I finished my drink, and I tried not to let Vail’s worries about George get to me. He was a Vampire; he could handle being alone for one night. Just like I had for years.
When it was time to go, we climbed into the back of the van. Vail, Donovan, Diana, and I squeezed in with the instruments, while Sam and Ivy took the front with Connor. It wascozy, to say the least.
As the van rumbled through the night, Connor kept glancing back at us.
“Are you all okay back there?” he asked repeatedly, his voice laced with concern as he steered the van along the winding roads.
Perched on the trunks, I shifted uncomfortably, something jabbing me in the back. Donovan, unfazed, casually sipped a beer from the case beside him.
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I reassured Connor, tightening my grip on the instrument cases. I’m glad I had extra drinks at the bar. I would need a bigger meal soon, though.
“He never asks that when it’s just us,” Diana remarked, smiling mischievously. “You must be special.”
I glanced at Connor. His profile was strikingly beautiful, and I caught him smiling to himself as he navigated the van through the night.
TEN
March 15, 1891
Nights bled into mornings, and at each sunrise, I found myself increasingly unable to leave the confines of the bed. I lingered under the weight of my grief, the world outside growing distant with each passing moment. The grandeur of Thornwood mansion felt cold and unwelcoming, and the prospect of venturing beyond the safety of the bed linens filled me with an unspoken dread.
I had lost track of how many days had passed. I only knew it had been too long since I’d left this room. I hadn’t seen Draven since he first showed me around the house, and guilt gnawed at me for missing dinner with him that first night.
I couldn’t explain it. The thought of facing him again stirred a quiet nervousness in me.
His gaze, icy and piercing as a moonlit night, seemed to see right through me. And yet, he had ignited a flicker of curiosity in me.
I often drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams haunted by the echoes of my mother’s laughter and the rustle of her favourite linen skirt. The bed, while a haven during the day, was a vessel that carried me into the haunting landscapes of my subconscious at night. I felt like a specter of myself, myenergy waning, as my world grew darker. I’d beg my eyes to stay open, but they’d grow heavy, pulling me down into an endless sleep of nightmares.
Draven was always in my dreams, entering my chambers through the window and brushing his hands along my cheek, neck, and down my arms. Sometimes when I woke, I could still feel the coldness of his skin lingering on mine.
Imalda, one of Draven’s servants, became my only connection to the world beyond these four walls. She appeared each morning, gently knocking on my door, rousing me from my dreams. With her kind eyes and soft-spoken nature, she was a comforting presence.
“Good morning, Miss Rosalia,” she’d say, bringing me trays of food and opening the curtains that led to the balcony. She would whisk open the doors, welcoming the fresh air. “It’s good for you,” she’d say, though I suspected her real motive was to air out the room. After all, I hadn’t had the energy to bathe.
I would often mumble a reply from beneath my covers, my face hidden from her view as she’d walk inside, closing the door behind her. I was not sure if she understood the depths of my despair, but she never pressed me for answers. Instead, she carried on with her daily tasks, tidying up the room and leaving trays of food by the bedside, knowing full well I regularly left it untouched.
Was it her duty alone that guided her to my chambers each day to bring me food? Or was it by Draven’s request?
As the days went on, I could sense the concern in Imalda’s demeanor. She would sit by my bedside for a few minutes after finishing her chores, even as I remained cocooned in the sheets. I often wished for her to say something, but she never did. She spoke only a few sentences upon entering to let me know she was there, and she always wishedme a good day as she slipped out the back into the grand hallways of the mansion.
One morning, as the sun’s rays danced across the room, Imalda’s voice was softer than usual as she whispered from the balcony, “Miss Rosalia, it is a beautiful day outside. Would you like to join me in the garden for a while?”
“Not today, Imalda,” I mumbled, my voice heavy from crying. Just a week prior, the thought of going out to the garden would have filled my heart with glee. Most days, I would be outside even before the sun and the birds, right alongside my mother. Not anymore.Not ever, I thought. Without my mother, what was the point? I knew what was out there. Those creatures that roamed the night.
Imalda simply nodded and silently retreated from the room. As much as I longed for the courage to leave my bed, grief held me in its relentless grip.
That night, I heard a knock on the door and footsteps reaching my bed.
“Please leave, Imalda,” I said, pulling the blanket over my head, sinking back into the darkness. But it was not Imalda who replied.
“I was pained when you did not join me for dinner the other night, and now even more, hearing that you believe I resemble Imalda,” Draven’s cool voice conveyed.
I lifted my head out of the covers to look at him. I was startled that he was in my room and not just in my dreams. He stood beside my bed, his hair and skin illuminated by the candle in his hand. His long shadow danced on the wall behind him.
“Not that Imalda lacks beauty,” Draven continued, “but I insist that I bear no resemblance to her, neither in appearance nor voice.”
If Imalda was as soft and delicate as a newly bloomed flower, then Draven was as hard and angular as a mountain peak.
