said Joanna had heard. Moments later she returned, carrying a muddy sack and a handful of coins that she dropped into Colleen's lap. Though Joanna seemed to have no interest in the rest of what was inside the tattered scrap of cloth. Colleen did. She pulled out a filthy shirt wrapped around a bottle. She yanked out its cork, sniffed the bottle's contents, then took a taste. Spicy-sweet and heavily alcoholic. She swallowed; swallowed again.
The drink gave her strength. She looked from the fire to Joanna sitting beside her, rested her hand on her mistress's, feeling a hint of warmth in it. She touched Joanna's chin, turning her head so they faced each other.
It was time to learn what she was traveling with.
By the following afternoon, when Colleen hitched the horse to the wagon and to begin the final journey into Varna, she understood many things.
She understood that her mistress was not alive, and had not been alive for nearly six centuries.
She understood that, as a result of this condition, Joanna was forced to spend the daylight hours in the box she carried with her, and that to expose her body to the sun would most likely end her existence.
She understood that the blood she had drunk, such a tiny amount, had bound her to her mistress in a way that no human loyalty could have accomplished.
She understood that if she continued to drink it, she herself would begin to slowly change.
Last, she understood that she did not care.
Colleen had put on the simpler of the pair of stolen dresses and taken them those last few miles while Joanna hid from the relentless sun. In town, people stared at the strange combination of an Englishwoman on a Gypsy cart, but used to the eccentric ways of foreigners, did not try to question her.
She moved through the center of town, to the wilder streets north of the wharf, where the shipping firms were located. She stopped occasionally to ask directions until she located the shipping firm of Steranko and Summers.
She pulled her wagon in front of the door and went inside. A tiny office opened onto a large warehouse filled with containers of all kinds. She saw mesh bags of cured hams, crates of wine and, oddly, what looked like bottled water, stacks of cured hides and sheepskin. So much wealth behind an unlocked door, as if the owners feared nothing. "Is anyone here?" she called.
In response, someone laid a hand on her shoulder. She cried out, whirled and retreated, her hand instinctively falling to the place at her waist where she'd kept her knife hidden. "I am Mr. Summers. Can I help you?" an old man asked in cultured English, blinking at her from behind a pair of glasses thick as bottle bottoms.
"Yes… that is…" She took a deep breath and went on. "I'm here on behalf of my mistress, who wishes to obtain passage to London for her and myself."
"And why does she send you instead of coming herself?"
"Her knowledge of English is not good," Colleen replied, hoping the answer would be enough.
"Then she could speak to my partner, Mr. Steranko."
"That would hardly be—"
"Of course it would be," he said, cutting her off. "We need to know whom we are to arrange passage for."
This wasn't going as Colleen had hoped. She guessed it was her accent—that strange blend of cockney and Irish—that gave her away. Though she'd worked hard to learn to hide it, and to get an education of sorts, she'd never been able to leave the slums of London and Dublin behind. There seemed to be only one option. "She'll be along soon. If Mr. Steranko can wait, he can speak to her."
"Mr. Steranko just stepped out for a little while. I'm sure he'll return soon enough."
He took her back into the office and brewed them both a cup of strong black tea. By the time they sat down to drink it, the sun had already fallen behind the distant western slopes. Colleen could feel her mistress wake, feel their minds brush. The intimacy gave her comfort.
She turned toward the door, but the form she saw there was not Joanna's
The drink gave her strength. She looked from the fire to Joanna sitting beside her, rested her hand on her mistress's, feeling a hint of warmth in it. She touched Joanna's chin, turning her head so they faced each other.
It was time to learn what she was traveling with.
By the following afternoon, when Colleen hitched the horse to the wagon and to begin the final journey into Varna, she understood many things.
She understood that her mistress was not alive, and had not been alive for nearly six centuries.
She understood that, as a result of this condition, Joanna was forced to spend the daylight hours in the box she carried with her, and that to expose her body to the sun would most likely end her existence.
She understood that the blood she had drunk, such a tiny amount, had bound her to her mistress in a way that no human loyalty could have accomplished.
She understood that if she continued to drink it, she herself would begin to slowly change.
Last, she understood that she did not care.
Colleen had put on the simpler of the pair of stolen dresses and taken them those last few miles while Joanna hid from the relentless sun. In town, people stared at the strange combination of an Englishwoman on a Gypsy cart, but used to the eccentric ways of foreigners, did not try to question her.
She moved through the center of town, to the wilder streets north of the wharf, where the shipping firms were located. She stopped occasionally to ask directions until she located the shipping firm of Steranko and Summers.
She pulled her wagon in front of the door and went inside. A tiny office opened onto a large warehouse filled with containers of all kinds. She saw mesh bags of cured hams, crates of wine and, oddly, what looked like bottled water, stacks of cured hides and sheepskin. So much wealth behind an unlocked door, as if the owners feared nothing. "Is anyone here?" she called.
In response, someone laid a hand on her shoulder. She cried out, whirled and retreated, her hand instinctively falling to the place at her waist where she'd kept her knife hidden. "I am Mr. Summers. Can I help you?" an old man asked in cultured English, blinking at her from behind a pair of glasses thick as bottle bottoms.
"Yes… that is…" She took a deep breath and went on. "I'm here on behalf of my mistress, who wishes to obtain passage to London for her and myself."
"And why does she send you instead of coming herself?"
"Her knowledge of English is not good," Colleen replied, hoping the answer would be enough.
"Then she could speak to my partner, Mr. Steranko."
"That would hardly be—"
"Of course it would be," he said, cutting her off. "We need to know whom we are to arrange passage for."
This wasn't going as Colleen had hoped. She guessed it was her accent—that strange blend of cockney and Irish—that gave her away. Though she'd worked hard to learn to hide it, and to get an education of sorts, she'd never been able to leave the slums of London and Dublin behind. There seemed to be only one option. "She'll be along soon. If Mr. Steranko can wait, he can speak to her."
"Mr. Steranko just stepped out for a little while. I'm sure he'll return soon enough."
He took her back into the office and brewed them both a cup of strong black tea. By the time they sat down to drink it, the sun had already fallen behind the distant western slopes. Colleen could feel her mistress wake, feel their minds brush. The intimacy gave her comfort.
She turned toward the door, but the form she saw there was not Joanna's
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