Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Chapter Fifteen

Isabel picked up the script for Antony and Cleopatra and walked listlessly over to the fire. It was difficult to keep track of dates within Sanctuary—it was as if time stood still there. Best she could tell, it’d been twenty-five days since she’d awakened, disoriented and distressed, in this luxurious room.

She had not seen Blaise now for nine days—ever since she’d awakened from her strange bout of illness. She was much more confident about estimating that period of time. Misery was like a weight, making time much more measurable. She approached the fire, wishing Royal was there, as he so often was in the evenings. His silent, watchful presence and intelligent gaze gave her the only comfort she took since Blaise had made himself scarce. Margaret and Aubrey had told her that Blaise had business on the surface world, but she wasn’t entirely sure she believed them. There was something in the way they grew tense whenever the topic arose that made her suspect Blaise was avoiding her again, as he had in the beginning.

She extended her hand, meaning to toss the script for Antony and Cleopatra in the flames, but she hesitated.

Why had he gone? She’d asked for him the moment she’d awakened from her illness. Margaret refused to meet her eyes when she’d told Isabel with a false sort of cheery briskness that Blaise was in the midst of a time-consuming business affair. According to Margaret, he was gone from Sanctuary for extended periods of time, and she didn’t know when he’d return to his regular schedule.

He’d left her.

Her feelings about him were so confused, it disoriented Isabel to try to focus on them. It was as if every time she grasped for the details of her rich, sensual dreams of him, her mind slid off a slippery target. She recalled her afternoons with him in his office, their rehearsals together of the play, their conversations.

But there was more. She knew there was. She knew him in a much, much more profound, intimate sense. She knew him as a lover. It frustrated and depressed her not to be able to hold fast to those ephemeral fragments of emotion, sensation and memory.

Even if it weren’t for Margaret’s uncomfortable acknowledgement that Blaise had left Sanctuary, she would have eventually realized he was gone. She knew it from the achy emptiness inside her, as if she’d been hollowed out and left raw on the inside.

“What are you doing?”

She glanced up. Margaret stood just inside the open door, holding a silver tray.

Isabel stared blankly at the script in her extended hand. Margaret set down the tray brusquely and hurried to her side. She put one hand on Isabel’s wrist, the other on her shoulder.

“You don’t want to do that, dear,” Margaret said, and Isabel knew the older woman understood she’d been about to burn the script—a tangible object that reminded her constantly of her afternoons spent with Blaise Sevliss…

…of falling in love with him.

“I’ve told you many times you need something useful to keep you active, interested. As long as you take it easy in rehearsals, Aubrey said taking part in the play will increase your strength after your illness.” When Isabel didn’t respond to the familiar lecture, Margaret whisked off the domed lid, revealing steaming eggs Benedict. “Some activity, along with plenty of good food, and you’ll be one hundred percent in no time. Come now, tuck in. It’s your favorite, or at least it used to be,” Margaret added under her breath as she poured some coffee from a carafe.

Isabel inhaled the food and—surprisingly—felt a twinge of hunger. “Are the sets almost finished, Margaret?” she asked, picking up her fork.

“Yes, I just spoke to Jessie this morning. He says Titurino has finished some truly magnificent sets. All they require is their lead actress.”

Isabel chewed her food thoughtfully. Her depression upon awakening and discovering that Blaise had left Sanctuary was nearly as deep and dark as her melancholy had been following her accident. It suddenly struck her that she’d promised herself she’d never allow her spirits to sink so low again, and look what she’d done. She’d allowed depression to suck her vitality again, all because of a man.

Well, not just any man. Blaise was hardly that. Still no man, no matter how spectacular that man was, should have so much power over her that she gave up on herself. She had come to understand that she was still being kept at Sanctuary for her own safety. She had nowhere else to go, and Margaret was right. She should try to do something purposeful with her time. Blaise had given her a rare opportunity to put on a potentially awesome production of a part she’d always wanted to perform. At least it would give her something to distract herself from this empty feeling inside her.

“All right,” she said quietly, picking up a chilled glass of milk. She took several large gulps, making Margaret nod approvingly. “I’ll go down to the theatre when I’ve finished breakfast. Would you mind letting Aubrey and the rest of the cast and crew know, Margaret?”

“Of course,” said Margaret, beaming. “They’ll be thrilled.”

Isabel glanced up when she noticed the older woman’s hesitation.

“What’s wrong, Margaret?”

“Perhaps you can convene with the others at the theatre later this morning? You have a visitor right now. He’s waiting outside the door.”

Isabel blinked in surprise and swallowed her food in a rush. “Who is it?”

Margaret bit at her lower lip nervously. “Well…he’s an extraordinary type of man—well, if you’d call him man. He sought me out this morning and asked if I’d introduce you to him. I do hope Lord Delraven will approve of me allowing it, but he’s not the type of person you easily deny,” Margaret muttered under her breath fretfully. She must have noticed Isabel’s amazed expression. “His name is Usan…and well,” she gestured awkwardly toward the door. “It’d probably be best if you just saw for yourself.”

Isabel stood and turned toward the door, her brow crinkled. She froze. Standing before her was the most singular man she’d ever seen in her life. He had coal black, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore the strangest clothes—a long, billowing, dark orange robe and a circular hat that looked like a saucer with an orange, fabric-snake coiling in it.

“Who are you?” she mumbled, taking a step toward him, utterly flabbergasted by what she was sensing from the man.

Her answer came to her in a rush of images. A dark green and brown planet, and cities with towers that reache

d to the heavens. Memorials and statues—tributes to a great, mighty nation and its heroes—crumbling and falling into decay. Seven males wearing robes identical to Usan’s standing before a golden-haired female sitting on a throne, their heads bent, eyes closed, faces solemn at being charged with their near impossible task. The vision of what was surely Earth from space, and then Usan’s hands—chemical residues permanently staining his fingernails—opening what looked like a giant metal waffle press. Inside, Isabel made out two human forms. She squinted and through a thick, pinkish tinted gel she saw—