Epilogue
The corridor stretched long, panelled with dark wood.
Gaslamp sconces flickered against the panels, their light barely enough to hold back the dark. A young woman sprinted along, her footsteps muffled by the rug. Ancestral portraits in gilded frames watched from both sides, painted eyes tracking her frantic journey.
At the end of the hallway, she flung open a pair of double doors.
Sunlight should have streamed through the arched windows, but the day had brought only mist. Murky grey light filtered through the stained glass instead.
Beyond the panes, rows of pear trees stretched across the grounds—their branches heavy with glossy leaves and swollen fruit, impossibly lush for the heart of winter.
The forest beyond lay black and wet with dew, the green swallowed by the gloom.
A woman stood before one of those windows, her black dress a point of focus in the grey. Her vivid red hair, streaked with only a few strands of silver, was another. She did not turn.
“Dama,” the young woman said, panting. Her fingers clutched the newspaper tighter. “You need to see this.”
Finally, Dama turned. Her bright green eyes took in the young woman from head to toe—the damp red curls, the same shade as her own, plastered to the forehead; the dishevelled clothes; the bodice rising and falling with every laboured breath.
Her brow creased. Her skin was smooth as polished bone, her hands steady as stone—and she’d looked the same for as long as anyone could remember.
She’d been old long before the young woman was born.
Without a word, she crossed the room, the hem of her long black skirts skimming the floor. She took the newspaper with steady hands that betrayed nothing, her wrist dripping with black lace. Immediately, her eyes found the photograph on the front page.
A woman with bright red curls and unmistakable green eyes smiled up at her, arms full of laughing children.
Red hair. Green eyes. The colours of their bloodline—the colours that had been carefully cultivated, hoarded, treasured.
And here it was, staring back at her from the front page of a city newspaper, laughing.
Her breath caught.
She stared at the image for a long moment, her thumb moving back and forth across the woman’s face as though touch could make her real. Outside, the mist clawed at the glass, swallowing the pear trees and the gardens and the world beyond.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, full of the wonder the house hadn’t heard in fifty years.
“Carpathia.”