Carmen was wiping her hand on a napkin. "Dispose of that, will you, Henry," she said, motioning towards the mangled corpse of the cockroach. She turned to look at Clamenza. "If you insist on bringing vermin into the house, I shall have Henry spray you with pesticide on your next visit."
"Most certainly," Henry said, looking down his nose at Clamenza. He picked up the insect by one of its antennae, then dropped it unceremoniously into the napkin Carmen held out. He quickly folded the napkin, taking it from Carmen's hand, then shoved it into his jacket pocket with revulsion. "Enjoy your snack, ladies," he said, spiriting from the room in the blink of an eye.
Clamenza squirmed in her seat, quickly composing herself after the loss of her little friend. There were plenty more, after all, where he had come from. "Such unnerving, unnatural creatures, vampires," Clamenza said as the door to the library closed silently behind Henry. With a silver spoon, she piled a mountain of caviar onto a thin slice of the baguette. "Beluga?" she enquired, biting into the crisp, tiny black beads heaped on the triangular piece of toast.
"Of course it's Beluga," Carmen spat. "What else would it be, some disgusting cheap knock-off? Now," she said, bringing closure to any further discussion about food, bugs, or vampires. "Tell me about this latest problem we have with the witch."
"Witches," Clamenza corrected between bites. "Two witches. But it is the Rosenberg witch that we should be most concerned about. She is one of the Saken Circle. The very circle determined on destroying us."
"I know all about the Saken Circle," Carmen growled, the serpent bangle on her arm hissing and quivering. "Have you managed to locate the other witch imprisoned in the red bottle? The one that you lost."
Clamenza shook her head. "It is near. I can feel the—"
Carmen crashed her fist down on the table, silencing the woman. "Near is not good enough, old woman, and I don't care what you feel. It is only a matter of time before they free the girl from the bottle. And if that happens—"
"I know what happens. With four witches from the Saken Circle, it is only a matter of time before they locate the fifth."
"You have a spy in the Witchwood House, do you not?"
"I do," Clamenza agreed. "A boy."
"Then I suggest you use him to find out how close they are. Do you know if they are in possession of the book?"
"No," Clamenza said sharply, unfolding a linen napkin on the table and arranging an assortment of food in the centre of it. Folding it up, she placed the laden napkin in her coat pocket. "I know what I have to do," she said rising, starting towards the door.
"You have forgotten something," Carmen said, tossing the walking stick at the old woman.
Clamenza spun around, and snatched the tossed stick out of the air, without so much as a flinch.
Carmen picked up her bell and shook it, summoning Henry.
"Never mind," Clamenza drawled, turning her back and walking out of the room. "I can see my own way out without the aid of a sneering vampire looking down his nose at me."
"You must be Clamenza," Vera said, walking up to the old woman leaving the library.
Clamenza looked the woman up and down and sniffed the air. Mothballs. The poor woman reeked of mothballs, for goodness' sake. Unlike her perfectly accessorized sister, who smelled of a woman fresh from her lover's arms, Vera smelled of mothballs and wore a dowdy, floral house frock and flat, brown, lace-up shoes similar to those worn by men. She was rubbing her hands nervously together, her face pinched painfully as the old woman glared at her.
"And you must be Carmen's skinny kid sister," Clamenza retorted, taking a step backward, repelled by the smell of mothballs. "Tell me," the older woman said, "have you seen your husband this afternoon? I would keep an eye on him if I were you. A man could easily get lost in a house of this size, and, well, with your sister looking like... like she does, well, it can't be easy living in a shadow cast by the likes of a woman like her..." Clamenza shrugged apologetically.
Vera's face contorted into an angry scowl, then she turned abruptly on her heel and scurried away in the direction from which she had come, mumbling and cursing, her flat shoes slapping the white marble floor.
Once alone in the spacious foyer, Clamenza shook her leg in its thick black stocking, freeing a small militia of cockroaches which scurried along the cold, polished floor toward the library. "Go forth, my little beauties, and seek your revenge," she chuckled, pushing open the front doors of Lancaster House and walking out into the sunlight, her little black hat shading her face from the late afternoon sun.