It seemed to the creature that she had a body, but it had become a strange and distant thing. It always seemed to her now that she was slightly to the left of it, yet unable to perceive it. She saw she had hands. She saw that these hands moved when she willed it. Yet they did not belong to her. They belonged to some emptiness, far, far away. Some dark, hungry thing that ate and swallowed what it was given, from which not even light could escape.

If she had ever been anyone, that being had been consumed. Obfuscated. Her reflection dissolved, her Self isolated and reduced.

Very good, noted the dark-haired woman who was always there, taking blood, feeding her liquid night. Like this, you will never feel bloodlust. You will never feel anything ever again.

That, the creature thought, was a little wrong. Sometimes she thought of a name, and it made the body’s chest warm between the ribs of the body that the creature inhabited, where the heart was meant to be. And that name was Agnes.

The schedule in the dungeon did not change, but the food did. In addition to porridge, there was now protein; sausage, beans, bacon. There were vegetables. There was something real that rooted itself in her stomach. Agnes grew acquainted with every maid Henriett rotated. Alongside Adeline, there was Anne, Sylvia, and Beatris. And when they brought her food, they would sit with her, and tell her of what was happening above.

Rosemary, they told her, seemed to be wandering the halls freely. Nyx rarely left her study except to tug her around. The Lord Sanguinis seemed newly frustrated with something. 

The moon waned and waned and waned. Agnes could feel it even in the darkness, especially in the depths of the night, when she had no visitors. The way she shivered her way across the night sky, her eye, watchful and waiting. Concern dripping from her like tears.

Agnes lay on the damp stone floor of the cell, breathed in the cold must of the air, heard her own heartbeat’s gentle patter, and felt that she was not alone, even though she was entirely alone. When she closed her eyes, there was the moon in her vision, crisp and clear and full and ineffable. Evolving in her eternal cycle. 

Agnes did not understand. Here in the depths, she should be the furthest from the moon. 

Here in the darkness, her only sensations were echoes of sound, the sting of cold, and the bite of her silver necklace, kissing its heart-shape into her skin. Pressing a hand over her ribcage, Agnes let her lashes flutter closed, and pretended it was Rosemary there with her.

That evening, the maids brought more news. A party from the Red House had arrived at the Grey. Among them there was the Red House’s old, missing heir (Iosefka’s betrothed, gossiped Adeline), and a new attendant of his, a small vampire who looked very similar to Lady Nyx.

“Is his name Aster?” Agnes asked. 

“Yes,” snipped Henriett, handing Agnes her bowl and a spoon.

“You can trust him,” said Agnes. “If it is safe, you can let him know I am down here.”

She wondered what he knew. If Aster had guessed Agnes’ true, duplicitous nature, or if he blamed Nyx. Had he seen Rosemary? Was she okay? Was he okay? She wished she knew. But, she thought to herself, it was reaching time to find out herself. She only needed a chance, one that would not endanger the maids who were helping her, to crawl up to the manor, to find Rosemary, to give her blood. To drag her outside to meet the moon once more, to dance in her soft light.

On the night of the new moon, Yurie arrived at Agnes’ cell.

“Henriett told me there was a dog to feed down here,” she muttered, unlocking the gate and the muzzle. She did not, Agnes noted, have any food on her. Only a heavy bag, which she dropped on the floor. “But I don’t see any dog. I guess I’ll just go back then.”

And the youngest of the vampires walked away, the cell door swinging behind her. 

Opening the bag, Agnes pulled out its innards and sighed. In her hands was the dark fabric of a maid’s dress, complete with a white apron and cap. Slipping from her bloodied clothes, she dressed herself, tied her apron around her back, and slipped her ears into the bonnet.

Agnes waited, one drip, two drips, three. Then she bolted.

Weeks of repeated visits to Agnes’ cell, carrying food and burning candles, had left a scent for her to follow. It drew her down dark, looping hallways, up a spiral of old stairs, out a door, and into the light of a small hallway, decadently furnished. Despite its more homely design, the air felt oppressive and grim. 

Steeling herself, Agnes assumed the quiet posture of a maid, a blank face, and walked down the hall as though she had some task to complete. Walked right past some vampire, strolling, past a werewolf who did not even notice her.

Henriett appeared in her vision, a moment.

“There you are,” she clipped, voice tense. “I have been looking for you everywhere. What a useless maid. Come. You are needed.”

Bowing her head a little, as though ashamed, Agnes followed Henriett down a hallway and through an ornate door. The room she entered contained a few things: a decadent bed, perfectly made. A desk with a mirror. 

And, a dark-haired vampire, adjusting the glasses on his face as though nervous.

“Aster!” exclaimed Agnes, once the door was closed.

She hovered just before him, palms half-open.

Aster stared. “Agnes,” he said, voice soft. And he strode forward in three paces and drew Agnes into a gentle hug. “Thank goodness you’re okay. I was so worried.”

Agnes embraced him. “Why are you here? It’s not safe.”

“Looking for Rosemary, and for you,” huffed Aster, pinching her cheek. “I waited and waited in the library like usual and you were just gone. I was certain Nyx took you, and I suppose I was right.”

Right. Agnes exhaled, and stepped back. “Aster. There is something you should know.”

Aster nodded. “What is it?”

“It wasn’t Nyx who took Rosemary. It was me.”