“You don’t think it’s odd?” Camellia asked.

“Of course not. No one does but you.” Calluna, one of Camellia’s half-sisters, folded a nearby sheet and placed it in a drawer. Her pale hands picked a long hair off the sheet, her own, judging by its lighter shade. Calluna glanced up at Camellia. “He’s really hurt when you do that, you know.”

“I don’t want him to know everything I think about.” Even at that moment, Camellia practiced her mental blocking techniques, careful to keep her thoughts from her sister…and her father. She picked up a pillow case and started to fold.

“About time you did something. You can’t sit around and mope all day. The rest of us keep working.”

“She wasn’t your mother.” Camellia almost dropped the sheet. She could leave it a lumpy mess, but she thought better of it and finished the fold. She started another, hands shaking.

“No, but your full-brothers all helped out in the fields today. It’s been a week. We live on a farm. We can’t afford to take time off to grieve like the hero of a tragedy,” Calluna exaggerated the last lines, rolling her eyes at Camellia.

Camellia glared back.

“Most of us might not have a special job like you, but when you’re here, I expect you to work. If you want to live here, you help out, or we won’t save your room. I don’t care what Dad says.” Calluna finished the last sheet and put everything in the drawer. She picked up the basket. She seemed ready to say more.

A soft knock came from Camellia’s door.

Her father, Viorel, slipped into her room. The knock had been a formality. “Headed to bed?” Viorel asked.

Camellia began to nod.

“She’s going to be up all day at this rate.” Calluna walked out and pulled the door closed behind her. She left the basket of clean linens.

“How are you feeling?” Viorel asked.

This time, no one was there to answer for Camellia. She nodded. “I’m going to sleep through the day.”

Viorel gestured to her bed. “If you don’t want to sleep alone, you can always come to my coffin with me.”

Camellia bristled. She knew that her face showed her reluctance, but she kept her thoughts locked away, where he couldn’t hear. “I want to sleep in my own bed. I’m a thirty-six-year-old woman.” Camellia shook her head. “I can’t sleep in your coffin anymore.”

Viorel reached for her nightstand. His hands came close to grabbing a pendant of resin, with a dark red mineral trapped inside, the daywalker’s stone. “I could borrow your necklace and stay up today. I don’t mind watching over you.”

Camellia scooped up the pendant and put it around her neck.

“Camellia,” Viorel scolded.

She winced. “Sorry. Remember when you told me not to let any vampire touch it? You said I should guard it.” Camellia fingered the pendant.

“I didn’t mean me. I gave it to you.” Viorel glared.

Camellia felt pressure at the edge of her mind. She didn’t let him in.

Viorel shook his head. “You go to sleep. I’m calling Ciprian.”

Camellia stared at the floor. “Please, don’t.” Camellia didn’t want to see a psychologist, let alone a vampire psychologist.

“I don’t have any choice. Go to sleep.” Viorel walked to the door and slipped out.

Camellia blew out a long breath. At least, he hadn’t taken her stone. Camellia didn’t lay down. She heard voices outside the door. They leaked through the open frame: her father and Calluna. They probably planned a watch. Those who could stay up during the day would take turns and guard Camellia’s door. They’d see that she didn’t do anything stupid.

Then, Ciprian would come, maybe not the next night but the night after, and Camellia wouldn’t be able to resist his probe. He’d make everything alright again – for Camellia’s family. He would promise to heal her, and he might just do it, by hollowing out the parts of Camellia that still missed her mother and Camellia’s good standing at the AAH. But, to get the rest of it, the things from years back, Ciprian would have to erase Camellia down to the nub of her personality.

I am not seeing that man.

The voices left the hall. Camellia stood stiff. She glanced at her bag in a nearby chair. It slumped, always packed and ready to go. Camellia looked at her bed. She had plenty of pillows.

Camellia stuffed the pillows under the covers. She made them look like her sleeping form. She was glad she spent so much time blocking her thoughts. Most of her family members didn’t even try to reach her anymore. Whoever got stuck with guard duty would just glance to see that she was there and leave it at that.

Satisfied with the ruse, Camellia grabbed her bag and slipped out the door. The hall was dark and empty. Some voices came from further back in the house, among the bedrooms where her family’s day shift woke and got ready for the day. Footsteps squeaked above, but none headed for the stairs just yet.

The stairs were in view of the front door. If Camellia wanted to leave, she should time her escape well. Camellia hurried to the exit. The footsteps seemed to follow her.

Thump, thump. Back and forth.

Camellia pattered into the hall. She found her shoes waiting with everyone else’s, in a nice neat row. She stared at the stairway and watched as she slipped into her shoes. Camellia heard the happy cries of children. They bounced on their beds and launched into a game before they got dressed for the day. Their mothers tried to steer them to the bathrooms and their closets, but the process would take time. The children loved to greet the day. They hadn’t lived enough to lose their enthusiasm for each one.

Camellia found the front door unlocked. She grabbed the handle and pulled. The hinges creaked, and Camellia ran out.

Fog covered the farm, but Camellia could hear the shouts of men. They were her brothers and her brothers-in-law, on the job with pre-breakfast chores.

Camellia could hear their voices, but she couldn’t see them. They lay in the fog, below the ridge that was home to the farmhouse. Camellia couldn’t make out individuals, but she could see broad swaths of farmland. As she hurried along the ridge, she called upon her memory to recall the crops in the fields and the animals in the barns. She heard the bays of sheep, and the moos of cows. The occasional horse’s bray greeted the dawn. Camellia passed the barns. Below, she saw the swaying wool of the barometz field, the only crop that was both animal and plant, with its wide green leaves, stocky stems, and lamb flowers. Camellia loved the barometz. They were lambs that could not flee her touch.

Drops of dew invaded Camellia’s shoes. She wasn’t dressed for a morning walk, in a nightgown and veritable slippers, but she had no choice. Camellia didn’t have time to get dressed. She needed to reach the forest and then…

What? Where was Camellia going to go?

She couldn’t travel to her room at the AAH. She was suspended and barring that, it had to be repainted. It seemed she was the only one who found any comfort in the drawing of the nightmare forest. The other anthropologists took one look at it and granted her a suspension, a break to deal with her issues – first her mother’s death and then, whatever issue the drawing symbolized. Camellia didn’t think the break was warranted. She’d added the drawing to her walls almost fifteen years ago, just after she returned from the dig that claimed her partner’s life.

He’d deserved it. Sorin was a bad man on a constant search for the daywalker’s jewel. Camellia was convinced he only formed an attachment to her to get access to her necklace. Despite her father’s warning, Camellia hadn’t kept it secret from her lover. What a mistake. The first of many.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Camellia cleared the tree line and entered the forest. She sought a nearby lake and found it just as the first beams of sunlight drifted over the ground and skittered across the water. Camellia searched for someplace to sit down and settled on the moss at the base of a great tree. Concealed by some healthy hostas, a hollowed area in the trunk seemed just big enough for her, a good place to hide, if she needed to. She lay her bag beside the hollow and planned to stuff it in the tree along with herself if someone came looking.

Now what?

Camellia could get dressed and head out of the forest. She should move quickly, but she wanted to take a minute.

Dawn crept forward. Camellia stared at the shimmering water and tried not to think about her forced leave or her mother’s illness and death. She tried not to think of the threat of Ciprian. The problem wouldn’t go away, but she could have a break from it.

As she met with some success, she sighed with peace, but her peace lasted only as long as she wasn’t aware of it. Her disagreeable mind squirmed, and a bad memory broke the calm.

She remembered a moonlit sea and the motion of a large ship. Camellia waited at the ship’s rail nervous, alone, and much younger. Her quiet moments were cut short when Sorin, her partner in both anthropology and life, slunk up behind her.

“Thinking about going for swim?” he had joked. “You don’t know how, but I guess you might have learned one of those nights that you never came home. Would you like a hand over the railing?”

Sorin grabbed her arm, and Camellia pulled it free, saying, “No.”

“Still can’t swim? I guess you’ve been up to something else these late nights.” Sorin stood in her personal space, but unlike other vampires, he never tried to look into her mind. He had that in his favor at least. “Are you aware that fewer than ten percent of dhampirs can swim? The study concluded it was from lack of trying, but I think it’s because you’re just like the vampires that sire you – the weak swimmers. You can’t learn. If I were to toss you into the water, do you think you could manage even a doggie paddle?”

A sailor called to Sorin and rescued her from having to prove anything.

Would he have done it? Pushed me in? Then, everyone would know just what he was like. No, he would have lied and said I fell.

Camellia shook her head and pushed the thought away. She would never let him push her into the water. It had been a long time ago, and he couldn’t make good on that threat now. But, when trouble came, Camellia always thought of him and the water.

She certainly found herself in trouble. Her mother was gone. The only person who she really liked from her family was gone. It was partly Camellia’s fault, no matter what anyone said. Camellia liked to drink her mother’s blood, long after she could talk – inappropriate and dangerous. Her mother had always been so thin and weak. And, now, because someone opened Camellia’s room while she was away, saying her goodbyes, she’d lost her good standing with the AAH. Camellia shook her head.

It’s everything. I’ve lost literally everything.

There was nothing to move forward with.

Camellia stood and walked to the sheer bank. She took a shuddering breath. About seven feet below, water rippled, almost perfectly still.

She might just take that swim.

Think of all the things you could have avoided if you’d drowned sixteen years ago.

Camellia did. She listed it all. No hiding my thoughts. No disgrace. No suspension. No more well-meaning people in my business. She glanced back and searched the trees for a would-be rescuer.

Camellia jumped into the water. She felt an instant rush of cold. Her soaked nightgown wrapped around her legs, and her long dark hair floated as she began to sink. Above her, Camellia watched the bubbles from her initial entry pop towards the surface. The liquid-filtered light looked distant and wavy. Camellia looked down, but she couldn’t see the bottom. It was then she realized she still held her breath. She tried to let go and let the water in, but she couldn’t.

It doesn’t matter. I can’t hold my breath forever. Camellia closed her eyes and drifted, feeling comfortable as her body adjusted to the cold. The amount of time she could hold her breath surprised her. Her air supply seemed to stretch on and on. And on and on….

A pulse later, Camellia’s heart started to race. She opened her eyes and found her vision dark. Suddenly, Camellia felt a need to fight for the surface. Her chest finally felt tight, and her air scarce. She imagined herself still near the bank, and as she struggled to find her bearings, she sought the dirt behind. As low as she was, she could see only shadows. Or, maybe it was the lack of air. Camellia’s hands sought purchase, grasping for something more solid than water. Finally, she felt slippery mud. She sank a hand into it and searched for something firmer with the other.

Camellia needed to breathe and couldn’t help taking a breath. Water rushed into her lungs just as she grasped something like a hand. Camellia pulled on it, reaching higher with her other hand. She pulled and broke the surface. She coughed and took a desperate breath.

Camellia cleared her lungs. She used her final strength to pull herself on to the bank, mere feet from the hollow tree. She felt a distant thrum of shame but also a shred of relief. She laid in the moss and fainted.

Camellia woke and realized that she had been unconscious only a few minutes. The sun shone weakly through the fog and trees. Beside her, lay her bag.

Dad, Camellia thought, glancing around her. He’ll never let me out of his sight after this. She sat up and searched the forest. She was confused and dazed to see not her tall vampire progenitor, only trees. What did I grab?

Camellia deduced it must have been a tree branch and made a quick search for it. She found nothing.

I’ll just go back. No one will know. Camellia rose, and with a shaking hand, grasped her possessions. She looked at her nightdress and planned how to hide what had happened to it.

“Come on. He’s here about your beloved job.” Calluna led Camellia by the hand to Viorel’s study, a room at the front of the house.

Camellia wore a simple green dress, with high waist – not the best garment for professional activity. When Camellia heard the visitor’s name, she had tried to change, but Calluna insisted she come.

Adalhard, the AAH’s current chair, stood in her father’s parlor. His keen eyes flicked to her casual attire and returned to her face. Adalhard’s stern expression was unreadable to Camellia. She couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed, disgusted, or merely indifferent.

“Camellia, this man would like to speak with you,” Viorel said. He turned back to Adalhard. “Would you like something to eat or drink?’

“No, no. I can’t stay long.” Adalhard waved his hand. He turned to Camellia and studied her.

She kept her eyes on the ground.

After what seemed like a minute, Adalhard spoke, “The committee has decided that you should take a three-month leave. You aren’t truly suspended, but we would like you to avoid the museum and your work. Take three months to heal. Then, come back – with all your privileges and duties reinstated.”

Camellia caught her breath and raised her eyes to his. “When...when do I have to be evaluated?” she asked. Camellia glanced at her father but gave most of her gaze to Adalhard.

Adalhard smiled, only a little, but he did. “No formal evaluation. Whatever went on – is going on...we feel your work has not suffered. But, if you choose, we’ll have someone available for you to talk to. I’m leaving his name.” Adalhard gestured to a card on a nearby table.

Camellia walked to the table and snatched up the card. Not Ciprian, she thought with relief, and she returned the card to the table.

“Now, if upon your return, you find yourself still struggling, you should inform someone in a position of authority.” Adalhard stared hard at Camellia and raised his eyebrows.

She caught his meaningful look and nodded. Maybe him?

With a flick of motion, Viorel stood and grabbed Adalhard’s attention. “Are you certain that this course of action is wise? My daughter is not well and, frankly, she struggles with this kind of thing often enough. I’m concerned that anthropology is not the right career for her.”

“The committee can’t know the entirety of her personal life, and there’s a limit to what we should know,” Adalhard said. “We feel that she’s a proven anthropologist, and it’s not easy to train new ones, especially ones that show care for their work in the face of hardship.” Adalhard looked at Camellia, with what she thought was a touch of admiration.

Her heart beat faster.

“The choice to return is hers.” Adalhard turned to Camellia and added, “And, we do want you to come back.”

Again, Camellia nodded.

Viorel glared at Camellia, but she never took her eyes off Adalhard. Awash in her relief and thankfulness, she seemed immune to her father’s telepathic nudges.

“Well, if there’s nothing more?” Viorel said.

“That’s it,” Adalhard turned to the door. “If Camellia could see me out…?”

“Of course. Camellia.” Viorel gestured for her to take Adalhard to the exit.

Camellia shuffled out of the room and led Adalhard to the front door. She opened it and stepped through, with Adalhard close behind. Together, they stood on the porch in winter’s evening chill.

Before she could say goodbye, Adalhard placed his hand on the knob, still held in Camellia’s own hand. His hand brushed her’s, and he pulled the door closed, until the interior lay behind a thin crack. She left her hand on the knob, but he withdrew his.

“I wished your father my condolences, and I would like to wish you the same.”

“Oh, thank you. They all seem to have moved on. Of course, they were here when she was sick, and I…”

“You don’t need to explain it to me,” Adalhard hurried to stop her. They stood in silence. The wind blew. “Are...you alright here?”

For a moment, Camellia’s eyes darted up to meet his. “I’m fine.”

Adalhard nodded. “I see. If you like, I can arrange a place for you to stay.”

“No. I don’t need that.”

Adalhard sighed. “Consider it. Remember to rest and stay away from work. See that psychologist.” Adalhard pulled another card from his pocket.

“You gave me one,” Camellia objected, but she took the card anyway.

“I know. You put it down on the table,” Adalhard said, with more than a hint of suggestive suspicion. “If you don’t remember the name, you might need another.”

Camellia looked at the card. She barely registered the name.

“This leave has a purpose. I hope you’ll use it wisely.” Adalhard glanced at the window. “I have to return tonight. Get well, and I look forward to seeing you in three months.”

Camellia managed a small smile and waved goodbye. She watched Adalhard descend the porch and unhitch his horse from a nearby post. He mounted his horse, taking a final look at the house and a short glance at Camellia. Then, he turned his horse to the road and left.

Camellia tucked the psychologist’s card into her bodice. For a moment, she determined to use the card, but the feeling faded. Feeling nothing but tired, she re-entered the house. She sighed with relief to find Viorel in the hall and planned to keep him distracted that evening with card games. She would play well into the night that Adalhard rode through.