Chapter 6 - The Price of Silk and Blood
The lead detective, a gray-haired man named Martinez, stepped forward and tapped Eleanor on the shoulder. “Eleanor Sterling? You are under arrest for grand larceny, interstate financial fraud, and forgery of estate documents under a warrant issued by the Southern District of New York in conjunction with Interpol.”
“Get your hands off me!” Eleanor hissed, wrenching her arm away. “Do you know who I am? I am the owner of Maison Sterling! I am—”
“You are not the owner of anything, Eleanor,” a voice called out from the back of the room.
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom swung wide open. Walking down the center aisle, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, was an elderly man in a sharp, old-fashioned tweed suit. His silver hair was combed back neatly, and his dark eyes were bright with an ancient, righteous fire.
A murmur went through the older guests.
“Arthur Laurent...” whispered Mrs. Dupont. “Good heavens. Thomas’s master tailor. We thought he died ten years ago.”
Arthur Laurent walked with measured, steady steps. Every strike of his cane against the marble resonated like a funeral bell. He didn't look at the crowd. He kept his eyes fixed entirely on Eleanor.
“Thirty years, Eleanor,” Arthur Laurent said, his French accent thick and resonant. “Thirty years since you had me locked out of the atelier on Rue Saint-Honoré. Thirty years since you told the press that Thomas died of natural heart failure, while you hid his medical records and drained the accounts before the ink on his death certificate was dry.”
Eleanor stared at the old man as if she were looking at a ghost returned from the grave. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.
“Arthur...” she choked out.
“Thomas did not die poor,” Arthur Laurent announced to the room, stopping at the foot of the altar. “Thomas Sterling was one of the wealthiest textile innovators in Europe. But he knew the woman he married was a vampire. He spent his final two months locked in his private workshop with me, sewing the master deeds into the lining of two gowns. One gown was meant for the child who inherited her mother’s greed. The other was meant for the child who inherited her father’s hands.”
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Arthur turned to look at me, and his eyes softened with profound tenderness.
“You wear his stitches well, Clara,” the old man whispered. “You are your father’s true daughter.”
