A Study in Contrasts

The Season passed in a blur of opera boxes and ten-course dinners.

To the outside world, Lord and Lady Blackwood were an eccentric but powerful match. He was the brooding industrialist; she was the charming, pale beauty who softened his edges.

In reality, it was a war of attrition.

At the Royal Opera House, during the tragic finale of *La Traviata*, the soprano hit a high C that caused a chandelier to tremble. The audience wept.

Ignatius leaned over to Aurelia. “She is off-key,” he whispered loudly. “And the structural integrity of that chandelier is suspect.”

“Hush,” Aurelia giggled behind her fan. “Enjoy the dying. It’s the best part.”

“It’s inefficient,” he grumbled. “If she simply coughed up the blood immediately, we could all go home.”

At dinner parties, the friction continued. Ignatius had a hoarding instinct that extended to bread rolls. He would unconsciously gather them from the center of the table and stack them in a pyramid by his plate.

“Ignatius,” Aurelia hissed at the Lord Mayor’s banquet. “Stop building a fortress out of the sourdough. You are frightening the Bishop.”

“It is mine,” Ignatius said, guarding his bread pile with a possessive glint in his golden eyes. “I might need it later.”

“You eat coal,” she pointed out. “Literally. I saw you snacking on the scuttle this morning.”

“Texture,” he defended.

Despite the bickering, a strange rhythm developed between them. Aurelia found herself sleeping better in the vault, knowing a dragon was sleeping three floors up. And Ignatius, though he would never admit it, began to leave the window cracked in the evenings so he could hear her humming in the garden.

He started burning hotter when she was near. She started checking his cravat for soot before they went out.

One evening, in the carriage ride home, Ignatius fell asleep. His head lolled onto Aurelia’s shoulder. He was burning up, a furnace against her cold, undead skin.

She didn't push him away. She froze, terrified of waking him, and rested her cheek against his hair. It smelled of smoke. It was the most comforting scent she had known in two centuries.

“Silly lizard,” she whispered, not laughing this time.