He came back.
Every night. Without fail. Without invitation. Without the slightest indication that he was wanted or welcome or anything other than a vampire with too much gold and too little sense who had decided, for reasons Clara could not fathom, that the most productive use of his evenings was sitting on the floor of her room talking to a wall.
Because that was what she was. A wall.
Night two, she sat on the bed. He sat on the floor. He talked about clouds.
Not weather — clouds specifically. The different types. The names. How cumulus clouds looked like bread dough rising, which reminded him of a bakery he had visited in Paris in 1743 where the owner's daughter had thrown a baguette at his head because he had complimented her mother's croissants instead of hers.
Clara said nothing.
