Vampyre | Book I of Bloodlines | Free on Inkitt & Kindle Unlimited
Lost to Fog

Viola

Most of the time, I can’t even determine which memories of my mother are real or which might be residue from my dreams—I tend to daydream and fantasize a lot, which doesn’t help. I see my mother’s face in photographs and the painting that hangs in my father’s bureau, and I imagine all the things we could have experienced together as mother and daughter, and all those images become a tangled web of dreams, fantasies, and memories.

My earliest memory of her is remarkably simple—her hand moves nettles from my path as I follow her into her garden. I’ve replayed the image in my mind over and over, questioning its authenticity. It must be real—it has to be. The love she must have felt for me to risk burning her skin on the nettle—that small gesture touched me at that moment, and I captured that feeling of love along with a simple image, storing it in my memory bank.

As I stir awake in my soft, cozy bed, I struggle to recall the dream I just had—it feels familiar as if I’ve dreamt it before, but every morning, no matter how hard I try, recovering a glimpse of that dream is like walking through fog and grasping at something that may or may not even be there. It’s always just out of reach.

Each morning, I emerge from sleep feeling empty and isolated, as if the dream world I just inhabited was the genuine one, and upon waking, I replace myself in a false existence, devoid of…someone who was dear to me.

It’s maddening—I sense it is lingering just beyond reach, yet every attempt to remember feels futile, as if the dream never occurred.

I recall his voice most vividly—a deep resonance that reaches out to me. His words may evade my memory, but his desperation, need, and desire seem to pierce like hooks into my very being and pull my soul toward a desired destination. I yearn to respond, yet I’m tethered to this reality that isn’t…real.

I let out a long, frustrated breath. It’s no good, I’ll never be able to remember it. Perhaps tomorrow. Or perhaps this is the beginning of my descent into insanity, and I’ll be locked away in some asylum any day now.

“Another one of those dreams?” Sophie inquires, bustling into my room and flinging open the windows.

Sunlight streams in as she draws back the thick curtains, prompting me to bury my head beneath the covers.

“Please, Sophie, go away. It’s too early,” I say as I try to bury myself further into my warm bed.

No luck. Sophie pulls my sheets off with one swift motion. How is she so strong at her age? The woman is nearing her sixties and as strong as an Ox.

“Viola,” she says sternly.

I dare to glimpse at her from behind my hands, and she gives me the stink eye. “It’s past midday. Il est temps de se préparer.”

Oh no, I’ve forgotten something. What was it that I’ve forgotten? I don’t remember.

“Get ready? For…something…” I say meekly.

Sophie’s eyes slowly widen expectantly. Mine seem to copy hers as we somehow expect to channel information to one another without speaking.

“You have a party to prepare for?” Sophie reminds me.

I blow a raspberry at her and shoo her away before snatching my sheets back. “Party, shmarty. What a waste of time. The last thing I need is to be cooped up in a house with a bunch of stuffy, overly-groomed pansies who are too uptight for their own good.”

Sophie grips the sheets tighter out of my reach. “Miss Pollyanna will be there.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Yes, but so will Laura Cidery.”

Laura is the worst of the worst—always out in society, trying to sink her claws into the newest and richest eligible bachelor in town. They all do it—our purpose as daughters is to marry, but Laura is the most brazen about it.

While Laura may be entertaining to observe at a party, it’s hardly justification for attending. Parties serve as her personal stage, particularly when she believes no one is paying attention. Yet, there’s always someone observing, often me. Watching Laura is akin to observing a peacock’s elaborate courtship display, but she fails to grasp that the males adorned with vibrant plumage are meant to perform such displays. This holds true for most species of animals, at least according to the books I’ve perused from Father’s collection.

Sophie always says, “The nail that sticks out the highest always attracts the hammer first,” so I keep my head low and try to be as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing I want is a husband—a husband would take me from my father, and he’s the only family I have left. Who would care for him in his old age if I had to look after a husband?

I sigh into my pillow. “I suppose I must rescue Polly from Laura’s clutches; she can be quite the bully, though I fail to comprehend why. After all, aren’t we all in the same predicament? Daughters, groomed and paraded for the scrutiny of men as if we’re commodities to be chosen from a shelf.”

“Some just can’t help themselves,” Sophie sits on the edge of my bed with all my sheets piled onto her lap. “I suppose her mother brought her up to be…competitive.”

“Maybe.”

I wouldn’t be able to relate to that kind of pressure to marry enforced by one’s parents. My mother passed away when I was six years old, and my father, although he’s started dropping hints about his aging, remains rather awkward on the subject. I couldn’t even fathom leaving this house or my father behind. This world is all I’ve ever known, with occasional glimpses of the wider world through the pages of the books I devour. Books are my greatest passion, alongside the drives I take with my father. Learning to drive has been a slow process for me—I’m not particularly gifted or coordinated, and I often replace myself tripping over my own feet. Perhaps it’s because my head is usually lost in the clouds.

“I wish my mother were here. It seems like now is when I need her the most to guide me through all this nonsense.”

“Ah, oui ma chérie,” Sophie gently brushes the hair from my face as she speaks. “You are not wrong there, but you must always replace your own way with what is available to you.”

Even though Sophie raised me, she’s never presumed to mother me. Sometimes, she might give me a little nudge, but she never oversteps. Most of the time, I’m grateful for it, but at times, it would be easier if someone would point the way and say, “There, this way, now get going, knob-head.”

Sophie suddenly remembers something, dumps all my sheets back onto me, and hurries out of my room. As I unfurl the sheets and cocoon myself in them again, she returns, holding a big box tied with a silk ribbon.

She places it on my bed and steps back, watching me eagerly. When I don’t budge from the warmth of my bed, she finally speaks. “Your father let me order this for you from Paris. You should wear it tonight; give Miss Laura a run for her money.”

“No, Sophie,” I cover my head in my sheets. “I’m not going.”

Sophie takes the lid off the box and looks inside. “Oooh, it looks better than the photographs in the catalog.”

I hear the rustling of tissue paper and take a curious peek at her holding the dress up to herself.

“Très belle,” Sophie walks around the room to examine herself in the full-length mirror. “You know, this one is the latest in Parisian fashion and to be worn without a corset.”

Sophie’s eyes lock onto mine in the mirror’s reflection, and she knows she has me hook, line, and sinker. Corsets are the bane of my existence, to the point that I started throwing them out the window when I thought no one was looking. Color me surprised when Sofie caught me last month, and she just ordered new ones.

“No corset, you say?” I ask Sophie to confirm.

Sophie looks inside the box. “Oui, there are special undergarments here.”

She pulls out an interesting cloth garment sewn from two silk triangles held together by thin straps. “What is it?”

Sophie smiles and widens her ever for dramatic effect.“Liberté. If only I were young and petite like you, I would take this modern world by storm.”

I sit up and take the garment from Sophie. I look it over before holding it to my chest. “Here, like this?”

Sophie nods. “Oui.”

“I think it’s too big,” I mumble a little dejectedly.

Sophie places her hand over my breast. “Ah oui, like a little peach.”

She laughs as I swat her hand away, and I look down into my nightgown. “They’re not getting any bigger, are they?”

“You’re twenty, Viola; they won’t get bigger until you have children.”

My face twists on its own. I don’t mind being small-chested, but I had hoped I’d get a little fatter—I feel like a twig sometimes. Sophie once said if I stood sideways, I could disappear entirely.

“I will alter it if I don’t finish in time. Wear nothing,” Sophie takes the garment and shoots me a cheeky smirk before leaving me to start my day.