still feel where she kissed me, where her fingers grasped my hands. I still yearn for her, and yet the voice of reason is screaming in my ears: You cannot love a vampire!
If I had one of her daisies, I could pluck the leaves and let the flower choose for me. I love her … I love her not … I … I love her.
I do. No matter the consequences.
Is this what following your heart is? I wish there was a map or a compass to help me find my way. But she has my heart, and that above all else is my North Star … and that will have to be enough.
After I slipped away from the carriage house back to my own chambers, I somehow managed to sleep for a few hours. When I awoke, I wondered if everything was all a dream. But then I shifted my head on the pillow and saw a neat puddle of dried, crimson blood and touched my fingers to my throat. I felt a wound there, and though it didn’t hurt, it brought back the very real incidents of the previous evening.
I felt exhausted and confused and exalted all at once. My limbs were enervated, my brain abuzz. It was as if I had a fever, but inside I felt a sort of calm I’d never felt before.
I dressed for the day, taking extra care to wash the wound with a damp cloth and bandage it, then buttoned my linen shirt as high as it would go. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I tried to see if there was anything different, if there was some glint in my eye that acknowledged my newfound worldliness. But my face looked just as it had yesterday.
I crept down the back stairs toward the study.
Father’s schedule was like clockwork, and he always spent the mornings surveying and visiting the fields with Robert.
Once I closed myself in the cool, dark room, I ran my fingers along the leather-bound spines on each shelf, feeling comforted by their smoothness.
I just hoped that somewhere, in the stacks and shelves of books on every subject, there would be a volume that would answer some of my questions. I remembered Katherine reading The Mysteries of Mystic Falls and noticed the volume was no longer in the study, or at least not in plain view.
I walked aimlessly from shelf to shelf, for the first time feeling overwhelmed by the number of books in Father’s study. Where could I possibly find information on vampires? Father had volumes of plays, fiction, atlases, and two full shelves of Bibles, some in English, some in Italian, and some in Latin. I traced my hands against the gilt-lettered, leather spines of each book, hoping that somehow I’d find something.
Finally, my fingertips landed on a thin, tattered volume with Demonios written in flaking silver on the spine. Demonio … demon … This was what I was looking for. I opened the book, but it was written in an ancient Italian dialect that I couldn’t make heads nor tails of, despite my extensive tutoring in Latin and Italian.
Still, I carried the book with me to the club chair and settled in. Trying to decipher the book was an action I could understand, something easier than trying to eat breakfast while pretending everything was normal. I ran my fingers along the words, reading out loud as if I were a schoolboy, making sure I didn’t miss a mention of the word vampiro. Finally, I found it, but the sentences surrounding it were nothing but gibberish to me. I sighed in frustration.
Just then, the door to the study creaked open.
“Who’s there?” I called loudly.
“Stefan!” My father’s ruddy face registered surprise. “I was looking for you.”
“Oh?” I asked, my hand flying to my neck, as if Father could see the bandage beneath the fabric.
But all I felt was the smooth linen of my shirt. My secret was safe.
Father looked at me strangely. He walked toward me, taking the book off my lap. “You and I think alike,” he said, a strange smile curving onto his face.
“We do?” My heart fluttered in my chest like a hummingbird’s wings, and I was sure Father could hear my breath catching in short, shallow gasps in my throat.
If I had one of her daisies, I could pluck the leaves and let the flower choose for me. I love her … I love her not … I … I love her.
I do. No matter the consequences.
Is this what following your heart is? I wish there was a map or a compass to help me find my way. But she has my heart, and that above all else is my North Star … and that will have to be enough.
After I slipped away from the carriage house back to my own chambers, I somehow managed to sleep for a few hours. When I awoke, I wondered if everything was all a dream. But then I shifted my head on the pillow and saw a neat puddle of dried, crimson blood and touched my fingers to my throat. I felt a wound there, and though it didn’t hurt, it brought back the very real incidents of the previous evening.
I felt exhausted and confused and exalted all at once. My limbs were enervated, my brain abuzz. It was as if I had a fever, but inside I felt a sort of calm I’d never felt before.
I dressed for the day, taking extra care to wash the wound with a damp cloth and bandage it, then buttoned my linen shirt as high as it would go. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I tried to see if there was anything different, if there was some glint in my eye that acknowledged my newfound worldliness. But my face looked just as it had yesterday.
I crept down the back stairs toward the study.
Father’s schedule was like clockwork, and he always spent the mornings surveying and visiting the fields with Robert.
Once I closed myself in the cool, dark room, I ran my fingers along the leather-bound spines on each shelf, feeling comforted by their smoothness.
I just hoped that somewhere, in the stacks and shelves of books on every subject, there would be a volume that would answer some of my questions. I remembered Katherine reading The Mysteries of Mystic Falls and noticed the volume was no longer in the study, or at least not in plain view.
I walked aimlessly from shelf to shelf, for the first time feeling overwhelmed by the number of books in Father’s study. Where could I possibly find information on vampires? Father had volumes of plays, fiction, atlases, and two full shelves of Bibles, some in English, some in Italian, and some in Latin. I traced my hands against the gilt-lettered, leather spines of each book, hoping that somehow I’d find something.
Finally, my fingertips landed on a thin, tattered volume with Demonios written in flaking silver on the spine. Demonio … demon … This was what I was looking for. I opened the book, but it was written in an ancient Italian dialect that I couldn’t make heads nor tails of, despite my extensive tutoring in Latin and Italian.
Still, I carried the book with me to the club chair and settled in. Trying to decipher the book was an action I could understand, something easier than trying to eat breakfast while pretending everything was normal. I ran my fingers along the words, reading out loud as if I were a schoolboy, making sure I didn’t miss a mention of the word vampiro. Finally, I found it, but the sentences surrounding it were nothing but gibberish to me. I sighed in frustration.
Just then, the door to the study creaked open.
“Who’s there?” I called loudly.
“Stefan!” My father’s ruddy face registered surprise. “I was looking for you.”
“Oh?” I asked, my hand flying to my neck, as if Father could see the bandage beneath the fabric.
But all I felt was the smooth linen of my shirt. My secret was safe.
Father looked at me strangely. He walked toward me, taking the book off my lap. “You and I think alike,” he said, a strange smile curving onto his face.
“We do?” My heart fluttered in my chest like a hummingbird’s wings, and I was sure Father could hear my breath catching in short, shallow gasps in my throat.
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