Vampires in Versailles

Chapter Six

                                                                                        Versailles

                                                                                    August, 1683

The fire crackled lazily, large flames casting an orange hue about the room. Even though fire became another thing to be wary of more so than before, Francis liked to have it lit, he could no longer feel the heat of the flames, but it reminded him of times before his death. It made him feel somewhat human, even if it was just for a moment.

Indubitably what he considered to be his pride and joy of all he owned was his extensive book collection, made up of novels by the likes of Shakespeare, Pierre de Ronsard, Thomas Nash and Richard Johnson to name a few. Over the past century, he had made it his business to own at least one novel by who he considered to be the greatest novelists at the time. When he and Alexander were not plotting against Madame Augustin duelling, Francis would have often been found buried in a book. His father had said on many occasions he had a thirst for knowledge and would have not been surprised if he became a philosopher. He liked to think that if life perhaps had something else selected for him; he would have become a philosopher. But alas; life had not picked that particular path for him. It had chosen something far more morbid and macabre for him.

Sipping a glass of pig's blood, he stared into the flames, as if the answer to his questions would be found there. He nor Alexander and Renet were any closer to finding who killed Eloise, all their efforts and searches were all for naught. There was no sight nor trail that led to the mysterious vampire, well, in Versailles anyway. There was the possibility that the perpetrator was not in the palace at all but perhaps hid in Paris. He became vaguely aware that someone had entered the room but did not turn to see who. "I fear if you sit any closer brother you'll be reduced to a pile of ashes." He took another sip, closing his eyes, resting his head against the chair. "It would be the most warmth I would have felt in a long time." He said wistfully. Alexander came and stood beside him. Nothing was said for a while between the brothers, only the crackles and hisses of the fire spoke instead, distant voices of courtiers merry making and laughter bled through the walls. "I'm going tomorrow." Alexander stared at him. "To Paris. See if I can find anything there." "Ah, yes. That sounds like a plan." He paused. "I thought you meant-" "I know. Just wanted to see if I could still work you up." He smiled, earning an eye roll from his brother. "You always were the foolish one out of all of us." Alexander japed. "Do you remember that time when we went swimming by the lake and mother told us to bring Renet along?" Francis laughed at the memory. "We were furious, I pushed her in, and she went home entirely wet and told mother." "She forbade us from going to the lake for a week, which gave you the bright idea to use father's swords to duel with instead. You nearly killed me." Alexander said, recalling fondly of their youthful misadventures, a simpler time for all. The insouciance they had; even as they grew older there was hardly a moment when they had not been together. Their governess, Madame Augustin, a strict woman and highly intolerable to trouble was a victim to many of their plots. Hiding her glass and placing them elsewhere, often hiding insects, snakes and rodents in her room, testing her patience during lessons. Renet too was a favourite of theirs to beleaguer; messing with her toys, teasing, frightening her with tales of shadows and monsters. Yes, life had been much merrier and more colourful even. Any worries of shadows and monsters had simply been stories, nothing more. Francis looked at his hand and fidgeted with a large silver ring, his father's. It held their family's crest; he had taken it when they fled Salzburg, it was all he had of him. "You're concerned." Alexander said. He only ever fiddled with the ring when he was anxious or did not yet have the answer to a question he sought to know. Tonight, he was anxious. He did not respond but took a sip from the glass. "I think I am becoming rather fond of this place." "Then that makes two of you. I thought you preferred England, you once said."