Re: in-person: mina/dracula
"I don't remember much." Of boy and door, though it was just there, just beyond the tendrils of memory that could be reached with fingertips. "But I know I've spoken to him on the strange journals, though I don't recall having the conversations. I went to another door, a pretty one with green, green grass." Her delicate expression turned to something haunted, fear-soaked. "Don't go there. It was dreadful. I was told those with powers, magical things, lost these abilities there. But I've no magic, and was not expecting it." She shuddered.
"Do you know Mr. Frankenstein? I only trust him a little. He reports to Vanessa, you see. He tells her things, though he is not truly loyal to her. He reads me poems." She smiled, a little bright madness in the world of surrounding red, a young girl's feral grin. "He thinks me fascinating, and he thinks me terrifying." And she she laughed, because the notion of herself as terrifying was entertaining. She swished the ends of her lavender and cream dress, deliberate mockery of dance. "As a child, I longed for dancing like Vanessa longed dead things to name. I, terrifying." Her smile was pink and sweet, and somehow more terrible for it.
But his words, foreign, froze the swishing of dress as if winter had come, ice and she stared, eyes wide and darkening in that pale face. A hand out, and pale fingers without gloves. "What are those words? They're beautiful." Closer and promises on his tongue, and there was a moment of fear, flared in eyes that tried to regain their beryl innocence before turning midnight as he touched her cheek.
Those sloe eyes blinked, and then blue slid back in like calm waters and harmless skies on moonlit nights. Pretty, and she tipped her head like am exquisite little thing, one lithe and crafted for prettiness. "Will I die?" Things remembered, but not him, not entirely, he was still shadow. But evenings, evenings filtered back, red and she licked her lips with the hunger that the remembering brought in its wake. She touched her forehead, the sting there, and she remembered the theater, Vanessa, her father, and her eyes watered with something soft and fragile that remained, even in the darkness and chased by a mad little laugh.
Quiet, caught between reverence and terror. A whisper. "What have you done?"