Dhampirica

XXVI

WHEN SHE ARRIVED HOME, it was almost 1:30 in the morning. Lord Luciano gave her a silent send-off, not staying any longer than necessary. Yvanna trudged past the security guards and back up to the house, her heels in hand. Lord Dante's bedroom door was closed, though something inside of her hinted that he was still awake. She wondered briefly if this was another sign of her arrogance.

She discarded her shoes and approached his door, knocking on it gently. "My lord?" she said, still unsure of why she was doing this or what she was going to say.

When he did not respond, she put her ear against the wood. No sound came from inside. She turned the handle, noting that it was not locked, and found herself greeted by an empty room. Her heart quickened, a slither of fear edging upon her nerves. She spun around and hurried outside, making sure to keep quiet as she did so. She did not want to raise alarm just yet.

She circled the house, searching for him, her panic steadily growing with each minute that passed. When she came upon the diverging eastern path, she saw a faint light from within the greenhouse. She exhaled, slowing her pace down. She walked up the path, noting that the padlock which once locked the greenhouse was now gone. The door creaked as she pushed it open.

"My lord?" she said hesitantly. "May I come in?"

He was there, an odd sight with a broom in his hand, sweeping aside years' worth of dust and leaves. "Of course," he replied without looking at her. He kept his eyes on the ground, where the broom pushed the leaves, his face lit by the soft glow of the lantern beside him.

She approached him gingerly, glancing around the greenhouse as she did so. It was a wild and untamed undergrowth, spurred on by years of neglect. She sat down on a stone ledge which bordered a garden bed of withered roses, a careful distance away from him. He kept cleaning, quiet and unyielding. It bothered her for some reason.

"You decided to open it," she commented. "... The greenhouse, I mean."

"I did," he murmured. He caught sight of her feet. "You're not wearing any shoes."

She glanced down at her bare, dirt-covered feet. "Yes... the heels were lovely, but not for me, I think."

"You could've worn some slippers, at least. You shouldn't walk around bare footed."

"I was in a rush. You weren't in your room, so I went looking for you," she explained.

His eyes flickered up, zeroing in on hers. "Were you worried about me?"

She went to reply "of course", but before she could speak, he shook his head and laughed. It was short and humorless. "Pointless question," he said, and returned his attention back to sweeping. "Of course, you were. You're my minder."

She looked away and decided to change the subject. "Why are you cleaning the greenhouse? Can't you get someone else to do it?"

"I could... but my mother never allowed anyone in here except for me or father. It didn't feel right to ask someone else to do this for me."

"But you let me in here," she pointed out.

He paused. "... I suppose I did." Another pause. "How was your night?" His voice was innocuously light, oddly so.

"I..." She hesitated. What should she tell him? Did it benefit her to tell the truth? What if he misinterpreted her failure as something else — like a reluctance on her part to carry out what his father had asked of her? Would he think it was because of their earlier encounter? What would come of it even if this was, in some way, true? "... It was uneventful," she finished.

But he didn't do or say anything to indicate what he was thinking. "Hm," was his only response. A moment later, he set aside the broom and went to sit down beside her. His gaze turned serious. "I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. I... I lost myself a bit. I shouldn't have. I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression — I would never force myself on you."