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This - she’s forgotten the sound. Hopping down the street singing a new tune from the movies. Dissecting it on the piano’s keys, hands steady and arched just so, just like that, magnifique. Rows of shoes to choose from, rows of other stores if this one disappoints. Bright pale of the moonlight, quiet steps. They laughed and laughed, unabashed, and he put her up high while the world spinned.
Then, just as fast, his hands would be pressing down on the bones of her jaw. She could feel the ache, even now.
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In Europe, Claudia dreams of him
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“They don’t know who you are.”
Here. A law-breaker. A liar. A mistake walking among them. She wonders if he will put his hand on her chin to let her know.
He doesn’t. “The Theatre is yours. That scene is your land. Those fools are to respect you as one of the strongest vampires they’ve known,” he says. It blooms, a pain deep in her chest. “You are my blood, Claudia. I am your claim.”
She looks at the world that he offers, in which the name of her maker could be used as a key. They can gaze up at his portrait in admiration. Imagine what a grain of attention would feel like. He never carried them home when the excitement wore down with the fading dark. He never snatched them back to the prison of home to suffer from the choice of not letting them die while he had the chance.