manifestation of a hormonal storm. Yes, indeed. A summer away from Raphael would give distance from my prurient thoughts.
“The East Lothian coast has long, bright days,” I said.
“Alaska is sunny this time of year.”
“We’ll go there someday.”
She looked away. “No, we won’t. We’re gonna run forever. Because of that stupid prophecy, right?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“No, I’m glad. Because at least I understand. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’re scared of vampires the way you’re scared of your silverware not being matched up. Don’t make a face, Mom. Seriously, when has a mean vampire ever bothered us? See? You can’t name a time. Maybe you’re worried for no reason.”
She had a point. No bald, bearded monks had shown up in a decade. Maybe they’d lost faith in the prophecy, or maybe they’d zeroed in on another hybrid.
“I like the idea of putting down roots,” I said. However,when it came to geography, I had to stop thinking of myself. Vivi was a teenager, not a little girl. From now on, I would ask her opinion before I made plans. “We’ll find a place we both like,” I added.
“That sounds good, Mom.” All of her teenage bluster was gone. Her eyes shimmered, but the tears just stayed there and didn’t run down her cheeks.
“Scotland isn’t the only thing that’s upsetting you,” I said. “What’s wrong, Meep?”
She wiped her eyes. “I had a dream about Mr. Keats last night. We were looking for rabbit holes. Not that I’m worried about him or anything. My brain is just telling me that we shouldn’t have left Australia. Right, Mom?”
“Right.” I hated lying, but I didn’t think she was in the mood for a dissertation. Hybrid vampires have Freudian dreams like anyone else, but sometimes we see future events. Unfortunately the images are buried in symbols, and interpreting them is a highly individualized process. A dream about apples would make me think of temptation or Aphrodite’s golden apples. Vivi might think of Snow White, a young girl who’d been victimized by adults. Or she could develop a craving for an apple tart.
She reached for my hand. “Can we get gelato?”
“Sure.” I was still troubled about her dream, and I let my gaze linger on her face. Mothers aren’t hardwired to see their child’s chronological age. When I looked at Vivi, I didn’t see a teenager with black hair and chunky pink bangs. I saw a toddler in my high heels and Jude’s bowler hat, her diaper sagging past her knees. I saw a girl with shiny chestnut pigtails, tying her shoelaces for the firsttime. I saw a six-year-old flying ahead of me on a pink bicycle in Central Park.
If my mother had lived, she wouldn’t see me as a grown woman. She’d see a curly-haired girl with gooseberry jam on her face; a kid who needed protection from wasps and rogue vampires.
Women learn how to be mothers from the people who raised them. My mother had sung a lullaby to me, and I’d sung it to Vivi, but I hadn’t known when to stop. Some part of me was still chewing on those words.
Mother, may I go out to swim?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb.
And don’t go near the Water.
CHAPTER 8
Edward Keats
INNISFAIR HORSE STATION
HAHNDORF, SOUTH AUSTRALIA
An icy wind tugged at Keats’s jacket as he opened the white mailbox. He pulled out a postcard and grinned. The glossy front showed a picture of the Tuscan hills; on the back, he recognized Vivi’s back-slanted, minuscule handwriting. He hoped the little corker was all right. But he couldn’t read her handwriting without his glasses, and he’d left them at his house. He tucked the card into his pocket, then climbed into his truck and drove toward the north pasture.
Every Wednesday after breakfast, he rode the fence line at Innisfair, looking for loose boards. A stallion paced restlessly in the tall, dry grass, his breath steaming in the morning air. Behind him, the land sloped
“The East Lothian coast has long, bright days,” I said.
“Alaska is sunny this time of year.”
“We’ll go there someday.”
She looked away. “No, we won’t. We’re gonna run forever. Because of that stupid prophecy, right?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“No, I’m glad. Because at least I understand. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’re scared of vampires the way you’re scared of your silverware not being matched up. Don’t make a face, Mom. Seriously, when has a mean vampire ever bothered us? See? You can’t name a time. Maybe you’re worried for no reason.”
She had a point. No bald, bearded monks had shown up in a decade. Maybe they’d lost faith in the prophecy, or maybe they’d zeroed in on another hybrid.
“I like the idea of putting down roots,” I said. However,when it came to geography, I had to stop thinking of myself. Vivi was a teenager, not a little girl. From now on, I would ask her opinion before I made plans. “We’ll find a place we both like,” I added.
“That sounds good, Mom.” All of her teenage bluster was gone. Her eyes shimmered, but the tears just stayed there and didn’t run down her cheeks.
“Scotland isn’t the only thing that’s upsetting you,” I said. “What’s wrong, Meep?”
She wiped her eyes. “I had a dream about Mr. Keats last night. We were looking for rabbit holes. Not that I’m worried about him or anything. My brain is just telling me that we shouldn’t have left Australia. Right, Mom?”
“Right.” I hated lying, but I didn’t think she was in the mood for a dissertation. Hybrid vampires have Freudian dreams like anyone else, but sometimes we see future events. Unfortunately the images are buried in symbols, and interpreting them is a highly individualized process. A dream about apples would make me think of temptation or Aphrodite’s golden apples. Vivi might think of Snow White, a young girl who’d been victimized by adults. Or she could develop a craving for an apple tart.
She reached for my hand. “Can we get gelato?”
“Sure.” I was still troubled about her dream, and I let my gaze linger on her face. Mothers aren’t hardwired to see their child’s chronological age. When I looked at Vivi, I didn’t see a teenager with black hair and chunky pink bangs. I saw a toddler in my high heels and Jude’s bowler hat, her diaper sagging past her knees. I saw a girl with shiny chestnut pigtails, tying her shoelaces for the firsttime. I saw a six-year-old flying ahead of me on a pink bicycle in Central Park.
If my mother had lived, she wouldn’t see me as a grown woman. She’d see a curly-haired girl with gooseberry jam on her face; a kid who needed protection from wasps and rogue vampires.
Women learn how to be mothers from the people who raised them. My mother had sung a lullaby to me, and I’d sung it to Vivi, but I hadn’t known when to stop. Some part of me was still chewing on those words.
Mother, may I go out to swim?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb.
And don’t go near the Water.
CHAPTER 8
Edward Keats
INNISFAIR HORSE STATION
HAHNDORF, SOUTH AUSTRALIA
An icy wind tugged at Keats’s jacket as he opened the white mailbox. He pulled out a postcard and grinned. The glossy front showed a picture of the Tuscan hills; on the back, he recognized Vivi’s back-slanted, minuscule handwriting. He hoped the little corker was all right. But he couldn’t read her handwriting without his glasses, and he’d left them at his house. He tucked the card into his pocket, then climbed into his truck and drove toward the north pasture.
Every Wednesday after breakfast, he rode the fence line at Innisfair, looking for loose boards. A stallion paced restlessly in the tall, dry grass, his breath steaming in the morning air. Behind him, the land sloped
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