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By Root 653 0

him feel? He was nervous near her, but excited. It was much like being in danger, and he had trained himself to be cool under fire. When he was with Geneviève, it was like sharing a secret. What would Pamela have thought of his vampire? She had been perceptive: even with agony knifing into her, she could not be lied to. To the end, he told her that she would be all right, that she would see home again. Pamela shook away his assurances and demanded he listen. For Pamela, dying was hard: she was angry, not with the fool doctor, but with herself, angry that her body had failed her, was failing their baby. Her fury burned like a fever. Gripping her hand, he could feel it. She died with something unsaid; ever since, he had been picking at the scab, wondering if there was anything to understand, wondering what the urgent thought was, the thought Pamela was not able at the last to force into words.

‘“I love you.”’

‘What?’

Geneviève’s cheeks were dewed with tears. For once, she seemed younger than her face.

‘That’s what she was saying, Charles. “I love you.” That’s all.’

Angered, he gripped the handle of his cane and thumbed the catch. An inch of silver shone. Geneviève gasped.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she said, leaning against him. ‘I’m not like that, really. I don’t pry. It’s...’ She was weeping freely, tears spotting her velvet collar. ‘It was so clear, Charles,’ she insisted, shaking her head and smiling at the same time. ‘It came spilling from your mind. Usually, impressions are vague. For once, I had a perfect picture. I knew. What you felt... oh Lord, Charles, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing, please forgive me... and what she felt. It was a voice, cutting like a knife. What was her name?’

‘Pen...’ he swallowed. ‘Pamela. My wife, Pamela.’

‘Pamela. Yes, Pamela. I could hear her voice.’

Her cold hands latched upon his, forcing his cane shut. Geneviève’s face was close. Red specks swam in the corners of her eyes.

‘You’re a medium?’

‘No, no, no. You’ve carried the moment around with you, nurturing the hurt. It’s in you, there to be read.’

He knew she was right. He should have known what Pamela was saying. He had not let himself hear. Beauregard had taken Pamela to India. He knew the risk. He should have sent her home when they found she was with child. But a crisis arose and she insisted on staying. She insisted, but he let her insist; he did not force her back to England. He was weak to let her stay. He did not deserve to understand her at the last. He did not deserve to be loved.

Geneviève was smiling through tears. ‘There was no blame, Charles. She was angry. But not with you.’

‘I never thought...’

‘Charles...’

‘Well, I never consciously thought...’

She raised a finger and laid it against his face. Taking it away, she held it up before him. A tear stood out. He took a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes.

‘I know what she was angry with, Charles. Death. Of all people, I understand. I think I would have liked, would have loved, your wife.’

Geneviève touched her finger to her tongue, and shuddered slightly. Vampires could drink tears.

What Pamela would have thought of Geneviève hardly mattered. What was important, he realised with a gaping in his stomach, was what Penelope would think...

‘I really didn’t mean for all this to happen,’ she said. ‘You must think me fearfully wet.’

She took his handkerchief, and dabbed her own eyes dry. She looked at the damp-spotted cloth.

‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Salt water.’

He was puzzled.

‘Usually, I cry blood. It’s not very attractive. All teeth and rat-tails, like a proper nosferatu.’

Now, he took her hand. The pain of memory was passing; somehow, he was stronger.

‘Geneviève, you consistently underestimate yourself. Remember, I know for a fact that you don’t know what you look like.’

‘I can remember a girl with feet like a duck’s, and lips that don’t match. Pretty eyes, though. I’m not sure, but I hope that was my sister. Her name was Cirielle; she married the brother of a Marshal of France and died a grandmother.’

She was sharp again, in control of