The Truth About Noussoir
Epilogue. Rendezvous at Fenswick
“So, that is your story?” Dolores asked incredulously.
“Oui, ma chérie,” said Noussoir playfully, planting a kiss on her alabaster nape.
“Am I to believe that you are not only Malachie’s brother, but his twin? His clone?”
“Bien, moi, je préfère ‘simulacrum!’” Noussoir said, trying to snuggle into her shoulder.
Dolores did not believe a word Noussoir had said so far.
“And how did you come to know all this?”
“Bien, je m’ai oublié. A bit from Suzanne... a bit from Malachie... a bit from Sephora...” Noussoir was distracted by the raven-black hair falling across her neck that was blocking his goal.
“Geneviève de Sephora told you this?”
At this revelation, Dolores knew he was lying.
“Non, non... I may have heard it from someone who heard it from her...” he answered.
Princess Dolores Hillsbury of Fenswick did not enjoy being lied to. She was also not amused that her questions being dismissed so casually. Neither was she aroused by Noussoir’s sexual antics. She pushed him off of her onto his back, and rolled on top of him.
At first, Noussoir was surprised at this display of strength, but his fears were allayed by the treat that presented itself before him.
“Now that I have your attention...” Dolores announced, smiling wickedly down at her lover.
“Tell me, Noussoir, if you are the White Wolf’s simulacrum, why are you not a werewolf nor a wizard? Why are you not white?” asked Dolores.
Noussoir was frustrated that she was actually continuing her inquiry. He turned his head aside and answered mechanically.
“Je ne sais pas! Tu es la sorcière! C’est la magie!”
Dolores frowned, but realized the young man was probably right. It must be some new simulacrum spell devised by the Comtesse. Or it might have been White Wolf himself, whose magical nature could not be cloned. In any case, Dolores knew this young man enough to know he was not just an animated mass of ice and snow—especially not at that moment.
“Noussoir...” Dolores said sweetly, coaxing his attentions again.
Noussoir looked up at Dolores and her dark seductive grin.
“What was in those letters from the Vicomtesse?” she asked.
“Bien, they were letters of introduction. To the d’Ambrevilles, the Marquise of Berrym, the Duchess of Fenswick...”
A moment passed and Dolores said, “Oh! My mother?”
Dolores realized that she almost forgot to react. She hoped Noussoir did not notice the pause. Even naked in bed, this Noussoir was a cunning intriguer, Dolores thought.
“Oui, chérie! She and the Vicomtesse shared a love for jewelry, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, yes, they did,” Dolores replied. She was still watching Noussoir, who apparently had not noticed her slip. Still, Dolores knew that didn’t mean anything.
“So that is how you made your way to Glantrian high society,” Dolores announced in conclusion, successfully changing the topic. “From a simulacrum in Geneviève de Sephora’s laboratory to the salons of the Glantrian elite.”
“Oui, chérie!” Noussoir responded, smiling naughtily.
“And to the bed and the arms of the most celebrated, most beautiful Princess of Glantri!” he added as he reached up to embrace Dolores, “who I love so very much!”
Dolores knew it was just another lie as well.