She Seems Empty, Sir

Rosamund's slippered feet padded gently on the old stone floors as she wandered through the vast hallways of Castle Dravenstone. The air was heavy and cold, with a hint of mustiness from unlit hearths and old tapestries. Overhanging the large windows were thick velvet curtains that were drawn tightly to keep out the daylight. The deep burgundy tones of the drapes had faded over time. Pale rays of light permeated the spaces, creating lengthy, erratic shadows that moved across the walls. Every step she took echoed softly, a hollow echo that seemed to intensify the sense of isolation all around her. But her mind was not at all like the silence of Castle Dravenstone; it was roiling restlessly, caught up in what had happened the night before.

She kept thinking about Ivar, the blood she had noticed on his hands, and the question that kept coming back to her: Was he really trustworthy? The doubt weighted like a stone on her chest, but one memory glowed brightly through the uncertainty and would not go out. She still saw him, bold and determined, jumping into the battle to protect her from the growling werewolves, his motions sure and quick as he put his life in danger for hers. She could still clearly picture that moment of bravery and selflessness. He must have been deeply moved by such an act, she thought. That's not what a killer would have done, would it? She stopped next to a window, her fingers grazing the ragged edge of the curtain, gazing into the unbreakable blackness outside. Emotion rose in her, tightening her throat. Like when he had protected her, whatever had happened to leave blood on his hands had to have been an act of protection. It must have been.

Rosamund was pulled out of her reverie by a quiet, hesitant voice that said, "Excuse me, Madam, I didn't see you."

Her breath caught when she turned abruptly and found Hilda standing on the small stairs below. The clean laundry had been in the housekeeper's arms, but she had bumped against Rosamund in her hurry, knocking the well folded linens on the stone stairs. As Hilda fell to her knees and gathered the strewn-about clothing with shaking hands, her cheeks flushed with shame and her gray eyes widened in apology.

Rosamund squatted next to Hilda and hurriedly muttered, "I'm so sorry, Hilda." She picked up a dropped sheet, carefully folded it, and returned it to the elderly woman. Hilda's slumped shoulders and the taut lines surrounding her mouth appeared to soften as a result of the modest move.

Hilda stood holding the laundry to her bosom and whispered, "Thank you, My Lady," her voice scarcely audible above a whisper. She turned to go, walking with purpose and speed.

Rosamund called, "Wait, Hilda," in a soft yet forceful voice. "I want you to know that I'm not a threat to you or your spouse."

Hilda hesitated, looking back with a little inclination of her head. Her eyes flashed with surprise, then a glimmer of doubt. After a while, she answered, "I believe you, My Lady," in a cautious but earnest manner.

Rosamund stepped closer and squeezed, "I mean it." "Please don't feel scared. Like you, I'm just a peasant girl at heart. You and I are not that different.

The worry engraved on Hilda's wrinkled face was softened by a slight warmth that seeped into her face. Her voice was more steady now as she answered, "That's very kind of you, Madam."

After a moment of hesitation, Rosamund smiled a little, hopefully. With her fingers twitching uneasily in the folds of her gown, she confessed, "I've been lonely without female company." You may feel the same way, I suppose. Maybe we might become buddies.

The fear that held Hilda like a shadow appeared to vanish for a moment. A real, sincere, unguarded smile sprang on her face. She whispered, "Countess, you're a good person." "I really want that."

Twenty minutes later, Rosamund was sitting in the humble servant's quarters, a little, inconspicuous room tucked away in the lower levels of Castle Dravenstone. The room was glaringly simple: a rough-hewn wooden table stood in the middle, where the two women now faced one another, and a stone hearth blazed with a modest fire, its crackling the only sound disturbing the silence. The rich fabric of Rosamund's gown, a magnificent mahogany-hued masterpiece with intricate embroidery, felt showy here, rubbing awkwardly against the simple chair. She squirmed in her chair, conscious of how uncomfortable she looked among the modest furnishings in the room.

Her eyes wandered, absorbing the many religious symbols that were displayed throughout the room. Above each doorway were fastened wooden crosses, their edges worn smooth by the passage of time. A huge crucifix loomed above the fireplace, its presence dominating yet solemn, and rosaries hung over the doorknobs, their beads glinting slightly in the firelight. Rosamund felt a subtle uneasiness at their sheer number. Did Hilda and her husband feel compelled to protect themselves from some invisible danger? Or did their faith only protect them from the weirdness of being so close to a vampire?

Hilda stood at the fireplace, making tea with steady hands. The hiss of boiling water and the gentle clatter of porcelain on the kettle created a soothing rhythm in the otherwise quiet room.

"My Lady, is there anything you would like?" With a courteous twist of her head, Hilda looked back and requested.

Rosamund smiled softly and shook her head. "No, Hilda, thank you."

With a slight clink, Hilda placed her teacup on the table and took a seat across from Rosamund. The air between them warmed as tiny spirals of steam rose from the cup.

Rosamund started, her fingers tracing the lip of her own unopened cup, "Tell me, Hilda, how much do you know about… us?"

Hilda's demeanor was composed and uncompromising, and her eyebrow arched slightly. "My Lady," she replied plainly, as though describing the weather, "I know exactly what you and Count Ivar are."

Rosamund glanced at the rosaries and crosses. She pointed to the symbols that appeared to watch over the room and said, "Is that why you have all these religious items?"

A tiny, sardonic smirk tugged at Hilda's lips as she shook her head. "Not quite. I am aware that there is no danger to us from the Master, and these symbols wouldn't stop him nevertheless. They belong to his adversaries.

Rosamund's forehead furrowed in confusion. Leaning forward a little, she confessed, "I'm not sure I follow."

With a low, measured voice, Hilda said, "Let me explain." You must understand that Count Ivar opposes the evil that the majority of vampires accept. How could a symbol of righteousness turn you off if neither you nor him had committed the sin of murder?

Slowly, Rosamund nodded, feeling a wave of silent relief. Her misgivings that had been bothering her since the night before were allayed by Hilda's statements, which matched her expectations. Her posture relaxed as she let out a quiet exhale.

Hilda went on, her voice fading to a near whisper, "But after last night's terrible event, I can't help but worry for my husband and myself."

Rosamund's pulse accelerated and her eyes grew wide. "What happened?"

Hilda's calm appearance was betrayed by her tense lip-licking motion. "I assumed Count Ivar would have brought it up. The granary keeper informed me that a young girl was attacked—viciously mauled by some creature—last night when I went to Valtara this morning to get supplies. She is barely hanging on.

Rosamund's fingers flew to her mouth as she gasped. "That is terrible!"

With a quiver running through her slender body, Hilda said, "Yes." "It was a werewolf, possibly a pack, according to the villagers."

Ivar's bloodied hands and the werewolves he had killed to keep her safe were among the flashing memories of the previous night that raced through Rosamund's thoughts. "Werewolves? Not a vampire? "But why was Ivar's hands covered in blood?" she whispered, her voice so low it was nearly drowned out by the fire's crackle.

Hilda's face darkened as she shook her head. "I'm not entirely sure."

Rosamund scowled as she tried to piece it together. "Werewolves... Two of them were killed by Ivar when they attacked me. Perhaps he was taking care of the others.

"What about the girl?" Her voice trembled a little as she asked. "What will become of her?"

Hilda sadly retorted, "She might turn into a werewolf herself if she got bitten by one."

With her mind racing, Rosamund muttered, "Perhaps Ivar tried to save her but couldn't."

Hilda's eyes softened with sorrow as she added, "Perhaps."

Rosamund snapped out of her trance with a blink. She suppressed the lingering uneasiness and faked a tiny grin. In an attempt to change the subject, she blurted out, "Never mind, Hilda."

As the weight of their discourse settled over them like a thick cloud, the two women went silent. Rosamund had a lot of questions, but she decided to put them aside for the time being. She was merely thankful for Hilda's presence at the time, a tiny bulwark of normalcy in the midst of her new life's storm.