Nyx’s sessions always left Rosemary with a sense of bereft emptiness that was never truly filled, as though she had drained Rosemary of anything left within her resembling a heart and eaten it in front of her. Five hundred years ago, she and Aster would share drinks in the library after, but she had at some point pushed even him away, and she could barely even remember why. But staying alone was easier than asking him to change a centuries-old routine.

She ought to have remembered that adding someone new to the mix would change things.

The usual, shambling journey to the library had been taken from her. 

Agnes’ hands were warm around her, cradling her like she was some precious thing. Rosemary knew this was her maid’s job, that they barely knew each other at all, and yet something within her empty chest felt scraped raw at the feeling. This was not even to mention the intoxicating scent of her blood, its steady beats like a drum. She wondered how it might taste on her tongue; would it be as warm as the woman who held her? Would it have a bitter tang? Or would it be surprisingly sweet? 

To stave off her hunger, Rosemary poured blood into her teacup and sipped. Agnes stepped a little too firmly; blood splattered across her white apron. She did not react, instead pushing lightly against the door and swinging it open.

The Librarian was there. How odd, Rosemary thought. Usually, she would leave the library just before Nyx’s section, so as not to be there when Rosemary was. They had not spoken to each other in centuries. Why start now?

“Minerva,” Agnes greeted. Then she turned to Rosemary. “Where shall I put you?”
“The big chair by the window.”

“By the window, hm,” Agnes clicked her tongue, but began to walk there. “You vampires are so strange, putting yourself so close to the light.”

It was Minerva– yes, that was the librarian’s name, how rude of her to have forgotten– who spoke. “There are some things about being a vampire you will never understand, Miss Wolf.”

Agnes ought to have bristled. But then, she was too young to remember the old animosity between their kind. So she simply lay Rosemary down gently, as though she was some precious thing. “There, Rosemary. Are you comfortable?”

Rosemary trembled, but the chair was soft beneath her. “I suppose.”

“Now, drink up, and regain your strength.”

Bringing the cup to her lips, Rosemary took a sip. The blood and all of the life within poured inside of her, filling that empty bowl between her ribs. Serving herself more, she drank it all down. How bright, it tasted! Like drinking the sun. 

Then it all spilled through her and was gone. Empty.

This was the lonely truth of being a vampire. They could not live for themselves, could only feed on the life of others, and could only experience it for moments at a time.

There was the sound of Minerva shifting books around on a shelf. Agnes perched on the edge of the chair. 

“How do you feel?”

“A little better,” Rosemary admitted, drinking more. Warmth burst through her body and disappeared again a second later. “Thank you.”

 Agnes took the empty cup and refilled it. Her hand passed just before Rosemary’s face. In the moonlight, Rosemary caught sight of a glint of silver on her wrist, near white beneath the black of her sleeve. Her blood-starved mind remembered catching sight of the glint earlier.

“You wear jewelry,” said Rosemary. “Whatever for?”

Agnes hummed. “Why does any woman wear jewelry?”

“You wear silver jewelry,” Rosemary observed. Her voice came out as more of an accusation than she had meant. To shatter the awkward tension, she drowned herself in her cup.

Agnes was silent a moment, but her heartbeat had sped. In the distance, Minerva paused in her work, curious.

“I wear it... to master my transformations.”

Rosemary raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t your pack have taught you how to cope with such things?”

“I have no pack,” Agnes replied, curt. “I was in a city full of hunters. I thought it best to be as innocuous as possible.”

“Well, I am glad you have escaped here,” Rosemary said. “Perhaps one of the other werewolves could teach you, then.”

“Perhaps.” Agnes placed a warm hand to Rosemary’s shoulder. “Are you feeling better, mistress?”

“Rosemary.”

How stiff and proper, Agnes could be. And yet she had been alone all this time. Rosemary emptied her cup once more. 

She had begged Aster years ago for some new companionship, for a handmaid who did not know her, for someone who was young and fresh and thus had not learned to be distant from everything. For someone that Rosemary had not yet pushed away. 

And Aster had acquiesced. And somehow he had managed to find the most isolated werewolf in all of Cordis. How sad.

Yet perhaps then, they were alike. Perhaps, Rosemary thought, tapping her thumb on the saucer, they could know each other through being alone. Perhaps Agnes would be able to understand her.

One thousand years. One thousand years, and the moon might finally have made good on her promise.

“Are you feeling better, Rosemary?” Agnes’ husky voice scattered her thoughts like wind through wood chimes.

Rosemary blinked. “Not yet. It will take me some time.” 

“How long? The sun will be rising in a few hours.”

Had they been sitting here so long? Rosemary glanced up, and saw that Minerva was now seated at her desk, writing in the library catalog.

“There is no need to worry about the sun,” Rosemary remarked. “She does not love us, but she has no reason to despise us, either. We are the moon’s children, after all. So long as I have my veil, I will not even be burned.”

“But you do not have your veil.”

Rosemary hummed. “So I don’t. But I am far more covered than usual in this outfit anyway.”

There was a moment of silence as Agnes refilled Rosemary’s cup again.

“Why do you speak about the sun and the moon like that?” She asked.

“Like what?” 

“Like they are living beings with wills of their own.”

“Oh,” Rosemary smiled. “That’s because they are.”

Agnes drew back. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Nor should you,” said Rosemary. “Trying to understand will bring nothing but pain.”

Quiet met her statement.

Then: “are you in pain, Rosemary?”

Rosemary thought a moment. Pain, it occurred to her, required that she be able to feel. Hadn’t she long lost that skill? It faded with the passage of time, with the untethering of the sinew that connected her to others. Nyx never said a word to her. Aster filled her requests but offered no companionship.

And whose fault had that been? Her own.

The moon had placed a blessing upon her. She had asked for it.

“The moon,” Rosemary finally said, “does not understand what it means to be human. It only understands distance. It only understands time.”

Agnes pressed her hand on Rosemary’s shoulder. The warmth was so hot that it stung. “You did not answer my question. Are you in pain?”

“I feel nothing, Agnes. So no, I am not in pain.”

Agnes’ dark brows furrowed. Ah, but her face was so beautiful. Rosemary found that she rather liked looking at it. The fluffy ears, the silver eyes, the strong jaw. Her voice, a sonorous, soothing sound. 

Perhaps Rosemary liked her because she was new. Because she was different. It was easy to forget what one saw every day. It used to be that she would come to the library every morning, and Minerva would be there, just avoiding the sun as she cared for her books. They would chat.

But hundreds of years had passed. Every conversation possible had already occurred. Rosemary knew how Minerva would behave, and Minerva knew what to expect of Rosemary. They had read every book together. What was the point of another word? They had lived among each other so long, they had forgotten how to perceive each other.

This must be the reason why they no longer spoke. This had to be it. Rosemary had simply forgotten how to be mortal. And all of it was the fault of the moon. The beautiful, gentle, loving moon that grasped the tides with her gaze.

Agnes’ hand pressed harder on her shoulder, startling Rosemary from her reverie. “So you really do not feel?”

“I do not,” Rosemary explained.

“Then why did you bring me here? Why get a new servant, when you have no reason to?” 

It occurred to Rosemary that Agnes was... angry.

“What do you mean?” Rosemary asked.

“Don’t you hunger?” Agnes hissed, ears perked forward. “Don’t you thirst?”

“We vampires must drink blood to survive,” Rosemary said.

“You’ve spent a thousand years drinking the blood of others, and yet you don’t think you can feel.” Agnes huffed. “Unbelievable. Do you know how you get that blood? Do you know where your vast supply comes from?”

“I–” Rosemary took a small sip. It tasted like nothing on her tongue. She paused, shutting her eyes, trying to tell the flavor from the ash in her mouth. “This is a vintage, type B, I think?”

“But whose blood is it?” Agnes snarled, bearing the sharp teeth of a wolf. “Tell me who it belongs to.”

“I... don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t. One thousand years of drinking other people’s blood, and you’ve been so distant in this fancy castle of yours that you don’t even know whose blood this is! You’re so separate from everything! No wonder you think you can’t feel anything; there is nothing to know yourself against. You can’t even see your own reflection in a mirror.”

The hand on her shoulder was red hot. Agnes’ fingers tightened, her claws digging into Rosemary’s skin through her garment. For a moment, it was the only sensation her body could feel, radiating against her skin, pulsing across her chest. Rosemary felt heat rise in her cheeks. 

Agnes was also beautiful in righteous fury. Her words cut like needles into Rosemary, piercing through her heart. Startled at the strange, heavy sensation that she felt, Rosemary clutched her chest. It seemed to throb.

“Oh,” she said. “It hurts.”

Agnes blinked. “It... hurts?” Her anger seemed to dissipate, replaced with confusion. 

“It hurts,” Rosemary repeated. When... had she last felt this way? “Agnes, it hurts!” A smile spread over her face, a shaky line of ink on a blank page. “You... hurt me.” She looked down a moment, at the half-drunken cup in her hands, then placed it to the side. There was already warmth enough in Agnes’ presence. “Thank you.”