She'd lost track of time since he'd gone. Him, Master, keeper of secrets, her past, her present. She'd lost track of time since he'd gone, and she was newly awoken and newly awake, and she'd no idea how to hunt in this place. Her memories of feeding were something from before her eyes were opened, and she recalled them through fog and confusion. She'd given her word. Not here, and she would not hunt here, and she'd promised. But she'd lost track of time since he'd come, since he'd gone, and the house had been closed, and the basement quiet. No one home, and she hungered.
There was no before, and there was no after. She was a thing of a moment, of the present, and she was no longer two parts, schism, but she was lost, adrift, and perhaps she should not have offered to go to the church. But Victor was there, and Mina was so terribly alone, and he was a kind voice in her mind. He was words writ, spines cracked and pages that crackled when turned by her cold fingers.
She'd lost track of time since he'd gone, the Master, but she'd found his books and read them like things nearly recalled. Warm, like blankets, and her fingers upon pages with words indented deep, and she thought she could read the letters with her eyes closed. It was memory, and she understood it not, but it kept her warm. But she'd lost track of time, and he was gone.
She cared naught for Vanessa's predicament. The night of the seance was a thing couched in mourning, and loss came after on quiet feet. Tonight, she entered the old church where God stood silent, and she was a thing dressed in rumpled silk. Mauve, and her hair loose and tangled blonde along her spine. No gloves, and her boots worn through at the soles. Pale, pale, pale as the dead in the graveyard.
And Mina, she hungered.]