Claimed by the Prince of Darkness novel Chapter 69

Chapter 69: A Clasp Beneath the Toast

The hour sat between daylight and lamplight.

As it was Friday, the courtyard thrummed with departure: trunks clattering over cobblestones, horses snorting, and Sexton’s iron gates wide open that led to the road outside. A neat row of Elite carriages stood at the front, with their side lamps already lit despite the daylight. By the gate, the Groundlings’ coaches filled fast and were waved off unlit—no time and no oil to waste.

Ruelle stepped out with her trunk, dragging it. Kevin and Hailey had already caught the earlier coach, while she had lingered a few minutes too long for her wet dress to dry. She set her trunk at the end of the line and waited.

"Ms. Belmont," came Ezekiel’s voice from behind. He stepped forward, his satchel strap resting over his shoulder. "Are you heading home?"

"Yes, Mr. Henley," Ruelle answered softly.

"Good," he replied. His gaze lowered to her unsteady hand. He reached for the handle, his hand brushing her fingers—and withdrew a second late as if it was an accident. "May I? Your trunk looks heavier than it should."

"It’s manageable," she reluctantly said, drawing her hand back. A dull pain pulsed beneath her sleeve where no eye could see.

"Then allow me to see you to your home," Ezekiel offered. Ruelle couldn’t help but think how kind her brother-in-law was, wanting to help her.

Though Ezekiel’s words were low-pitched, another pair of ears caught them. A warm voice with a hint of mischief spoke from behind.

"Careful, Mr. Henley. The onlookers of the courtyard write romances out of boredom—especially when an instructor does it for the first time."

Ruelle looked back and found Dane standing a few steps away. His coat was buttoned, and he held his gloves in one hand. The wind teased his pale hair without ruffling his composure. He wore a smile as he walked towards them.

She offered him a small bow. Dane stopped before them and continued,

"Best not to feed them fresh ink. Isn’t your house in the east, Mr. Henley? Ms. Belmont’s is west in Brackenwell. A gentleman walking a young woman without a chaperone, especially—trunk in tow—reads as singular interest even to the dullest eyes."

Ezekiel’s smile thinned.

And though Ruelle knew Ezekiel was married to her sister, the others weren’t aware of it. She glanced toward the coaches and the faces looking their way. Gossip ran faster than horses. Dane was right. She had no wish to hand the courtyard another story—least of all at Mr. Henley’s expense.

"It’s nothing, actually," Ezekiel said. "Ms. Belmont seems to have trouble with her luggage—"

"Then we are twice in luck." Dane’s eyebrows rose. "Fortunate timing: I’m bound toward the Brackenwell road on an errand and have an empty seat. With a driver to chaperone."

"That is kind of you, Mr. S," Ruelle murmured. "But I’ll wait for the coach."

"Isn’t that going to take time?" As Dane spoke, her gaze slid to the packed line. "Not to mention, I need a witness in case my coachman falls asleep. Come along. The students here will vouch that they have arrived home safe in my carriage."

Feeling his insistence, Ruelle hesitated. "I would rather not trouble you. Even if I did, I shouldn’t go without offering something."

"You can give me what you’d pay in a regular coach—" a small grin appeared on the pureblooded vampire’s lips, "—and if that still offends your conscience, double it."

She finally gave him a nod. "Thank you."

Dane gestured to his coachman, who stepped forward and took her trunk as if it weighed nothing. She then turned to Ezekiel and offered a quick bow before leaving.

She climbed inside the carriage and took the far corner of the plush seat. The air inside held a clean, faint sweetness—beeswax and linen. Dane followed, tapping the front window to signal the coachman.

While at the edge of the courtyard, Ezekiel’s hand tightened on the satchel strap as the carriage slipped through Sexton’s gates.

Back in the carriage, Ruelle’s eyes had drifted to the window. Outside, the path was bordered with trees turned soft rose-red. Branches leaned in until they touched above the road, turning it into a tunnel of colour. Autumn was beautiful, she thought.

"Your family must sleep easier on weekends when you are under their roof," Dane said. "Humans breathe better when their daughters aren’t under ours."

A faint smile appeared on Ruelle’s lips as she answered, "Yes."

He settled his cheek against his gloved knuckle, studying her with that effortless, catlike calm. He started,

"You know, Mikhael is considering cancelling the weekend leave for Groundlings."

Mikhael Oak, the headmaster? She frowned. "Why cancel weekends?"

"Continuity, safety, preparation," he recited. "Mostly it is convenience. Though Sexton adores a draft that never leaves the drawer." He studied her for a long second. "If weekends go, you’ll miss the village more than now. And also the villagers’ tongues."

Ruelle let out a small laugh. "Probably not the gossips. I might hear them clear from Sexton."

"A public menace," Dane agreed, something wry shifting behind his pleasant eyes.

Ruelle had already heard them at Caroline’s wedding: the way pity and distaste passed mouth to mouth at the mention of her admission to Sexton. The men and women had questioned what immoral things were taught. And she had smiled until her cheeks ached. It was Caroline’s big day. Her parents would not forgive a scene, and the village never forgot one.

Dane then, almost idly, said, "I’m surprised you’re not already promised. With your family sending you to Sexton, I would have expected a hat lingering on your doorstep."

Colour climbed Ruelle’s cheeks. "There was... talk. Last spring."

"Oh?" Dane remarked with a mixture of surprise and interest.

For a foolish week she had allowed herself a candle’s worth of hope—no more—imagining her mother’s mouth softening and the neighbours’ voices turning kind.

"It ended before it began." A small smile touched and left her mouth with a hint of embarrassment. "He wrote a letter saying he ought to choose a prettier bride."

Dane’s brows lifted a fraction, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. "Then he did you a favour—he announced himself small. Men who shop for faces miscount everything else. Good riddance."

’What did you do to turn him away?!’ Ruelle heard her father’s angry voice. ’He found out you were utterly useless! You are worthy of nothing and just a burden!’

Ruelle’s gaze flicked to the window. Her reflection moved with the trees—her cheeks less hollow, her mouth softer, and more colour in her face compared to the past.

"Perhaps so," she whispered.

The road hummed beneath the carriage wheels while the horses kept an even, patient rhythm. The sky deepened from turquoise to blue-black, with traces of orange at the horizon.

They had entered the town named Hushford—once a human town, now filled with halflings and vampires. Even in full daylight humans took the long way round, unless they had business here. Ruelle’s eyes caught three women under the street lamp, mouths red as cherries, shoulders bare to the evening.

"Would you mind a brief stop?" Dane asked, tapping the window with his knuckles.

"Not at all," Ruelle answered.

The coach drew up before a shop, where the board read Fallow & Sons.

Dane stepped down first, then turned, his features softened by a brief, amused smile. "Come. Let me show you what I’m buying."

A bell chimed as they entered the shop. Inside, the air smelt of familiar leather and polish, but just more refined. Ruelle kept her fingers folded, remembering how last winter she had stitched her shoe soles with wax and thread. Here, a single buckle looked dearer than a week’s food.

Shoes sat on velvet racks as if they were treasures. One pair near the end of the rack drew her eye. She murmured to herself,

"Oak-bark tanned. It flexes without cracking."

"Aye—six months in the pits," stepped a man in view, whose silvered temples caught the lamplight. "Keeps the weather out and the temper in."

The man then turned to Dane and offered a bow, "Mr. Slater. Many happy returns. I see you’ve brought discerning company this evening."

Dane’s mouth curled, slightly surprised by Ruelle’s knowledge of the shoes. "This is Ruelle, Holis. One of my dear students. Holis owns the place." He then asked the cobbler. "Is my order ready?"

"Just in time," Holis replied. He snapped his fingers. Soon a boy slid a stool and footrest into place, then knelt and unfastened Dane’s boot with care.

"Happy birthday, Mr. S," Ruelle wished him. "I... didn’t know."

"How could you?" Dane’s smile was easy. "Thank you." After a pause, he asked, "Now that you know—what will you gift me?"

What did one give a man whose shoelace cost more than her shoes? A ribbon? A very sincere potato? Heat crept into her cheeks. "If I’d known sooner, I would have made something. I can bring it on Monday," came her earnest voice.

"But I’m impatient with late presents." Dane frowned. "Today would suit me."

"Now?" She felt her stomach dip. Perhaps a wish note in very neat—

"I accept coins," he said, amused, "and a gulp of blood."

"..." before a small, nervous laugh escaped Ruelle’s lips.

Dane’s mouth curled, apologetic and not guilty at once. He stated,

"I’m teasing. Keep both." He glanced toward the curtained doorway, then back to her. "There’s a small gathering being held for me tonight—quiet, nothing formal. It would be lovely to have you attend it. Let that be the gift."

Attending a gathering by the Elites? She tucked her scuffed shoes beneath the hem of her dress. "I shouldn’t intrude. It’s a private gathering for you."

"It isn’t intrusion if you have been invited." His head angled before he asked curiously, "And how do you know about shoes? Peculiar interest?"

"Only a little," she admitted. "I used to work in a shop two years ago. The owner was very passionate about shoes and liked to explain about them. But he was so old that he passed away before he could do much." Ruelle’s words lowered at the end.

The curtain stirred and the owner reappeared with a pair of expensive shoes. "Wholecut from a crocodile, blind welt," he announced with quiet pride. "One could dance on a nail and never feel the head."

"Let’s pray I’m spared the performance." Dane looked pleased at the sight of the shoes. Soon, the first shoe slid on, and then the next.

"A perfect fit," Holis breathed. "Turn, if you please, sire." He watched Dane stand. "Perfection."

"They are," Ruelle agreed softly. "You’ve set the heel in five lifts and pinned them close—no wobble. And the edge looks burnished with bone until it keeps a shine. That will take a polish like a promise."

A look of surprise passed over the cobbler’s face. Nodding, he said, "Bone, yes. Elk. Holds heat better."

"What about a cork paste underfoot?" Ruelle asked him.

"Aye, it gives back a little spring after the day’s weight." Holis was impressed with the young woman. He watched her move to where the other shoes were lined up, keenly looking at them.

After ten minutes, the fitting concluded and the stool was whisked away. Ruelle and Dane were about to step foot towards the door when the cobbler brought a small box from behind the counter.

"This is for you, Miss."

"Me?" Ruelle blinked, surprised, and took the box in both hands. Inside lay a plain pair of low-heeled shoes.

"They were worn once by a patron and sent back—too tight for her liking, and the back came home a little scuffed," Holis revealed, clearing his throat. "Unsellable to my usual clients. But I think they should fit you well."

Could she really take it? The shoes she had on her feet had been stitched so many times that it felt like they were hanging by a thread. The area near the toe had turned paper thin, and the heel chipped. But she humbly refused,

"I cannot take these."

"Consider it an advance," Holis offered gently. "On wages, should you ever take me up on that invitation. Please," he insisted.

"Thank you," she murmured, offering him a bow.

"Easy there, Holis—I came for shoes, not to leave without my student," Dane remarked, half-laughing.

"Never, sire. Merely tempted by talent," the cobbler returned, eyes kind.

"As are we all," Dane looked rather amused. "Tempt the leather, not my student. I’ll send the next order soon. Come, Ruelle."

Ruelle shifted the box against her hip and smiled her thanks.

Bowing deep, Holis called after them, "I’ll be expecting your note, Mr. Slater."

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