The Vampire & Her Witch

Charlotte Otker.

Jocelynn’s chest tightened as she looked at the young noblewoman standing nervously in the entryway where Captain Devlin calmly barred the way.

Charlotte and Jocelynn had shared tea together on several occasions during the early weeks of her time in Lothian City, back when Jocelynn was still mapping the political landscape of the march. There hadn’t been any scheming to it; Charlotte was simply being kind because kindness was what Charlotte did.

When Ashlynn passed through Otker Barony on any of her visits to Lothian March, Charlotte had enjoyed chatting with her about a wide variety of topics. Now that Jocelynn had come to the march, she’d hoped to find that Jocelynn was as good a conversationalist as her elder sister.

The conversations they shared had been just as pleasant as Charlotte had hoped, even if the topics were somewhat shallow, circling around hobbies and interests rather than anything substantive. There was a bit of the gentle probing that young noblewomen used to determine whether another woman was worth cultivating as a friend or merely as an acquaintance, but that melted fairly early on.

Charlotte looked up to Ashlynn the same way that Jocelynn herself had when she was much younger, before she’d allowed her infatuation with Owain Lothian to drive a wedge between them. The young Otker lady had even bought expensive copies of several books that Ashlynn had recommended to her, and for a few brief moments during afternoon tea, Jocelynn found herself falling into familiar patterns, chatting about whatever Charlotte had read recently that caught her attention.

That had been a different life. A different Jocelynn.

But the Jocelynn who stood here now, the one with blood on her hands and a blade sharpening in her heart, still had people who depended on her. More than forty souls from Blackwell who had followed her to Lothian March and who would need a way home after she’d done what she intended to do.

A way home that would almost certainly need to pass through Otker Canyon.

She hated herself for thinking it. This was supposed to be Ashlynn’s morning, not a morning for schemes and calculations. But the thought was there, stubborn and insistent as the cold that seeped through the open chapel doors, and she couldn’t unknow what she knew.

Charlotte was kind, Charlotte was here, and Charlotte’s family controlled the most viable route between Lothian March and the safety of DuCoumont County, where Jocelynn’s uncle Dylan DuCoumont could receive the loyal men and women of her entourage and see them safely on their way home to Blackwell County.

For their sake, she told herself. Not for her own. She had no future to plan for. But she couldn’t ignore her responsibility to the people who had followed her all the way to the edge of the frontier.

Jocelynn pursed her lips for a moment before she turned back to Aubin and drew a slow breath.

”How many others came this morning?” she asked.

”Three baronesses, earlier,” Aubin said. ”Baroness Saliou, Baroness Rundel, and Baroness LeGleau. They offered their condolences and departed as soon as I explained that the memorial was a private affair.”

Three baronesses who had made the effort to appear and were probably glad they didn’t have to stay. Good. She had no idea why they’d come in the first place, but it was better that they stayed away.

Jocelynn’s hands clenched as she looked at the gathering of women again. Now that High Priest Aubin had explained things, Ragna stood calmly and patiently, waiting for Jocelynn to make up her mind, though she looked determined enough that if Jocelynn tried to turn her away, she might still argue. Sorcha, standing beside her, was a solid and warm presence, holding her own with the grounded stillness of a woman who didn’t waver once she’d planted her feet.

If Ashlynn accepted Charlotte’s presence, she’d have to accept the others or risk squandering time that she didn’t have.

It was just four women and a little bit of wine and bread after the pyre burned down. It wasn’t a formal audience or a spectacle of performative grief. It wouldn’t be like Bors’ funeral in a few days. Just four women to drink with her.

She could have turned them away. A part of her still wanted to. The part that had spent two days sharpening grief into a weapon didn’t want to be softened by the kindness of strangers who didn’t know what she was carrying or what she planned to do with it.

But another part of her, the part that still sounded like her grandmother’s voice, whispered that tears flowed more easily among friends, and that even a woman walking toward her own death could accept a cup of wine from people who meant well.

”They may stay,” Jocelynn said at last. ”And I would be grateful for their company after the memorial.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more fragile than she would have liked. ”But I need time alone first, Your Worship. Before anyone else comes in, I need... I need to speak with my sister. One last time, to say goodbye.”

Aubin’s expression shifted. The apology and careful diplomacy fell away, replaced by something gentler and more personal. His heart ached to see such a young woman bearing such an immense burden, but he was grateful that she wasn’t so lost in grief that she would refuse the company of the other ladies of the court.

”Of course, my child,” he said softly. ”I can prepare a room for the ladies to wait in comfort. They’ll have everything they need, and no one will disturb you until you’re ready.”

Jocelynn nodded, not trusting her voice to hold steady if she said anything more. Aubin gave her arm one more gentle squeeze, then turned and crossed the chapel toward Ragna and Sorcha, his white and golden robes whispering against the stone floor.

”Ladies,” Aubin said, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the two young ladies outside the chapel as well as the ones he’d been arguing with before Lady Jocelynn arrived. ”If you’ll give me just a moment, I can have another room prepared to host your gathering. You can wait there until Lady Jocelynn is ready to receive guests for the memorial,” he said.

”Lady Jocelynn,” he added, pausing for a moment to turn his attention back to the grief-stricken young lady. ”Would you like them to join the others when you’re ready for the memorial? Or would you prefer to keep things to members of your household?”

”They can come,” Jocelynn said, flashing Charlotte Otker a fragile smile. ”I’m sure that Ashlynn would be happy to see who came to see her off...”