens added, popping up at his armpit. "Don't worry that pretty little head of yours."

"A discount?"

Laurens' grin was predatory. "You're going to be the most talked-about person this season, boy. You'll be a walking, talking advertisement. It'll be great for business."

Shan inclined her head. "Just so. You'll be helping a simple, working-class woman. Aren't you proud of that?"

Before he could fight back—clearly Madame Laurens was not hurting for coin—Anton reappeared at their side, holding up a bolt of cloth against his skin.

"Ah," Laurens said, "the black." She took a half-step back, her eyes going unfocused. "Perfect. You know, Anton, if you get tired of being at your sister's beck and call, I could use someone with your skill."

Anton smiled, but there was an emptiness in his gaze that froze Samuel to the bone. "Thanks, my dear, I'll keep that in mind." He turned away, and Laurens just shook her head.

"Damn Blood Workers," she muttered under her breath.

"I thought he was Unblooded," Samuel said, watching as Anton crossed to where Shan stood, sorting through piles of fabric. Together, they whispered and consulted, occasionally pulling a bolt out, no doubt picking the materials for his wardrobe.

Laurens followed his gaze, her eyes awash with something like sadness. "He is, but he was still raised in their world." She cast him a suddenly serious look. "It's not too late for you, you know. You can still get out of this."

Samuel worried his lip, wishing that he could. That he had any other choice. But there was this dark gift inside him, and this Aberforth legacy to claim. Maybe, just maybe, if he found a way to survive in their world, he could do just a bit of good. "I can't," he whispered, and Laurens deflated.

"All right. Now, be still." She waved her handful of pins in front of him, and he went as still as the grave. "Good boy." Their moment gone and forgotten, Laurens refocused, sticking pins through the fabric as the silk slowly took the shape of a proper suit jacket.

"It's wonderful," Shan said, abandoning her work to look him over. "I didn't think the black would work with his complexion, but…"

"It makes quite the image, doesn't it?" Laurens sketched in the air in front of him. "With a clean white shirt and cravat, the contrast will be lovely. Especially with that hair of his."

Shan hummed in response. "Yes, he'll be quite lovely." Her eyes were dark, sweeping over him in such a way that he felt like she wasn't seeing the clothes that were being made for him, but, rather, beneath the clothes themselves. "Quite lovely indeed."

He could feel the blush rise in him, staining his cheeks, but he didn't turn from her.

Laurens laughed—a deep, rolling belly laugh. "Oh, this is just delicious."

Shan turned, slowly, arching an imperious eyebrow at her. "I am not paying you to gossip, Laurens." And with that, she turned and sauntered towards the liquor cabinet and the carafe of wine that waited.

Samuel wanted to die.

Laurens, still chuckling, quickly got back to work. "Oh, now I see why you're here. Not that I blame you—if I were fifteen years younger…" Samuel groaned, and she cackled. "Let me help you out with that."

Kneeling before him, Laurens began work on the breeches, and he could already tell they were going to be far more form-fitting that anything he was used to, and he almost asked her to loosen them a bit.

But then he caught himself. Shan was still watching him from across the room, now with a glass of wine in her hand. Her gaze was hot, a brand on his skin, and any protest he had died unspoken on his lips.

He stood still and silent as the tailor finished her work.

"I'll have the first one delivered here tomorrow," Laurens said, stepping away. "And the rest?"

Shan shrugged. "I'll confirm with you after, but I imagine the Aberforth townhouse."

"I still don't think that is necessary," Samuel said, pointedly. "I already have a home."

"No, you had a hovel," Shan said sharply. "You can't believe that we'd still let you stay there. Appearances aren't just about the clothes you wear, it's everything else as well."

Laurens sighed. "I have much work to do. I'll see myself out. Just let me know where to send this all and I'll send you the final bill." She crooked her fingers towards Samuel in a brisk wave. "Nice to meet you, Aberforth. And Anton, if you can help an old woman carry her materials back to her carriage, she'll give you a discount on your next purchase."

"In that case, how can I refuse?" His foul mood has passed like a summer breeze, or perhaps he was only testy with Samuel himself, and he started gathering the fabrics.

Shan watched them go with a slight smile. "Good, that's done."

Samuel waited till they were out of earshot, then, "I thought we were playing this close to the chest?"

"Laurens can be trusted, as can everyone in my employ," Shan said simply, as if it were a given, like the sun rising in the morning and setting again in the evening. "Now for the difficult part. Wine?"

Samuel blinked at her. Was that fitting supposed to be easy? "No thank you. I don't drink."

Shan studied him over the rim of her wine glass, her expression unreadable. "That makes sense. Can I get you something else? Tea? Juice? Water?"

"Tea would be lovely," he said, and she rang a bell, summoning a serving girl for a pot of tea and refreshments. "Thanks."

"Of course," she said, settling into a chair and gesturing for him to do the same. "We have to work out how to handle this, though. There aren't many teetotalers amongst the Blood Workers, as we're not known for our restraint."

"Is that really so—" he trailed off at the glare Shan shot him. "Right. Appearances." He ran his hand over his face. "Are you giving me a new identity, then?"

"Not a new identity precisely. Just refining the one you have." Shan fell silent as the serving girl returned, setting out the teapot, cups and the plate of desserts. It only took a couple of moments, but they both let the silence stretch out.

Only when the girl was gone did Shan speak again. "You have a unique opportunity, Samuel. You didn't grow up with other Blood Workers; you have a clean slate. You can be whoever and whatever you want to be."

"And what if I just want to be me?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Then I'd tell you that's a very poor decision," Shan replied. "No matter how much they like you, they'll still tear you apart. It's how they test you. So only give them the smallest bits of truth and protect everything about you that's real."

Samuel couldn't help it: the question slipped from his lips. "Is that what you do?"

Her smile was sad, but she didn't look away. "Of course. You have to, if you're going to survive here."

Samuel heard the hint of pain there. "And you don't want me to mess things up for you."

"Well, naturally," Shan said, sipping her wine. "But I also don't want my friends to get hurt any more than necessary."

"I thought we weren't friends."

Shan looked chagrined. "My brother can be… difficult at times. Perhaps he is right, that it is too early for friendship. But hopefully one day, no? I can see us working very well together."

Samuel wasn't a fool. He knew that everything about her, from the face she showed the world to the pain she whispered in his ear, was a careful choice. But yet, there was something about it that felt real, a hint of true vulnerability slipping through.

He shouldn't trust her—he shouldn't trust any Blood Worker. It would be too easy to give in to her charms, to let her sink her claws into him. But he couldn't help it.

Perhaps he was a fool after all.

"So let's figure out who Samuel Aberforth is," he said.