Rebecca woke, slowly, with a slight sense of disorientation. The bed didn't feel right, though her senses told her she was in a familiar place. Opening her eyes, she saw a high ceiling and very little else; she inhaled the smell of old books and polished woodwork that she could identify as the Tremere chantry. The bed in her room had a high canopy, however, and heavy wood posts supporting it, and this bed had none.
Looking around, she saw the high bookcases and spare furnishings of Steven's bedroom, and breathed a small sigh. She was in his bed, his heavy quilt tucked in around her. Turning back the covers, she noticed that she was half-dressed, with only her skirt and shoes removed; looking to the side, she saw her glasses on the bedside table. She put them on and sat up.
Steven was nowhere in evidence, either in the bedroom or in what she could see of the room through the archway. She found her skirt draped over the foot of the bed, her shoes beneath it. She slipped them on and wandered into the main room.
Area rugs felt soft under her feet, covering portions of the hardwood floor. There were few furnishings even here: a heavy desk with a chair, a few tables, a small couch, an armchair. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with old volumes and a few items; the polished brass of the astrolabe caught her eye as she looked over the shelves.
The armchair was turned partly away from where she stood, but she could see Steven's hand resting on the arm, his knee jutting beyond it. She remembered that she had fallen asleep next to it, sitting on a pilfered couch cushion, her head resting on his leg; the cushion was gone, now, back on the couch. As she came around the chair, she realized that there was no book in his lap, and his head was turned to the side, his eyes closed.
"Steven?" He didn't respond. A sudden thought struck her, and she looked at her watch: twelve-thirty p.m. It was daylight, then, just after noon. She looked at him again, feeling a little guilty that she had slept in his bed, and he was sleeping in his own armchair, without even a blanket.
He seemed peaceful enough, his face and posture relaxed, though she grew a little uneasy as she watched him; after a minute, she realized that she had subconsciously been waiting for him to breathe, or move a little in his sleep. He did neither, remaining completely still. Almost of its own accord, her hand crept out and touched his. It was cold, dry, lifeless, as his skin nearly always was, but it drove home suddenly the fact that he was dead, and had been for longer than she had known him.
She snatched her hand back, unnerved, and as she regarded the lifeless form in the chair, a small fear began to grow in the back of her mind. Looking him over, she saw nothing amiss, his appearance much as usual: hair down around his shoulders, glasses in his breast pocket, his sleeves rolled up halfway to his elbows, wearing his customary slacks and vest. No wounds were evident, no signs of attack or distress, simply a neutral expression.
Rebecca realized she was barely breathing and stepped back, inhaling slowly. She had seen a few dead bodies, mostly at the morgue when police asked her to identify a client; seeing a man she loved dearly lying cold and still shook her to the core, no matter that she knew intellectually that he had been dead for a long time.
The small, gnawing fear became a growing panic. He wasn't moving at all, showing no sign of animation whatsoever -- what if he didn't wake up? Not only was he dear to her, he was also her protector, her domitor. Would some other Tremere take her as their ghoul? She shuddered, not wanting to think about that.
She racked her brain, trying to think of all that she had heard about vampires falling into torpor. It happened when they were badly wounded, she knew, and probably when they were too low on blood -- but Steven had no obvious wounds, and he had gone hunting just the other day. She couldn't remember whether staking drove them into torpor, but there was no evidence of that, either.
Feld had been comatose when she and Greg Stanton had rescued him, stiff and unresponsive. His state had bothered her less, partly because she had never thought of him as human, and partly because she had believed he was truly dead for quite a while. The fact that they had found his corpse had reassured her that he hadn't met final death after all, and Greg's matter-of-fact attempts to revive him had shown her that there was hope he would come back.
She looked at Steven again, feeling a great deal less confident than when she had regarded Feld. She had always seen Steven as human, thinking of him as Kindred only with difficulty. The urge rose in her to grab him and shake him -- she repressed it, telling herself that he wouldn't wake up during the day. She was panting, almost hysterical with panic, and she closed her eyes, trying to calm down.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was midday; sunset wasn't for another six or seven hours. Torpor or not, Steven wouldn't wake until then -- she should probably leave him here and tend to herself and any duties she had.
Taking one last look at him, she turned and walked to the door, resolutely ignoring the fear pounding at her. She went out into the hall and smiled, shakily, when she caught herself trying to close the door with as little noise as possible -- it was hard to remember that it wouldn't wake him.
Feeling a little unreal, she walked the short distance to her room, entering and heading to the bureau for a change of clothes. Taking them up, she headed into the bathroom shared by her room and another guest room -- currently vacant -- and climbed into the shower.
She took a long, leisurely time under the hot water. It woke her up somewhat, making her feel a bit more alert and normal. Her stomach woke up as well, letting her know that, while Steven didn't need to eat every day, she had better remember to. She dressed, combed her hair out, and ventured downstairs.
Alice greeted her at the door to the kitchen, working on chopping vegetables for what looked like soup. Rebecca murmured absently in return, pouring herself a glass of water and contemplating food. Most of the ghouls slept irregular hours, taking a few here, a few there, to be awake during the day as well as at night. There was a kind of informal arrangement of who was up when; she and Alice tended to share much the same schedule, while Michael and Vladimir kept different hours.
"Sleep well?" Alice inquired, slicing carrots. "You look tired."
Rebecca shrugged, finishing her water and turning to the refrigerator. "I must have overslept."
After a minute or two of poking around the refrigerator, she realized that her thoughts weren't on what she was looking at. She closed the door and wandered to the counter, taking a slice of bread and tearing it apart moodily. Alice eyed her, but was silent, and after a few minutes, Rebecca found a plate with a couple of carrots and a sandwich placed in front of her. Looking up, she found Alice slicing onions at the cutting board, her back turned.
Rebecca smiled a little, and took the plate to a table, pouring herself a glass of milk and settling into a chair. The sandwich was turkey; there were a couple of vegetarians in the chantry, but Alice knew that Rebecca wasn't one of them. She ate absently, her mind elsewhere, and got up to wash her plate and glass.
As she put them away, Alice said conversationally, "The light in the back hall on the second floor is out, near the study with the fireplace... Would you mind replacing it?"
Rebecca roused a little. "No, not at all."
Alice nodded. "You'll find the bulbs in the cupboards above the washer -- that light is a 60, I think -- and a ladder in the broom closet at the top of the stairs."
As Rebecca turned toward the back of the kitchen, heading for the laundry, Alice called, "Rebecca?"
"Yes?" She paused.
"After I set this soup to simmer, I'll be making the rounds of the bathrooms. Would you like to join me? It goes faster with two."
Thinking about what she was going to do until sundown, she seized on an opportunity to keep busy. "Sure." She reflected, as she got to the laundry room and hunted for a bulb, that Alice knew something distressed her, and blessed the woman for not prying. She wasn't sure how anyone else would react if she told them what was worrying her; even she knew that her fears were silly, though that didn't banish them. The ghouls were all old hands with vampires, accustomed to their habits, and might laugh if she told them her reaction.
As she thought about him, the fear rose up, and she had to pause for a moment, hands shaking as she gripped the light bulb. She told herself it would be all right, she just had to keep busy, and forced herself to keep going.
Rebecca found the ladder, and set to changing the light in the second-floor hall. The study Alice had mentioned was the only public room with a fireplace, though there were a few others in private chambers. The first time Rebecca had seen the room, she had noted the fireplace; taking a closer look, she had realized that there was no trace of ash around it, not even a faint smell of burning, and that there was no wood anywhere in evidence. She had smiled, greatly amused, remembering the Kindred fear of fire.
Climbing down, she put the ladder away, and looked in on the study on her way down the hall. Seeing the immaculate fireplace, she smiled again, then went and joined up with Alice to do the weekly scrub of the bathrooms. Two people or not, it was nearly six before they finished, and the soup was almost done.
Alice adjusted the seasonings a little as Rebecca put some bread in the oven to warm; at Alice's direction, she went out and made the rounds of the chantry, informing whatever ghouls were awake that dinner was available. She came back to the kitchen just as Alice dished out a bowl and handed it to her.
Obediently, Rebecca got a spoon and sat, touched a little by the older woman's care. The kitchen was comfortably warm and smelled of soup and baking bread, lending it a friendly atmosphere. A couple of others trickled in as she ate, the soup warming and relaxing her.
She finished and washed her bowl, feeling very much at home, even though she had only a passing acquaintance with some of those here. No matter -- she was one of them, accepted, family. That knowledge was something she hadn't had for a long time, and it warmed her further, reminding her that the long year of terror was past, and she no longer had to be afraid.
The thought brought Steven to mind, and the fear for him returned full-force, catching her just outside the kitchen. She checked her watch: six-forty. The sun would set in less than half an hour; Daylight Saving Time was still in effect for another week or so, and sundown had been around seven lately.
She fought the urge to run to his rooms, still arriving somewhat out of breath. The windows in the entry hall, as she passed, had shown pale orange light, though the windows on this level were sealed and dark. She opened the door carefully and slipped inside.
All was exactly as she had left it. Steven was still in the armchair, looking like he had simply nodded off, but motionless and cold. She perched on the arm of the couch, studying him again, trying to detect some sign of life and failing. She checked her watch again. Fighting the urge to nibble her fingertips, she looked around the room, trying to distract herself.
Glancing again at her watch, she looked at him, aware of each passing second. The sun should set any minute, and she watched intently for any movement.
Nothing. She looked around the room again, her thoughts elsewhere, trying to ignore the terror rising in her as the minutes passed. It seemed like it had been an eternity, and she checked the time again, certain that the sun must have set by now. Seven-ten. Surely it had set at seven yesterday? She couldn't remember.
Her gaze flickered to Steven again, and she started a little when she realized that his eyes were open. She watched, frozen, as he raised his head and looked directly at her.
He blinked, frowning in puzzlement. "Did you want something?"
She couldn't move, still trying to register the fact that he had moved, he was awake, he was speaking to her. Her mouth opened, but nothing came, and Steven's frown deepened. Jolting herself out of her paralysis, she took a breath, dropping her eyes, and managed a faint "no."
She felt his gaze intensify, and averted her face, feeling her cheeks start to heat. Her relief faded, and she felt like a complete fool, worrying herself sick over nothing. She wanted to sink through the floor.
His voice held simple inquiry. "What are you doing, then?"
Blushing further, she muttered, "Nothing." She stood abruptly, fleeing to the other side of the room and pretending to study the astrolabe.
A moment passed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder, turning her around, then fingers lifting her chin. She met his eyes, her cheeks burning with shame, as he frowned again. His voice was firmer, pressing her. "What are you doing here?"
She closed her eyes, trying to hide her face again, but he kept a firm hold on her chin. Wishing herself anywhere else, she whispered, "I woke up and you were asleep... You looked so... I was afraid you... I wasn't sure you'd wake up, so I... I waited..." She stumbled to a halt.
There was a moment of silence as he put this together, and she felt his eyes running over her, taking in her distress and embarrassment. He chuckled softly, and she cringed, feeling more humiliated than she had ever been. His voice was soft, amused. "You thought I had slipped into torpor."
Wishing she could die on the spot, she just nodded. He released his hold on her, and she hid her face, hunching her shoulders under his amusement. She felt his hand on her arm, guiding her. "Come here." The humor had faded.
He took her to the couch, and she sat, Steven settling himself in the opposite corner with an arm draped along the back. "I didn't fall into torpor," he began, his tone patient and still slightly amused, "and if I looked completely dead, that's because I am. When we sleep, we lose all appearance of life; we become the corpses we really are. We become fully dead." He seemed to enjoy her discomfiture at that, and leaned forward to take her hand in his cold fingers. "I am not a living person, after all.
"We do not slip into torpor for no reason, either. It takes heavy damage, or blood loss -- or a decision to enter it voluntarily." Rebecca looked up, meeting his wry expression. "Believe me, I have no intention of sleeping for a couple of decades, so you have nothing to fear there." She blushed a little, again.
"So, are you reassured that I won't just drop into torpor some morning?" She nodded, still speechless, and he sighed and stood up. Taking the hand he offered her, she got up, unable to face him. He murmured her name, and she looked up.
The wry expression was gone, replaced by intent concern. Placing a cool hand on her cheek, he said, very softly, "I will not abandon you."
Closing her eyes, her tension dissolved, and she bowed her head and heaved a shuddering breath. He rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, then let her go. She took another deep breath and opened her eyes, raising her head to look at him where he stood, a step away, watching her.
He held her gaze until she dropped it, then moved toward the bedroom. She sat down on the arm of the couch again, and he emerged a few minutes later in a robe, with a hanger full of clothing. Coming over to her, he asked, "You'll be all right?"
She nodded, and he caressed her hair briefly and turned away, heading for the newly-cleaned bathroom. "Good. I found what might be the key to the doppelganger ritual last night, and I will require your assistance." Hooking the hanger over the doorknob to the bath, he ran an eye over her again. "You have taken care of yourself? Eaten? Then wait here, I'll want to start as soon as possible."
He closed the door, and she heard the shower. Kindred did not sweat, but they seemed to get a slightly musty smell after a while; Rebecca had found that Steven cleaned himself almost exactly once a week, like a ritual. She wondered whether he had been taught to do that, or whether he disliked the mustiness.
He was brief, the door opening only a few minutes later. She blinked to see him in only a pair of briefs, toweling his hair dry. She had never seen him in less than a robe, and she found herself looking him over in spite of herself. Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn't seem to notice.
He was thin, though not painfully so, with a very slender waist and broad shoulders which had stood out even when he was clothed. Ribs showed slightly when he tossed his hair back and straightened, bringing large collarbones into prominence. His legs were very long and thinner than she had guessed, though muscles stood out sharply on the thighs and calves, flexing as he shifted. His skin was very pale, perhaps even whiter than her own if one discounted the corpselike pallor of his complexion.
He drew on a shirt and began buttoning it. Rebecca found she couldn't look away, though she felt like she was intruding upon him somehow. The long, clean lines of him spoke of youth, though his face seemed older than his body suggested, perhaps from his years as a Kindred. His movements were casual, completely lacking in self-consciousness. Curiously, the lack of clothing in no way detracted from his dignity, as though he could stand naked in front of the world and it wouldn't bother him.
As he pulled on slacks and buttoned them, she tore her gaze away, embarrassed. After a moment, he padded barefoot into the bedroom, emerging after a minute or two with shoes and a vest on, pulling his damp hair back and tying it into his customary tail. He looked at her with no trace of discomfort, seemingly unaware that she had been watching him dress, or perhaps not caring.
He inclined his head and made a motion toward the door, and she hopped off the arm of the couch and preceded him out, waiting for him in the hall. As he led the way downward, toward the labs, she reflected that, though she had seen him almost completely naked, her interest had been completely asexual, born of simple curiosity. She seldom thought of him as sexual, though he was certainly erotic; the thought of having sex with him repelled her, no matter that she craved the ecstasy of his Kiss. He was, as he said, dead, and she had no taste for necrophilia, even had he shown any interest.
Steven unlocked the door of his lab and held it open for her. She paused in the doorway and looked up at him, remembering her fear when she thought he would not wake. Greatly daring, she put her hand on his cheek for a moment, letting it sink in that he truly was all right. He looked at her, unmoving and expressionless, his skin cool under her fingers. Giving him a small caress, she let her hand drop, and walked into the lab. He followed her without a word, and got briskly to work.