The next time Pearl paid a visit to Ianthe’s suite, she misspoke in a dreadful moment. The two of them had been speaking quite genially, and Ianthe had made a glib reference back to her homeland. It was punctuated with a wild gesture, a wave of the hand, and a sharp laugh. Pearl then spoke, quite foolishly, of something that had long troubled the back of her mind.

“You are not a refugee, are you?”

The servant, so rarely prone to shows of emotion, nearly dropped the tea tray. The atmosphere of the room changed at once.

With a careless wave of the hand, Ianthe sent her servant off to the other end of the room. From the inside of her waistcoat she withdrew a small snuffbox, striped with opalescent decoration, and made a grand show of opening it, dusting her fingertips, and dabbing her nose, all in a dreadful silence.

“What makes you say such a thing?”

Pearl rose up in her seat, quite suddenly intimidated. She explained her observations. That Ianthe had arrived in Boston around St. Valentine’s Day, long before fighting had broken out— and certainly, with her sort of retinue, had to be on her way well earlier.

“You never speak of the subject,” Pearl said, “but not in the sort of manner that implies you are keen to avoid it. You approach such things with… well, the same sort of carelessness you speak of the weather with. It makes it seem as if you don’t care about freeing your country from tyranny at all.”

Pearl felt terribly guilty, saying what she said, even if she truly believed it. It had taken her much thought and consideration to come to such a conclusion, and yet she had so foolishly gone and said it aloud!

It was the nature of her attachment to Ianthe; the woman had such a way of drawing Pearl from her shell, such a vicarious and vibrant nature. Pearl often found her tongue slipping around her as if she were drunk!

Her dear friend’s gaze did not waver, even as Pearl waited for her to recoil, to lash out in hurt or anger. Ianthe snapped the snuffbox closed between her thumb and middle finger.

“You’re right.”

Pearl flinched.

“You’re right,” Ianthe said. She rolled her shoulders, wiped her nose with the flat of her hand, and tossed the box onto the silver tea tray with a clatter. “Would you like to know the truth?”

Pearl was no longer so certain. Ianthe’s attitude had darkened so suddenly, like a cloud sweeping over the sun. Though Ianthe smiled once more, and leaned herself back upon her couch, it was under the weight of a heavy, dangerous feeling that now hung over the room. A weight Pearl had summoned.

There was no way to banish it but to continue, Pearl surmised, and thusly she nodded.

Ianthe began, “I came to this country to right a wrong.”

And crossing one leg over the other, Ianthe’s expression rippled again. She laid her arms out along the back of the couch, and tapped it with her fingertips in what Pearl could only read as a bout of nervousness. Pearl held her breath.

“It has been my duty, for as long as I can remember, to take care of my siblings— Iphis, my brother, and Daphne, the sister. We lived on a remote isle, and kept to ourselves. It was a quaint place where nothing ever much changed.

“We fought often, as siblings are wont to do. It is not something I imagine you can quite understand, the depth of those emotions. It was such that I would routinely take my leave for long stretches at a time, lest I throttle them instead. When I last left, it was the same as any other. But upon my return…”

Ianthe breathed out a dry rattle.

“No. No… let me go back. You must understand me. My family… they aggrieved me beyond words. They were immature, facile little beasts who delighted in tormenting myself and all others. I wished them ill, often. And they were mine.”

Said Pearl, “Speak further, friend.”

“We were not so much family as you conceive it…” Ianthe said, “Daphne was the middle child, and she joined us late in her life. Poor dear… she was such a sad thing, at first. Let me, ah, say it gently— you and her were kindred, in regards to men.”

Pearl shifted upon her seat. “I see.”

“As she was denied so much, and so young, she took it upon herself to be extravagant. She would wear the most ridiculous fashions— garish fabrics, stitched together with her sloppy hand! Painting her face in gold or aquamarine, or braiding beads and branches into her hair.

“Most dear to her was music. She would wear bells around her ankles, and sing to herself as she went about her day— there was a flute she had carved out of wood, which she would play until the very shriek of it made blood burst from the ears!

“And who was it who must assist with all these frivolities? Myself, of course. It was I who had to untangle her curls and tame her wild mane, I who had to send torn dresses out for repair, I who had to comment upon her original compositions— of which there was no shortage!

“But, of course, she never regretted a thing. She was wild, insatiable.”

“She…” Pearl grew quite uncomfortable over the course of Ianthe’s speaking, trying to square away this image of a savage girl being, somehow, in any way, comparable to Pearl. “Sounds beautiful, friend.”

Ianthe nodded. Her expression, which had, over the course of her description of Daphne, grown brighter and brighter, was dimming at once, like a candle being snuffed.

Pearl pressed. “And… the other one?”

“Iphis was cold-blooded,” replied Ianthe, as if on impulse, “and venomous. A quiet sort. He had his particular way of doing things, and was not terribly fond of company. He kept to himself. Though we shared our meals and our home, he was distinctly his own creature.

“Should he have need of my companionship, he would merely appear at his own convenience and disappear on the same such whims. His favorite activity, which he would traverse the whole isle rather than miss, was when I read aloud to him. He would hide among the treetops— it was far too intimate an activity to do face-to-face, you see— and I would read some selections of poetry until I became tired.

“Iphis never caused me much trouble— only, he could not refuse Daphne, not ever. Always he was being roped into her schemes.”

“Schemes?”

“Oh, so many!” cried Ianthe, raising her hands. “They were devotees of mischief, and I took the brunt of it! Oh, how badly they wished to embarrass me, to do away with my things, to fake their own deaths! Once—”

Ianthe leaned forward with the airs of a man sharing a story over a game of cards.

“Once, the both of them disappeared as if into thin air. I woke to find them gone. Though I scoured the island, there was hide nor hair of them to be seen, and no one else had any clue of what had occurred! 

“Over the course of my search, I would at times find sets of footprints, or hear their laughter echoing through the trees, but they remained one step ahead of me forever and anon! It was only upon my collapsing and professing defeat that they showed themselves.

“So aggrieved by their childish games, I vowed to sail away at once and enjoy my own company for a time. I packed my things and was off by the following evening…

“Only to find, on that ship, odd creaking footsteps, and voices once again out of my reach. They’d made themselves stowaways, and followed me onto the boat!”

“Oh, goodness!” Pearl had never seen Ianthe so alive.

“I ought to have thrown them overboard and let them fend for themselves…”

“What did you do, then?”

“Why, I let them stay with me! It was an awful mess. You can only imagine, living as I do whilst a couple of rabid beasts nip at your heels!”

“No, I cannot.”

“Exactly,” said Ianthe, striking her heel against the ground. “Exactly. They were simply the most vexatious lot one could imagine. I spent all my time trying to bring them to heel, and they spent all their time ruining my good mood! Simply atrocious, bothersome things.”

“You loved them.” Pearl laid a hand on her heart.

“…yes.” Ianthe nodded reluctantly. As quickly as the light had come, it disappeared. Ianthe’s dark eyes drew dull and fell upon the stained surface of the carpet, her hands gripped tightly together.

“And several months ago, I found them slaughtered in their beds.”

Pearl gasped.

Ianthe’s handsome face, despite her outward calmness, was twisted into a visage of grief. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her mouth a hard line. “So, simply put, I must…”

“Oh, there is no need to speak any further!” cried Pearl. “I am so terribly sorry for having dredged up such an awful thing to remember.”

“It’s no issue.” Ianthe’s voice was flat.

Between the two of them appeared the servant, toting a new, smaller tray. He made a great show, in that detached way of his, of pouring two crystal glasses full of liquor. He handed one off to his mistress, who took it without so much as an acknowledgment. The other went to Pearl.

“T-thank you,” said Pearl, with a stiff nod.

“I have come to avenge them. To kill,” Ianthe said. “I hope you understand that.”

Pearl looked down. “It’s not my place to say…”

“So say it anyways!” Ianthe raised her glass.

“There is a verse in the Bible…” Pearl swallowed. “That if you are stricken, you are not to strike back, but to turn the other cheek.”

“Ah!” Ianthe wagged a finger at her. “But I am not a Christian, child.”

“You’re not?”

Ianthe gave affirmation, and then took a drink. Pearl mimicked her with a peck off the top, like a bird drinking from a fountain. The vile taste agitated.

“Then… should I tell you a secret of mine, you would not think me a sinner?”

“There is no such thing as a sin, in my view.”

Ah, it was as if Pearl was standing on the ledge of a yawning cliff! Her first timid steps towards a profound drop with nothing but the certainty that, be it short or long, she was sure to fall. 

“I’m having an affair.”

Ianthe’s head, ebony curls all mussed, rested against the wooden molding of the coach. Having taken off her coat, her starched collar and cuffs dazzled against her dark skin.

“You’re not even married.”

“I am having an affair… with Georgia Cary.”

“Ah…”

There came a great silence, a stillness upon Ianthe’s bearing. She sipped her drink once, twice more as Pearl’s breath sped and her palms sweated. Pearl could not bear to bring herself to look at her friend, and instead set her eye upon the bear of a man that stood by the window. Their gazes met, but there was no emotion contained within; it was the same as checking time on a clock face. Nothing human about it all.

The pause continued.

“Oh, please, say something!” begged Pearl. “Say anything at all, my friend. You do not need to console me if it is not something you can bear! Spit on me, cast me out, do whatever you will! Just, please, don’t make me bear your apathy any longer!”

Ianthe did not appear to hear her pleas. She took out her snuffbox once more and rolled it, like a child with a toy, between her fingers. Her ruby ring sparkled in the light.

“I hope you weren’t planning on my being scandalized,” she said at last.

It could not be that…?

“To me,” Ianthe said, “you’re more natural than all of the lot continuing the human species.”

“You mean… you truly mean that…?”

“You and I are the same, Pearl.”  She cocked a thumb to indicate her servant. “My lover.”

“Oh.” Pearl looked down. “It was a woman…”

Ianthe laughed, and it sounded like bells from on high. As the realization sunk in, it was as if all and the dread and gloom was lifted at once from her shoulders.

“Oh, Ianthe, this is wonderful!” said Pearl. “I worried that we were all alone— that there was no one who had ever felt such as we did— when you were here all along!”

“As I said, perfectly natural.” Ianthe indicated the drink in Pearl’s hand. “Now, don’t let it go to waste.”

Pearl was jubilant for the remainder of the visit— though perhaps that was only the gin. The only moment of uncertainty came as Pearl was preparing her leave.

She had risen to her feet when Ianthe said, “I should like to become better acquainted with this girl of yours.”

“Oh, yes.” Pearl smiled. “Georgia is well-formed, and ever so charming. Though, I should warn you: she will certainly dominate the conversation. Don’t expect me to get a word in edgewise, between you two!”

“I don’t suppose there’ll be many words.” Ianthe rested her chin on her hand.

“What do you mean?”

Her fingers concealing a glib smile, Ianthe nodded to a door at her left. “There is plenty of room on the bed.”

Pearl had forgotten for a moment in her relief. Ianthe was no Christian… and certainly that meant that there was more that she deviated from than a partner’s sex. She was clearly beyond such mores as proper dress and manner of speaking… what was one other to her?

“I’m afraid,” said Pearl, slowly, “that we are not quite the same in that regard. Perhaps… perhaps Georgia should not come after all.”

Ianthe flashed those white teeth of hers, and appeared almost bashful. “I did not mean to offend you, my dear. Please think nothing of it.”

“I will not,” Pearl said. “You are my dearest friend.”

“Only let me know when you change your mind.”

Pearl agreed in haste, and shuffled out the door.

Summer came. 

Ianthe’s servant arrived quite unexpectedly at her doorstep one day, in a heavy black coat and hat, a scarf obscuring the bottom half of her face. Pearl was quite surprised by the woman’s appearance.

The servant handed Pearl a brown paper parcel and then stood, unmoving, in the doorway. Pearl met her eye, but the woman only stared back with her peculiar, milky gaze. Pearl tore away the wrapping; in her hands was a book.

The object was leatherbound, with marbled orange endpapers. She knew at once that it was a fine volume, certainly quite expensive. She turned it over in her hands before she opened the front cover. She was struck with an influx of words.

The Wreath; composed of selections from Sappho (this Ianthe had underlined), Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. Printed in London, 1799.

There was something written below in Greek, along with a note in scratchy English: ‘From my personal collection. Keep it, friend’. 

Pearl’s heart fluttered. To the servant, she inquired, “Would you like to come inside?”

The woman shook her head.

“Then…” Pearl looked between the book and the woman, suddenly overcome with tenderness. “Tell your mistress that she has my deepest gratitude.”

A voice rose up from behind the scarf, at first so soft and shy– shy! This creature was shy! – that Pearl mistook it for the wind.

“My master.”

“Oh!” Pearl could not help but smile— it was just like her friend, to insist on such a masculine title. “Yes, of course. Your master.”

She bid the woman farewell, and came back into the house just at the same time her father exited the hall.

“What do you have there?”

Pearl tried to keep the silly smile off her face. “A gift from my friend Miss Zannouli.”

Father frowned, rather severely. “Greek?”

“A refugee.” Pearl rushed past him to get to her room.

Summer continued, beating upon her home. Every day, the air grew lanker and lanker. The maid was besieged by insects that swarmed the Spice house despite the tight seal. The ladies of Pearl’s prayer group spent most meetings fanning themselves with their temperance pamphlets. It was a right mess, but Pearl was hardly of the mind to notice.

Pearl pored over the book, well-marked by Ianthe’s bilingual hand, until the sun slinked below the horizon, and she could no longer discern the ink upon the page. Every night, after prayers, she would unlatch her window, and stare out at the stars, like a country maid hoping to catch a glimpse of her lover as he crossed the lane. Cricket song filled the silence as she waited to see if her vampire would come again.

Every Sunday, she would sit silent in her pew. She looked around her and caught her father’s eye. His papery face shifted with his smile, his eyes twinkling. The sorrow bubbled up from the soles of Pearl’s feet until she threatened to drown.

Why her, and why now? When she had led such a virtuous life, when she had done nothing wrong? She was a sinner— she was in love with another woman. But it did not feel a sin to her. Why? Why was she forced into the shadows, away from polite society, for the sin of love? She loved God, still. She had not been stricken down in her pew. Certainly there was nothing wrong in her affections, and had society made a space for them, her and Georgia would have already been wed.

They had spoken of it, in flits of conversation. Pearl had told Georgia of her dream (discounting the parts colored by vampiric influence), and together they passed each other stories they had heard: of forbidden lovers fleeing in the night.

“We ought to run off to the territories,” said Georgia.

“One of us will have to pretend to be a man!”

“It will have to be you, then.” Georgia turned her nose up. “The thought of wearing breeches makes me sick.”

“But Georgia, you are by far the more confident party! I could never pass as a husband.”

“Then, we will make do as two wives.”

It was not a serious proposition: there was not a place in the world that would take them as they were. The thought of being frank, even with her closest companion, her lover, was impossible. How could Pearl speak it? That she would not run away with Georgia, or run away at all. Pearl was going to live on, be married come autumn, and be raped again.

Upon exiting the church, Aubrey would always wrap an arm around Pearl’s shoulders and whistle a cheerful tune. Pearl’s face sunk to the ground as she rubbed circles in her lavender skirts.

The needle punched through the skin. The thread danced as Pearl tugged it through to the other side of her embroidery hoop, like the skirt of a lady twirling.

Pearl was working on her sampler in the library, sitting before the hearth. It was quiet, in keeping with the growing darkness. She had been working with single-minded devotion towards her task, undaunted by the occasional disturbances of the maid, or her father, or Aubrey, who would come to fetch a book for use in Father’s study. By then, it was night, and such visits were over. Only minutes before, the maid had come to inquire if Pearl was ready for bed.

“I know it’s no good for my eyes,” said Pearl, “but I simply must try and finish my sampler tonight.”

“Aye.” The maid nodded. “Ring tae bell should ye need anythin.”

She slipped from the room and returned with the vase of garlic flowers already prepared for Pearl’s bedside. They stank up the library at once; Pearl managed to nod brightly, and request that the maid close the door on her way out.

In went the thread. And out. Pearl was alone. She did not favor the smell of the flowers; in fact, she quite disliked them. They did her no good. She should get rid of them.

Thinking this, said Pearl, “I should get rid of the flowers.”

Seeing as enough time had elapsed, with the maid’s footsteps having disappeared downstairs, Pearl rose to her feet, lifted the vase by its beveled mouth, and flung the contents into the roaring fire.

Good God, the room was sweltering! What a dusty, dark, old-fashioned place! Pearl did not like the look of those heavy curtains that further blackened the dusty room. She should draw them aside.

“I should draw them aside,” Pearl said, and did so.

The night was beautiful— more beautiful than anything in that horrid old house. Look at the moon that bled upon the ever distant rooftops! Look at the stars, their glitter, their sheen; even the grass was the color of sterling. She ought to open the window here, too, and let the hearth drink in the summer breeze.

Pearl did not move.

The flower stems blackened in the fire, crumpling into fetal rings before fading away.

“After all,” said she, “I opened it in my room, and it did me no harm.”

Her father had taught her wrong. She had been told that if she so foolishly disobeyed him, a vampire would sweep up into the night and tear her asunder. It would only take but a single taste of her soft, virginal flesh for it to launch itself into a veritable frenzy. Father would not— could not— be able to prevent it from drinking its fill, and the gory trappings of her bedcovers would be the only signal of her final, fatal mistake.

But that was not what happened. Not at all— she had been visited by this vampire (she suspected more than once)— and she had not died. There was not even that distinctive mark of its bite left upon her throat. The vampire had not destroyed her, and moreover, it had filled her with joy and pleasure.

“If I open the window, I will feel pleasure.” Her gaze was swallowed by the moon. “I want to see the Vampyre again. I will open the window.”

Back to her embroidery, hunched against her candle and the soft breeze on her face, Pearl failed to concentrate. The thought of her misdeed, and what may very well come of it, consumed her every thought. Her cheeks grew hot. Often, she returned at nightfall to the dream of Georgia bedding her, but it had lost the spark it once held. It did not thrill her in the way it had— and right now, she must be thrilled.

Pearl looked about, like a thief in a new house, but perceiving no intruders. Of course not— no one could have entered this quaint little library without her noticing. Even the open window did not allay the heat. Her clothes were uncomfortable. She should take them off.

What? No— she was not going to undress in the library, of all places. What if she were found there, in such a state? There could be no decent explanation, and the fear of her being discovered was worse than the itching sensation across her skin.

Though the sensation was awful. She did not like her clothes. Why had she ever worn them? It was impossible to ignore the pressure of her stays against her stomach, the loud rustle of cotton skirts. Her every movement was restricted, her very body a prison, the chemise her bars. She did not like her clothes. She wanted to undress.

Her garments were soon scattered to the seven winds. Pearl stepped stiffly from the faerie ring her dress formed on the floor, now standing naked in a room lit only by the dying hearth and a single, flickering candle. She could not see herself, though the sensation of her arms and back rising in gooseflesh was unmistakable. She stood. She had wanted to undress, and she had done so.

What now?

“I will finish my sampler,” said Pearl.

But how could she, when it was so dark? The simple thought of trying to focus a keen eye on such fine detail made her head ache! It would be a foolish act of self-destruction at such an hour, when she should have already long drifted to sleep! What she ought to do was redress herself and return to her room, where she would be able to rest, and…

And she needed to finish her sampler. She needed to crawl back into that chair. Hold the frame in her hand and the needle in the other. It was all she wished to do, and Pearl was so tired of denying herself her own desires. Though the dimness of the room was almost frightening, and her head sagged with tiredness, she dutifully went to work. 

She was alone, but she felt herself exposed. It did not help that she wanted to sit with her legs spread, so that her cunt could feel the room’s fresh air, and that the breeze and the gooseflesh made short work of hardening her nipples. 

She was correct— her head did ache, and her hand faltered. She had hardly gotten anywhere when she moved wrong, and instead plunged the head of the needle into the plump flesh of her fingertip.

The sampler tumbled over her knees. Pearl sat aghast as blood beaded upon her hand. Oh, thought she, with wry humor, if only there was someone who could rid me of this excess blood.

She popped the finger into her mouth and licked it away. The taste was metallic and bitter— it was not meant for her. The tongue probed at her finger, curling around it. Pearl wanted to push it in further—

But did not.

For she could not move her hand.

The window creaked open further, night air reinvigorating the coals. The shadows pulsed, again, but this time it was as if they breathed. It was only then that she realized: the vampire was in the room– had been in the room– and Pearl had not noticed.

After such a length of time, her finger was pulled from her mouth; a string of drool tugged at her lips. Pearl followed the path of that finger with her eyes, as if watching another gesturing— that is, until that finger shoved itself into her folds. 

There was no sense of her body: every action done to her was tightly-strung and stiff, an illy maneuvered marionette. Pearl was paralyzed by a frightful vision: of her standing in the center of the room, and these hands that were not her hands would paw at her stomach until they happened upon a seam. She split herself down the middle, organs and blood spilling across the carpet, to joyfully offer herself up.

The haze of lust had disappeared, though the hand continued to finger her cunt. She was frightened. Here she rested, all alone, at the mercy of some unknown, malevolent creature, which now held her by way of a massive, invisible hand.

Her other hand, tense as a coiled spring, ran its way up her thigh and seized at her breast. There was a certain roughness in the movements, a careless heed of her own comfort— far more akin to being fondled by a stranger than by her own hands. It was not her own body. All she had left was her mind.

She could not escape the creature— she should not fight back at all. This was what she asked for, wasn’t it? 

But no— no, this was not at all what she had been dreaming of! What was she even thinking?

The chair creaked. Stiffly, her legs rose to standing. Pearl’s sensations were amplified tenfold, with her being trapped. There was the sense of her bare feet against the carpet, the shiver that ran through her as she was led away from the dying fire. There was a cold lick of metal across her collarbone.

“Ah!” Her mother’s cross! She had not removed it! The shock of hope allowed Pearl to move for but a moment, to lay her hand on the silver necklace, cry out with her voice.

The break did not last. Pearl was wrenched backwards, knocking over her chair and sewing kit. It thumped the fireplace, and a rain of sparks hit Pearl’s head.

She crouched on the floor like an animal, her singed curls falling in her eyes. Pearl grit her teeth, a sudden surge of confidence within her. She was not going to die. She was not going to give herself away that easily!

It was as if the puppeteer had become a conductor. Pearl was wrenched to her feet, her spine straight as a taut rope. Needles glittered across the floor, and with heavy footfalls, Pearl traversed the dangerous space in a disjointed battle. Pearl and the vampire danced in a single body.

It would move an arm one way, so Pearl would thrust the other the opposite. Her legs folded and unfolded like a paper fan; they wobbled underneath the assault. She writhed and struggled, she pushed herself into furniture, rattled shelves, tried to smash her forehead against the wall– before it had even forced her to the center of the room, her heart was racing and her breath came out in heavy gasps.

“You’re not–” she croaked, in a moment that she had her own mouth, “–going to kill me!”

The window lurched fully open, and foggy moonlight fell upon Pearl, perched on the balls of her feet, curls lank with sweat, her hands shaking as they resolutely stayed at her side. The outside air brushed her fine throat as it bobbed. 

A voice, not Pearl’s but of her own nature, spoke. It made her smile and said, “Who said anything about killing you?”

The shock of the creature speaking— that it was even capable of speech— broke Pearl’s concentration. In several smooth strides, her body was brought to the table in the center of the library. Allayed across it were several volumes, mostly books of a religious variety. For a moment, there was a spot of hope that the vampire would not be able to touch such things, like it had been deterred by the cross.

Her hands gripped the table’s edge. Pearl attempted to swallow and ease her racing heartbeat. Suppose the vampire simply had her cease breathing? Suppose it had something worse in mind?

She could not trust her own senses. There was a heat increasing between her legs. She considered her position, and her breath hitched, the muscles clenched. She found that she could open her mouth, and spoke.

“But of— of course you mean to kill me! What else could you— oh— ohhh…”

Pearl’s voice was wrenched from her throat. The vampire leaned her over the table and had her plunging her sex against the sharp corner. It was painful, far too painful! But Pearl did not mind it much.

“I do not mind the pa—” Pearl gasped. “No! No, you can’t do this! My father said… I thought… don’t— don’t—”

Pearl enjoyed the pain. There was an unmistakable flush throughout her body; even with her voice returned to her, she found that she could only moan. She saw stars. If she opened the window, she would feel pleasure. This was that. There was no hope of escape— why should she waste her energy?

Her knee was hefted up onto the table-top. Pearl crawled on her hands and knees scattering papers, knocking over volumes. The vampire found a book of apparent interest, and Pearl ripped it open. She was flat on the table, rubbing her crotch against the surface in an attempt to return the earlier pressure.

Pearl’s mouth was bobbing open; she did not notice until she found herself drooling on the open pages. “I am no fool,” said she. “Yes… I already know what you want.”

In between the pages of religious text lay tucked a scrap of paper. The library was almost completely black; she had no hope of reading the whole thing. The vampire plucked the page from the volume and held it close to Pearl’s eye; it touched her eyelashes.

13 women - unsalvageable.

Pearl recalled a moment from another lifetime— of Aubrey, trembling in that carriage, his hands clutching hers.

“The monsters had been keeping human slaves.”

The thought was like a spark to kindling! The word was like a kick to her aching cunt! When she moved to touch herself, she did not see the library, nor any ominous notes from her father, not even the bonny night through the window. She saw rows of women, naked like her, kneeling in anticipation. She saw herself among them.

When the vampire spoke next, it was not through Pearl’s mouth. It rumbled somewhere inside of her, a characterless voice with the strength of natural phenomena– a thunderstorm, a raging fire.

“Do you want to go deeper?”

Pearl’s head lolled downwards even as the vampire lifted her spine. She could not speak, only gnaw upon her wet lip. Yes, yes she wanted nothing more! Oh, how good it felt to topple from that table, to have all those needles bite into her naked back! She did not mind the pain.

She did not mind the pain— even though she ought to— she ought to be careful, hadn’t she? There, in the glint of the lowest light, her weary eyes caught sight of the silver side of her shears. Her hand strained to reach for it— why? Why was she allowing herself to—?

The vampire said, “Do you want to feel this way forever?”

“Yes!”

Pearl took the scissors and stumbled to her feet. Her neck craned upwards. Her curls tumbled down her shoulders as she froze there, pale body exposed and shivering. Her mouth opened, her tongue pulled from between her lips. With the scissors held in a single-handed grip, she raised them high and plunged them down her throat.

Straight down. No pain. Pearl maintained her grip, and after standing frozen, posing for her audience, wrenched them back upwards. The silver blade returned to her, beading with her blood. She held it aloft and allowed it to drip onto the carpet. One second, two seconds. She did not mind it. She thrust them in again.

Come morning, Pearl woke gently swaddled in her covers. There was not a single injury that marred her body. The library had returned to sanity: the chair in its place, the hearth neatly swept. No blood or singe marks marked the carpet. Only Pearl herself was changed, beyond repair, beyond reason.

All night, she had been serenaded, like a sailor lulled to sleep by a lady out on the rocks. She dreamt of the bowels of a ship, of kneeling before an onyx coffin. She dreamt of a crossing, a slit between two yawning cliffs at the very edge of human civilization. There it was: a Greek isle, the jade sea and sun-warmed rocks all along the shore.

Here was a place where women such as her had no need to hide. By daylight, the surface was filled with such women, enjoined in the sunlight, eating grapes off the vine; they lay on their backs in public baths, they kissed underneath the palm boughs, they sucked each other’s tits, two, three women at a time.

(A hand ran up the inside of Pearl’s thigh)

Night came, and with it, a sharp trill that pierced the dark. The women halted in all that occupied them; mid-lustful reverie, the moans dropped from their mouths. They stood, and all faced in one direction. Through the woods they began to march, obeying their summons. They made a line of gauzy silk, fading in and out of the moonlight. Sometimes, current day memory would slide back to the forefront of her mind: how she had done this to herself, by letting the vampire in. This would not last long. Regrets were not to be permitted.

(It parted her lips)

Somewhere in the line fell a young woman who moved like a leaf in the wind. She was reedy, broad-shouldered, with bells tied around her ankles. She was not a slave like the others— instead, at her appearance, the dream stuttered for a moment. The strings weaving the vision were cut. 

“Welcome home.” She smiled, and the trees bled green fuzz, the torches split into colors as if dashed through prisms. Her hand lifted, like a lacy flower stem, to touch Pearl’s cheek.

Pearl saw fire, from far above. On a barren beach, surrounded by dark, hunched figures, something was burning. It stank. Though she did not know why, her nose burned with unshed tears. An icy tail began to curl around her bare calf. It was massive, pale blue and as thick around as a tree trunk. 

Pearl was frozen in place, even as the other women streamed around their little group, disappearing into the velvety night.

“Dear sister…” said the girl, “I think you’re spoiling the mood, no?”

Pearl did not understand. What was she to say? All she knew was that she was suddenly pumped full of sorrow, and she felt as if she was going to die. The wind wailed, and the torches that lit their dim passage burnt out in rains of sparks. The very land wept for this vampire girl and the massive, snake-like creature that slithered around her jangling feet.

The girl smiled. “You’ve lost your touch.”

She stepped aside with a jaunty, jangling half-bow. The snake, still low to the ground, followed in a slurry of glossy scales. More words clung to Pearl’s throat: begging them not to leave, bargaining with things Pearl could not grasp. But they slipped away into the bleeding treeline. A warm hand fell onto the small of her naked back and ushered her forward. She walked alone in the dark, loosing her thin shroud until she fell into line with the others.

Below them yawned an ancient, underground tomb. Its inside was wide-open, yawning with toothy darkness.

A great red fog swept up from the hole within the earth. All the slaves fell to their knees, smiles upon their red lips. Pearl forgot all; thought faded from her mind, all focus trained to the black pit. The fog grew, and from it emerged a wave of slithering insects. She hardly noted them, and certainly not with fear. The slaves were not to move, and so she would not be moved. 

The indistinct took shape, and the indescribable had a face. In reward for her obedience, a chilled hand emerged from the darkness to cradle her– to strike the light, to echo in aching familiarity– a face, the face of her master.

(A face she already knew)