Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett

there? We all have…needs.”
    You’re all standing around like rabbits in front of a fox! Perdita raged in the caverns of Agnes’s brain.
    “Oh!” said the Countess, clapping her hands together. “I see you have a pianoforte!”
    It stood under a shroud in a corner of the room where it had stood for four months now. Verence had ordered it because he’d heard they were very modern, but the only person in the kingdom who’d come close to mastering it was Nanny Ogg who would, as she put it, come up occasionally for a tinkle on the ivories. * Then it had been covered over on the orders of Magrat and the palace rumor was that Verence had got an ear-bashing for buying what was effectively a murdered elephant.
    “Lacrimosa would so like to play for you,” the Countess commanded.
    “Oh, Mother ,” said Lacrimosa.
    “I’m sure we should love it,” said Verence. Agnes wouldn’t have noticed the sweat running down his face if Perdita hadn’t pointed it out: He’s trying to fight it, she said. Aren’t you glad you’ve got me?
    There was some bustling while a wad of sheet music was pulled out of the piano stool and the young lady sat down to play. She glared at Agnes before beginning. There was some sort of chemistry there, although it was the sort that results in the entire building being evacuated.
    It’s a racket, said the Perdita within, after the first few bars. Everyone’s looking as though it’s wonderful but it’s a din!
    Agnes concentrated. The music was beautiful but if she really paid attention, with Perdita nudging her, it wasn’t really there at all. It sounded like someone playing scales, badly and angrily.
    I can say that at any time, she thought. Any time I want, I can just wake up.
    Everyone else applauded politely. Agnes tried to, but found that her left hand was suddenly on strike. Perdita was getting stronger in her left arm.
    Vlad was beside her so quickly that she wasn’t even aware that he’d moved.
    “You are a…fascinating woman, Miss Nitt,” he said. “Such lovely hair, may I say? But who is Perdita?”
    “No one, really,” Agnes mumbled. She fought against the urge to bunch her left hand into a fist. Perdita was screaming at her again.
    Vlad stroked a strand of her hair. It was, she knew, good hair. It wasn’t simply big hair, it was enormous hair, as if she was trying to counterbalance her body. It was glossy, it never split, and was extremely well behaved except for a tendency to eat combs.
    “Eat combs?” said Vlad, coiling the hair around his finger.
    “Yes, it—”
    He can see what you’re thinking.
    Vlad looked puzzled again, like someone trying to make out some faint noise.
    “You…can resist, can’t you,” he said. “I was watching you when Lacci was playing the piano and losing. Do you have any vampire blood in you?”
    “What? No!”
    “It could be arranged, haha.” He grinned. It was the sort of grin that Agnes supposed was called infectious but, then, so was measles. It filled her immediate future. Something was pouring over her like a pink fluffy cloud saying: it’s all right, everything is fine, this is exactly right…
    “Look at Mrs. Ogg there,” said Vlad. “Grinning like a pumpkin, ain’t she. And she is apparently one of the more powerful witches in the mountains. It’s almost distressing, don’t you think?”
    Tell him you know he can read minds, Perdita commanded.
    And again, the puzzled, quizzical look.
    “You can—” Agnes began.
    “No, not exactly. Just people,” said Vlad. “One learns, one learns. One picks things up.” He flung himself down on a sofa, one leg over the arm, and stared thoughtfully at her.
    “Things will be changing, Agnes Nitt,” he said. “My father is right. Why lurk in dark castles? Why be ashamed? We’re vampires. Or, rather, vamp y res. Father’s a bit keen on the new spelling. He says it indicates a clean break with a stupid and superstitious past. In any case, it’s not our fault. We were born