AN: I apologize for the long wait for this next chapter, but I hope the length makes up for it a bit. I want to thank the people who have, since the last chapter came out, reviewed and favorited this story. The notifications that people still look forward to seeing this finished (besides me!) give me the impetus needed to shake myself out of my funk and get back to writing.

In any case, please enjoy the next chapter for Death and Longing, and please let me know what you think. I know the Count is rather unfortunately absent, but it won't be for long, I promise!

- VIII -

Sylvia finished her dinner and spent the rest of the night alternately lying on the bed or pacing about the room, but always thinking, always planning. She was alone here, completely on her own, and she needed to be prepared for anything that might occur.

Eventually sometime around sunrise, while she was lying on the bed staring at the shadow-laden ceiling, she fell asleep. Whether it was a coincidence or some sort of side effect from ingesting vampire blood, she didn't know. There was no sense worrying about it, however – it wasn't as if she could do anything about it.

And so she slept, and when she woke later feeling more exhausted and groggy than rested, it was close to sundown. Sylvia rose and walked to the window, watching the last of the reds, yellows, and oranges fade behind the Carpathians. The sight of the vestiges of sunlight warmed her, but all too soon they faded, and the moon, already high in the sky, let it be known to all that the dark, unsavory creatures of the night now held sway.

A knock sounded on the heavy wooden door to her room.

Not a moment later, Verona walked in. She looked exactly as she had the day before, which was to say, deceptively innocent. Aside from the whorish clothing she wore and her too-bright eyes, she might have been a nun – but Sylvia was not about to let them trick her as they had yesterday, however fleeting it had been. She had sussed out the kind of game they were playing and she wouldn't be taken for a fool while she had any say in it. Verona and Aleera could try all they might, but they wouldn't be able to get a single step closer to her now hardened heart.

"Good morrow, Princess," she greeted. In the pause, in which she waited for a reply, Sylvia said nothing and only stared at her, waiting. What would she try today, she wondered, to win her affections?

Ignoring the brush off, Verona continued, "Aleera and I wished to invite you for a walk through the castle today. After all, there is much more to your new home than just this hallway and these two rooms."

"Thank you," Sylvia replied, injecting as much coldness into her voice as she could, "no. I would rather stay here."

"Oh?" she queried lightly, as though the words she had spoken were not to be believed. "Then Aleera and I shall simply have to stay here with you. You should not be alone."

"Actually, I would prefer it," she replied. Sylvia's eyes never left hers, challenging, daring her to refuse her, even though all she wanted was to look away from those haunting eyes.

Verona's mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile so quickly that Sylvia thought she might have imagined it. Nevertheless, she gave Sylvia a small nod and turned to leave the room. As the door shut behind her, Sylvia heard, "Whatever the princess demands." Then it closed with a small click, and she was all alone, just as she had requested.

For a moment she simply sat on the bed staring at the closed door with surprise. It had been far easier than she had thought, getting the brides to leave her be. She couldn't tell whether it was simply because they knew forcing her would do more harm than good, or if they thought they might gain some favor by letting her do as she wished.

Or perhaps, a darker part of her whispered, they thought they could wait her out, letting solitude and loneliness do the work for them in driving her into their company.

Sylvia knew well what happened to those that spent too long in their own company – she would never forget the sometimes quiet, sometimes loud madness of those poor souls subjected to solitary imprisonment. Their father never employed such methods, but some neighboring region leaders did. The tour through their dungeons had been meant to impress the visiting Valerious, but it had only disgusted them.

Sylvia shuddered at the thought of such a thing happening to her, but immediately dismissed the worry. Surely Anna, Van Helsing, and Carl would find her before that happened? With Anna's knowledge of the surroundings, Van Helsing's skills, and Carl's genius, surely they would find the way to the Count's castle before such a fate befell her. In the meantime, Sylvia would do what she could from within Dracula's domain.

Sometime after Verona left – Sylvia could not be certain how much time had passed, as it was impossible to tell by the night sky – she emerged from the room with a vague intent to explore. The Count had said himself that she was free to wander at will, and although that had been before he lost patience with her, Sylvia considered the invitation still open.

She had not noticed when Aleera had fetched her the evening before, but the castle was quiet without the vampiresses around, and she could hear naught but her own breathing and footsteps. The halls were mostly dark; only a very few of the braziers lining the walls were lit and the moon's weak light didn't do much, leaving much of the space swathed in inky blackness. Still, Sylvia forced herself into the unknown, eyes straining, and explored.

The room she had been situated in lie at the far left end of the hallway, which was shaped somewhat like the letter 'u.' That end of the hallway also contained the room where Verona and Aleera had lulled her in the bath, which was now empty of both bathtub and vampires, along with a few other rooms that sat empty and unoccupied save for a few threadbare chairs and tapestries.

The spiral staircase that lay at that end was small and unassuming, and spanned several stories, so far as she could tell. She went down first, to the very bottom, and it deposited her directly in the servants' halls. She wondered if such a place as this had ever actually housed servants, or if it had merely been built with such a capacity.

She discovered the washing room, the kitchens, larder, and pantry, and below them, the wine cellar. The wine cellar, like the kitchens, was stocked. While the racks upon racks of wine bottles looked as though they had not been disturbed in centuries, judging by the thick coating of dust, the kitchen and accompanying larder and pantry were obviously freshly arranged.

There were barrels filled with water, ale, and vegetables, dried herbs and meats hanging from hooks, and a number of other foods both perishable and preservable all laid out on the shelves. Several of the cabinets were empty, but those that weren't held any number of pots, pans, and utensils.

It was obvious that the food and cooking accoutrements had only been acquired due to her presence in the castle, although there was no easy explanation for the centuries-old wine.

Sylvia plucked a loaf of bread from the larder and continued wandering, ripping apart the hard crust with her hands.

There was a dirt-floored undercroft on the same level as the wine cellar, but there were no torches down there, and something in the air warned her not to tread within. She climbed up the stairs to the floor above the kitchens but below the floor her room lay on, and discovered several empty rooms and apartments, but also a few rooms whose doors were locked.

This floor, which she discovered was the ground level, opened into a grand hall combined with the atrium, which connected the left and right halls. The two big doors that kept her from the outside world were locked, of course. Even if they hadn't been, Sylvia would have been hard-pressed to open them by herself; they were twice as tall as she, and judging by the sheer size of the iron fittings and nails holding them together, were made of exceptionally heavy wood.

The atrium was lined with huge stone bowls, filled with great logs of burning wood. The smoke billowed up into the tall ceiling, and escaped into the night air through open vents. Despite the open holes, the great hall was plenty warm due to the fires. Despite being lit, however, the room was mostly bare. A long, wooden table of dark wood dominated the room, but only a few of the benches remained, one of which had fallen or been kicked down.

Sylvia returned to the staircase she had come from and climbed up to what she knew to be the third floor of the castle, only to find more locked doors and very few open to her explorations. She climbed further, but found that in addition to more locked rooms, the fourth floor held the entrances to the towers of the castle, all but one of which was barred to her.

Sylvia pulled at the unlocked door, struggling somewhat against its weight. She had only gotten it a quarter of the way open when a hand appeared from behind her and slammed it shut. She whirled around and narrowed her eyes. She should have guessed by the bumpy, diseased looking hand that it was Igor.

The horrible-looking man contorted his face into what she imagined might have been a sneer. He carried a thick coil of wire over his shoulder.

"That is off-limits to you, Princess," he rasped, chuckling hideously. "The Master said so."

"Foul man," Sylvia spat, backpedaling so that she was not stuck between Igor and the door. "What is in there?" she demanded.

He only laughed again, although laughter from him sounded more akin to a hacking cough than an expression of mirth. "He does not want you to know," he jeered. "Igor will not tell you. Go back to your room before I call the dwergi."

Sylvia scowled at the hunchbacked man, and, without turning her back to the man, walked away from the door. Igor watched her go, and seemingly satisfied with her distance, yanked the door open, lumbered inside and pulled it shut again, all without allowing enough space for Sylvia to see inside. She heard the key in the lock turning and knew that she would not be getting into the tower. It looked to her as though her exploring was at an end.

She had finished with her bread long ago, and found that although what she had eaten hadn't been much at all, she was not hungry. She was thirsty though, so she returned to the kitchens and drank from the water barrel. As she was leaving the kitchens, the small set of stairs leading to the wine cellar caught her eye. Before she could change her mind, Sylvia descended quickly before returning to her rooms, now with two bottles of wine clenched tightly in her fists.

With her exploring done, and with the remembered hope of her friends finding her soon, Sylvia settled into the room she had claimed as her own. She dragged the lone chair in the room in front of the narrow window, and with her wine and a blanket settled around her shoulders, Sylvia prepared herself to wait.

The Carpathian Mountains beyond were snow capped, like always, but she knew that soon the entirety of the range would be covered in blinding whiteness; she couldn't be sure of the exact date, but she knew it must be early November. Already the dark skies were filled with clouds, which might be ready to release their heavy load onto the waiting world at any moment. The cold, which radiated out from the single glass pane, did not seem to bother her as much as it might normally. She didn't let the thought trouble her though, and pried the cork from the mouth of one of the bottles. She lifted it to her lips and tilted it upwards, letting the alcohol spill into her mouth. It was white wine, which she preferred, and the dry, sweet taste warmed her as soon as it was in her belly.

Soon, she told herself, they would come. Her friends would come and together they would prize the Count's grip from this world, and then she herself would be free from both him and this place.

Until then, she would wait.

As had happened the night before, Sylvia grew tired with the sun's rising and slept. When she awoke late in the afternoon, she watched the sun set behind the mountains before leaving the room. To her surprise and suspicion, neither Verona nor Aleera appeared to ask for her presence.

Perhaps she had overanalyzed what the Count's plans were – perhaps the brides were merely longing for another to complete their recently ruined trio. Maybe they were leaving her alone of their own accord. Sylvia couldn't be sure one way or another though, and she did her best to put the matter out of her mind.

Sylvia did not feel very hungry when she woke, but she went down to the kitchens anyway and retrieved an apple and a few strips of dried meat, if only to maintain some semblance of her normal life. Still, she was not eating nearly as much as she normally would, and her lack of appetite was beginning to worry at her. What was the significance of it? She knew she should be starving, considering how little she had eaten in the past week, and especially considering the blood taken from her-

Sylvia's inner monologue cut off abruptly. The blood. A quick flash of memory, of thick, sluggish blood being forced down her throat, reared itself to the forefront of her mind and she shuddered.

That had to be it. The blood must have been affecting her, dulling and dampening her need for food and drink. Food still tasted the same, she thought, tiredly chewing at the jerky, but it seemed she didn't need as much of it as she had before – before she had been given the blood of a vampire, that is. Nor did she seem to have much of an appetite for it. And if she thought about it, she did not seem to notice the cold as much, either. There was no fire lit in the room she had been placed in, and with only a blanket she managed to keep herself relatively warm. With the weather carrying them deeper into the heart of winter, and with the drafty nature of castles by and large, there was no way she should be as comfortable as she was.

Whatever the blood was doing to her... she did not like it.

Sylvia finished her small meal and explored the castle as she had the night before, but nothing had changed. The same doors were still locked, the same passageways and rooms unoccupied by anyone or anything. The tower Igor had disappeared into still remained locked, and the door and walls were too thick to hear anything through them.

She did not see the brides or the Count in her wanderings, for which she counted herself lucky, and she heard nothing but her own breathing and the wind racing around outside the castle walls. She was glad for the solitude, as she knew that her only option for company would be vampires or their minions, and Sylvia vowed to learn the layout of the castle – as much as she could anyway – by heart, so that when the time came she could guide Anna and Van Helsing.

And so it was that she walked through the castle that night, and the next, and the next, until she had memorized all the accessible hallways and rooms, and by then a week had passed, and still her sister did not come.

Sylvia slept as often as she could now, and she found that she began to sleep all of the day away, and even some of the night. When she wasn't sleeping or wandering she tried to keep her mind occupied by mentally reciting the family history, translating latin prayers into both english and romanian, and formulating plans of attack for when Anna and Van Helsing arrived. She wondered what they were doing at that moment, and she hoped that the creature, Adam, remained safely hidden.

On the sixteenth day since she had seen Igor, the third week of her captivity, Sylvia decided to try her hand at cooking something. She had never really cooked before in her life, as they had always had servants at the manor to do that sort of thing for them, nor had she regained her usual appetite, but it would be something to do. Something to keep her mind occupied.

She decided on a stew, figuring that she could probably make something half decent with her limited knowledge and the ingredients on hand. After all, how many times had she watched one or another of the servants preparing a stew?

Sylvia guessed at the proportions she added to the mixture, knowing only vaguely that a beef stew could be concocted from red wine, carrots, onions, potatoes, as well as a number of spices. It took her several hours to stoke up a decent fire, arrange the cooking pots and pans, and finally to prepare and cook the meal, but the hours passed slowly. Sylvia had brought up several bottles of wine, some red and some white, and drank from one of the white wines while she used a red for the stew.

Eventually she deemed the meal ready for consumption, and for her first real foray into the culinary arts on her own, Sylvia thought it not too terrible. She ate the stew slowly, half-heartedly soaking up the broth with a crust of bread. She left the fire to die as she ate, and the crackling diminished just as the food in her bowl did. Eventually, she was again left with only the sound of the wind and her breath. She had not heard a voice, save for her own in the form of sighs or yawns, in over two weeks.

The silence was deafening in her ears.

Sylvia had never been so idle, so bored, so lonely in her entire life. There was nothing to occupy herself with, there was nothing to do that she had not already done, and there was no one to talk with. She could feel herself rattling around in her own head and felt like screaming. Instead she descended into the cellar again and piled five bottles of white wine into a basket, leaving the mess in the kitchen to return to her room. In her other hand she held the open bottle from when she'd been cooking, and worked at it while she walked back to her room.

She wasn't drinking to get drunk, she assured herself, arranging the bottles on the small nightstand next to the bed. But the wine tasted good and warmed her belly, and it gave her something to do. She did not have the luxury of getting drunk and so she wouldn't, but there was nothing wrong with a little drink to keep the light chill and loneliness at bay. Wine always seemed to insulate her from such things. While she drank, she tried to make sense of why Anna still hadn't found her.

It had been three weeks or thereabouts, if Sylvia could still trust her sense of time, and for the first week or two it was easy to explain away the waiting. Her family had been searching for years upon years for Dracula's lair – surely it might take another week for her three friends to discover the location of it. And when they did find it, it was entirely possible that the castle was far from Vaseria, over difficult terrain or winding through forests and over mountains. It would take time for horses, no matter how fast, to travel many miles over such obstacles.

But three weeks?

She couldn't believe that they hadn't found the location of the castle yet – not with the bookish, intelligent Carl now working through the archives. Anna and Van Helsing would be helping him, and Sylvia knew that Anna would be pushing for them to hurry, hurry. Family was all important to the Valerious. Anna would not willingly idle while Sylvia was at the mercy of Dracula and his Brides. She would have rushed to come for her as soon as she knew a way how, despite anything Van Helsing might say to her. Had something gone wrong, then? Had Dracula captured her again? Harmed her? Killed her?

No, she shook her head from the chair where she was ensconced. Sylvia believed she would know it if her sister had been hurt. Besides which, Sylvia was nearly entirely certain that if her sister had been caught or killed by the Count, he would waste no time at all in letting her know about it.

No, she had to believe that Anna was hale and hearty, and that her friends were coming for her. She just had to hold out a little longer.

It must have been the very early hours of the morning, the time before the sun rises and the air feels thin and slippery, when Sylvia heard scuffling from outside the closed door. The noise sounded impossibly loud in the silence she had become accustomed to, and she started jerkily, almost dropping the bottle of wine.

Sylvia clutched the blanket she had been using as a shawl to her chest, set the bottle down, and stood, hesitating. She stared at the door, senses hyper-aware, and jumped again when a knock sounded on the door. Then a voice called out that she knew just as well as her own, if not better.

"Sylvia!" Anna's voice hissed from beyond the door. "Sylvia!"

Sylvia's heart leapt joyfully in her chest. Anna had finally found her. She would be free of this place yet!

She stood and lurched to the door, unlocking it and throwing it wide, an unhindered smile spread open on her face-

The doorway was empty.

Sylvia's heart skipped a beat and the smile slowly faded from her face as she stared at the empty space. Her hand fell from the knob and she took several hasty steps into the hall, looking all around in the dim light. Her eyes scoured every inch of shadow and she walked in one direction, then another, just to check, just to be sure, because she had heard Anna's voice, she knew she did!

The shawl slipped from her shoulders and lay forgotten on the floor somewhere between her hallway, the floors above, and the atrium. She didn't know, she didn't notice. Sylvia spent the better part of an hour going through the castle, and then another hour going through it again, but nothing had changed, no doors forced open, no signs of entry. Nothing was amiss – and no one was there.

Anna was not there.

Sylvia fell against one of the locked doors in the first floor hall and raked a hand through her hair, eyebrows knit and lips slightly parted in shock. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead, under her arms, and on the back of her neck, and it was beginning to cool and itch.

She swallowed heavily and wiped at her forehead, then pushed herself off the door and walked carefully, mechanically back to her room. She shut and locked the door behind her and fell into the chair she had abandoned, slumping ungracefully into a defeated pose. Sylvia's eyes were opened wide but the glazed-over sheen of them indicated that she saw nothing in front of her.

The silence was loud in her ears.

Sylvia slept fitfully that day, and stumbled out of bed several times to check the door for the knocking or voices she thought she heard, but there was never anything there. She woke much later than usual, well past sunset, more haggard than rested. She went down to the kitchen and helped herself to a thick slice of staling bread and blackberry jam, rubbing at her ears in between chewing and casting suspicious glances around the kitchen. She found the lost shawl from the evening before and crawled back into bed under the thick quilts, lay on her side, and stared out at the moon.

Time passed.

She did not go out the next night for food, but drank wine instead when she grew thirsty. She woke sometimes in the day now, but the sun did nothing to comfort her. She turned away from its bright rays shining through the tiny window and pulled the quilts up over her head.

Several times more she heard Anna's voice beckoning her from the closed door. Those first few days she checked each time, throwing the door wide and frantically searching the hallway, but after a week her search radius shrank and her steps slowed, until eventually she did not get out of bed anymore.

"Sylvia," her sister's voice called to her in a whisper. "Sylvia, I'm here!"

Sylvia remained under the covers, but stared at the door from within her cocoon. Her green eyes shone dully from within dark circles of tired skin that felt sore, bruised.

She did not sleep well.

"Sylvia!"

The silence bored into her as loudly as a werewolf's roar and she wanted to clap her hands over her ears, although she did not. She was too tired.

The knocking sounded again.

Sylvia squeezed her eyes shut and felt the cry bubbling up from deep within her throat. Tears pricked at the closed lids.

"Please, God," she wept quietly, hoarsely. "Please make this stop. I know she's not here, please don't make me listen to this anymore!"

She didn't know how much time had passed since she came into the Count's castle. It could have been weeks, months, years, she didn't know, she didn't even care, she just wanted Anna's voice out of her head, she wanted the silence to stop!

Beneath her frustration and fear Sylvia burned with a steady rage. She was angry with Anna. Angry for not finding her yet, for letting her as good as rot in that godforsaken castle, and most absurdly, for the way her voice taunted her in the silence.

Sylvia knew that if Anna had not yet come that it couldn't possibly be her fault – Anna knew what could be happening to Sylvia in Dracula's clutches, so she wouldn't waste any time – and that her delay must be for some reason outside her control, but that didn't mean Sylvia's anger would just go away. As if being in Dracula's hold was not enough to test her, Sylvia could no longer ignore the apparent changes vampire blood had wrought on her body.

It had been days, or weeks, Sylvia couldn't tell, of eating very little, and aside from perhaps feeling somewhat thirstier, she felt just as well as though she had been eating regularly. No weakness, no discernible weight loss. Hunger no longer seemed to plague her, although very little crossed her lips lately, and in the same vein, very little passed out of her.

True, with how little she was eating it only made sense that she should have a lessened need for the chamberpot, but it was clearly unnatural how little she needed to relieve herself. As she had already noted, she fared well in the cold interior of the castle without a fire to warm her, something she wouldn't think possible normally. Castles, as a rule, are drafty and chilly, yet she was fine with only blankets to warm her. Something was happening to her, something unnatural, and Sylvia didn't like it one bit.

"Sylvia, sister, please!" Anna's voice called from beyond the door again. "You must hurry!"

Sylvia groaned. When would this torture end? The tapping at the door sounded as loud as gunshots in her ears.

"I came as soon as I could, Sylvia, please!"

With those words an indescribable rage sparked and ignited in Sylvia's chest. Red flashed behind her eyes and before she knew it she was flying to the door and ripping it open. She had the impression of her sister standing there with a smile on her face, looking beautiful and healthy, but the image flickered and distorted in her eyes when she lashed out with a fist. She knew she couldn't have hit anything, as her sister wasn't really there, but the impression of something solid beneath her fists was real in her mind. She threw punches and kicks forward with all the strength she possessed until her rage petered out and she was out of breath, and sank to the floor.

Neither Anna nor anyone else was there.

She was alone.

Sylvia stared at the empty space in front of her her and slammed her fists down to the stone hard enough that she thought she may have broken something, but paid little attention to the pain in her hands. It was nothing compared to the agony in her head.

Slowly, defeat weighing her limbs heavily, Sylvia picked herself up and crawled under the covers once more.

Although Sylvia could not know it, it was a month into her solitude, and December had come to Romania. Snow blanketed the landscape around the castle and the sun held little sway, allowing freer reign to the creatures that ruled the darkness. Werewolves' howls echoed and carried on the wind, but the sounds rarely pierced the thick silence of Sylvia's world. It lay thickly around her, heavy and oppressive. There wasn't anything she wouldn't give to be rid of it.

Lying in bed, sore from lack of movement and the scent of stale wine wafting around her, Sylvia felt herself dying. Perhaps not physically. She didn't think she was actually dying. Not only did she know with some certainty that the vampire blood in her system was sustaining her, but she also knew that Dracula would never let her kill herself while she remained in his clutches. He had something more planned for her than a tedious suicide.

It was dark as usual in her room, although a full moon afforded her more than the usual light she was accustomed to. She was sprawled beneath her covers, staring into nothingness in the general direction of the ceiling when a loud whoop of laughter sliced through the cotton in her ears, and her heart lurched in her chest as her eyes shot open into the dark.

That had not been Anna's voice she heard. Or had it?

Sylvia stilled beneath her sheets and listened carefully, straining to determine if it had merely been another trick. But when the voice shouted again Sylvia knew that it was not Anna, but rather Aleera, whose voice had pierced the veil. Again Sylvia's heart roused itself to a rapid pace, and she clumsily sat up and stumbled out of the bed. She didn't know the last time she had risen from the bed but imagined it must have been a long while. The sensation of being up and about after so long, she thought, was not unlike having spent longs days convalescing in bed after a serious illness. Sylvia wasn't ill, but she had spent far too long living like an invalid. Like an invalid, she needed to shove aside her isolation and rejoin the rest of the world. She needed contact.

Sylvia tottered through the halls, heeled slippers clacking sharply on the stone floor, following the vestigial echoes of Aleera's peals of laughter. The sounds took her from her place on the second floor up to the third floor, and down the hall to one of the last rooms. She reached the doorway Aleera's speaking voice now traveled through breathlessly to realize that sometime while she had been in her room, one of the locked doors had now been unlocked.

Inside, Aleera lay sprawled out on a sumptuous four-poster bed, while Verona sat perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, easel and paints propped up before her. Both women were silent as they turned to look at her when she stopped in the door, but Sylvia's mouth was suddenly very dry. Her ears ached to hear someone's voice again.

"Oh, Sylvia!" Aleera cried out on seeing her.

One moment she was lying on the bed lazily, and the next she was embracing Sylvia warmly. Sylvia slowly returned the embrace, relishing the feel of a real person beneath her fingertips, and breathed in deeply. She could smell the perfume Aleera wore, something floral, although Sylvia couldn't tell what sort, and the underlying cold, dry smell of a vampire – but she didn't care. The roar of silence was retreating again, and Sylvia rejoiced.

"Come," Aleera beckoned, breaking the hug but keeping a firm grip on her hand. "Sit with me. Verona is so dull when she paints, and I could very much use the company."

"Alright," she replied, finally unsticking her tongue. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and she swallowed reflexively, trying to wet her throat.

Aleera settled back onto the bed comfortably, although she did not lie down this time. Rather, she pulled Sylvia with her to lounge upon the mound of cushions piled at the head of the bed. Sylvia crawled after her haltingly, feeling anxious and excited all at once. She shouldn't be doing this, should not have even come here. What would Anna say if she saw Sylvia willingly make herself comfortable around these creatures?

But Anna wasn't here. Sylvia was, and so were the two brides.

With that thought in mind, and the thick trap of silence that awaited her in her room lurking in the back of her mind, Sylvia nestled into the plush pillows. Aleera wasted no time in lying down beside her, wrapping her pale arms around her waist, and resting her fiery head of curls upon her breast.

Sylvia hesitated for a moment – Aleera's closeness unfurled a coil of creeping discomfort in her stomach, but Sylvia was far too relieved to have contact with another person, even if she was a vampire – then tangled her hand in the mass of hair, gently teasing out the strands with her fingers. What seemed a lifetime ago, she could remember her mother doing the exact same thing to both she and Anna.

"Perhaps if you picked up a hobby of your own, you would not be so bored," Verona intoned dryly in her quiet voice. Her eyes never moved from her canvas, brush continuing uninterrupted in a gentle arc.

Sylvia could not see well from where she was even with the flickering candlelight coming from various places in the room, but she thought it was a portrait. Of whom, she couldn't tell. It didn't really matter to her at the moment, though. The sound of voices, real voices in her ears, was nearly enough to make her weep in happiness.

"Why should I bother?" Aleera retorted snidely. Sylvia could feel the vibrations of her voice within her breast. "There is nothing more interesting than serving the Master."

"Your mind will wither if you don't use it for more than hunting or outwitting werewolves," the elder reprimanded, brush now moving much more quickly in a flurry across the canvas. "And what use will you be to our Master then?"

"Tch." Aleera pulled herself closer into Sylvia's body. "I don't feel like talking about this again, Verona. Let us speak of something else."

Verona sighed but didn't say another word on the matter. Instead, she addressed her next words to Sylvia.

"Do you paint, Sylvia?"

"No," she replied unhurriedly. "I'm afraid I never developed a skill for it. Anna has a keen hand at sketching though."

Sylvia cursed herself in her head immediately after she said it. Why had she brought up her sister? Just thinking about Anna hurt, and she was sure that Verona didn't care to hear about her, either. What if this led to a conversation about her family and the war between them and the vampires? What if she had to go back to the silence? What if-

Sylvia had to rip herself from her thoughts to hear Verona's reply.

"I was never much good at painting either," Verona mused, "but a few decades of study and practice can do wonders for nearly any skill, even if you have no natural talent." Her brush strokes, which up until this point had been so rapid as to bely her non-human nature, slowed and, after a few final touches, stopped. "You see?" she said, and turned, holding the canvas in her lap so that Sylvia could see it.

It was a portrait of Marishka, Sylvia realized, and a rather lifelike one at that. She hadn't been so familiar with the now-dead vampiress as to know her appearance inside and out, but even so, she knew that this was a nearly perfect likeness of the blonde.

"That's amazing," Sylvia said honestly. "It looks just like her."

Verona sighed and carefully placed the canvas back on the easel. "I painted Marishka a few times in our time together, but never one like this. I thought it wise to commit her face to memory, while I could still picture it clearly."

"She was stupid," Aleera snorted derisively. "She should not have been killed so easily." She slid her face upwards to look at Sylvia with big, violet eyes. "Did you know she was older than me?" she queried.

"Yes," was all she said, although she wanted to say, Of course. We made it our duty to know everything about you Brides, but she was brought up short.

Made it?, she thought. What had happened to, It is our duty? But then, what had they actually known about the Brides? Her family knew of their predilections, their approximate ages, their appearances, their strength in fighting... and not much else, she realized. Even now, she had just learned that Verona was an experienced painter. What else might she learn?

"And still she died!" Aleera sighed and let her head fall again. "Idiot."

"Enough," Verona chided. "There is no sense dwelling on it. Now, Sylvia, my dear." Verona moved from her chair to join them on the bed, folding her legs up underneath her and lounging on the pillows to Sylvia's right side. Aleera still lay to her left. Sylvia met the other brunette's eyes questioningly.

"What do you like to occupy yourself with," Verona continued, "if painting and – sketching, was it? - do not appeal to you?"

Sylvia wondered. She was most often preoccupied by maintaining her weaponry and practicing her fighting skills, but when she wasn't doing that – well, she supposed it would be reading.

"I like history," she said, "and novels. Better when the two are combined, I suppose."

"Ugh, you're both so dull," Aleera grumbled, but still she didn't move.

Verona smiled, ignoring Aleera. "So histories interest you? What sort of histories?"

"Typically those concerning monarchies, or ancient empires," Sylvia added, thinking of the recent discoveries some British explorers had made in the great deserts of Egypt. It amazed her to learn just how different the dynasties of ancient Egypt were when compared to the ruling classes that cropped up in Europe.

"And what about modern monarchies? Or politics?" Verona queried.

"I know a bit," Sylvia allowed cautiously. Her eyes searched Verona's pale face but nothing betrayed ill intent, if she had any. What could she hope to gain by having this conversation? Sylvia shouldn't be questioning it, really. She was happy enough to hear real voices, and as far as conversations went, this one was fairly innocuous. That simply meant there had to be some ulterior motive – didn't there? What could it be? She had no answer to that question, not at the moment anyway. And if there was an ulterior motive at work here, Sylvia reasoned to herself, she was clever enough to see it before it became a problem.

"Well," Verona said, smoothing her dress over her knees before leaning into the cushions beside Sylvia. "What are you thoughts about the new Kaiser?"

Sylvia and Verona continued on largely uninterrupted for hours discussing eastern european politics and the history that influenced its current state, until Aleera had enough and left to find another amusement, and beyond. It wasn't until the weak winter sunlight began to filter through the window that Sylvia realized she had spent nearly the entire night conversing with her.

When Sylvia looked back to Verona from the window, she realized that she must have shown her surprise on her face, because the vampiress smiled kindly.

"We've talked for quite a time, haven't we?" she observed. "You must be tired."

Sylvia yawned suddenly, as though hearing the word triggered the reaction and sudden knowledge of her exhaustion.

"You are welcome to sleep here," Verona continued, throwing a look back at her easel as she did. Sylvia followed her gaze and noticed that there were several naked canvases leaned against the wall nearby. "I don't believe I'm quite ready for sleep yet. There is something I want to work on."

Sylvia wanted to protest, to insist that she would return to her room to sleep, but the light seemed to be draining her of any will to actually do so. The last thing Sylvia remembered was seeing Verona's gentle smile as she went to sit on her stool, and then darkness.

When Sylvia awoke again, the last remnants of the daylight filtering into the room, she was alone. She looked around, but no, neither Aleera nor Verona were anywhere to be seen.

In the fading orange light of the sunset, Sylvia noticed that a painting sat upon the easel. She couldn't make out the details from where she lay, but it was evident that it wasn't the previously finished piece featuring Marishka. Verona must have finished what she wanted to work on, she thought. Curious, Sylvia rose from the bed and approached the painting.

It was a woman, as pale as a marble statue and just as striking, laid out on a bed of pillows in peaceful repose. Her brown hair haloed about her head in rivulets of curls, and a gentle smile curled the corners of her lips. One arm wrapped around her stomach, while the other lay where it had been unconsciously flung in her sleep by her head, palm facing upwards. Verona had managed to capture the impression that the woman's legs were curled beneath her skirts despite being unable to see either legs or feet, and Sylvia mused that the lack of appendages gave the pale woman a somewhat wraith-like appearance.

As she looked closer, Sylvia noticed with some amazement just what sort of details Verona had included. A wisp of hair lying across the woman's cheek, the shine on the silver buttons on her sleeves, and even the faded scar that marred the back of her right hand.

Sylvia looked down at her hand to see the old pearly scar she had gotten years ago when she and Velkan had, as children and without their father's permission, played with a pair of daggers from the armory. It was by and large faded from sight, but someone who knew it was there, or someone with a keen pair of eyes, might notice it if they looked hard enough.

Just as Verona had, apparently.

Sylvia took one last look at the painting before she turned and left for her room.