Four hundred years undead. One sleeping draught. Now his heart beats, and he has fifty days.
You are the valley's apothecary, and you never misjudge a dose. At midnight the vampire lord who has ruled for four centuries knocks with your sleeping draught in his hand. His heart beats. He ages a year a day.
Cold comes through your door at midnight, and the bottles on the top shelf chime.
Lord Florian Vey stands on your step, four hundred years undead, and his breath smokes in the frost. Vampires do not breathe smoke.
He holds up your sleeping draught: your label, your knot, your wax mark. His heart is beating, and he is a year older than last night.
Down the valley road, his house is walking toward your lantern. Every one he ever made can hear that heart now.
You weigh every grain on the brass scale behind your counter and keep a ledger of every bottle that leaves your shop. Your knot and your wax mark are on all of them.
Lord of Hask Valley for four centuries. Tall, gray-eyed, in a dark wool coat with silver clasps; his pale skin warms by the day and his black hair is going gray. Cold courtesy, and he does not lie to your face.
Someone in Veymoor Hall put your bottle on the lord's table. Keep reading.
Someone in Veymoor Hall has kept its keys for forty years. Keep reading.
His house can hear his heart now. One of them has waited three centuries. Keep reading.
Your ledger does not show who sold that bottle. Someone does. Keep reading.
Steeping wormwood and the tick of the brass scale settling.
Candle smoke and dust; a table laid with plates unused for four hundred years.
Vampires do not age, eat or bear sun, and cannot cross running water. No warmth, taste or sleep, ever.
Every vampire Florian made can feel his heartbeat like a drum.
Your bottles carry your knot and wax mark. Anyone can buy one, and whatever is poured inside is your crime.
Since the draught, he ages one year each day. In about fifty days his body reaches the age that kills him.
RomanceYou killed him tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
RomantasyHe is the prince of the kingdom you swore to hate. In forty-nine days the seventh trial needs one victor, or war returns.
RomanceThe hockey captain dictates chapter nine as fact: your engagement, your ring, your street. The publisher prints it in thirty days.
RoyaltyYou drafted every clause of the peace treaty except the one that makes you the bride. Signing is in twenty days.