in-person: mina/dracula
The home was stately. White with flickering lights, and the woman who opened the double doors was aged and respectable. White hair and matronly, she knew Mina expected a caller, and admittance came with a smile that promised discretion, and all while craving a price.
Discretion was much required here, because the women that dotted the rooms on the first floor were like flowers in various states of undress, their petals askew and scattered underfoot. Some weren't women at all, and that seemed to be hardly relevant here, in this place with red tapestries and curtains, all carefully hung to hide the couples within.
But Mina did not work here, and she was expected to pay full cost for her lodging, as she'd no profits to share with the proprietress and her greedy and open palm. As long as propriety was maintained, the rate would remain as it was, and there was no question of tarnished standing within these walls.
Through these bodies and up the stairs, and Mina's room was at the end of the second floor. Red and cream, the door was ajar, though she was not so bold as to venture beyond her door. The bold colors ill-suited the pale blonde that sat upon the bed, hands flat against the sheets. She wore cream and pale lavender, a proper dress with tiny buttons to her throat, and she wore the expression of someone unsure about her recent undertakings. A fortnight earlier, she would not have been here, in this place that was not meant for someone of her standing or gentle rearing. But so many things had changed in a fortnight, and most of all herself.
She'd no idea who was to come. She wondered if it was the boy only somewhat remembered. Griffin. That was the name she recalled, thought the circumstances of it were quite gone. But there was something there, a knowledge of some sleeping assignation, and it was more than her usual sleepiness upon waking. It was a thing, tangible if she could not recall the particulars, and she remembered the boy's pale face and his laughter.
Whenever she thought of him, of that boy, she became unbearably hungry, and she pushed the thoughts aside and worried over Vanessa, over Victor, over impossibilities at the edge of memory. She was barely reputable, and this place was tarnishing her more every day, but she could not bring herself to return home, not until she understood fully. There were so very many pieces missing, and this visitor claimed he knew.
It was, she believed, worth the risk. She reached for the book upon the nightstand, and she opened it upon her lap. "Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted." Her voice brought no solace, but there was something empowering in a cracked spine, and it brought the seaside rushing and she was that girl again. Fearless, or wanting to be, and of a whim to dance until her feet could no more bear their slippers.