In the evening, I searched for her after dinner—she had been absent, her appetite as fickle as the wind. My shoes were quiet upon the stone floor, the shyness of my childhood teaching me to creep like a mouse through my father’s home. Countless rooms, most locked from disuse, passed me by, but the décor of the hallway glistened in the fading light.

A gaggle of giggling servant girls gossiped from behind the open door of a storage closet. “. . . claims she’s tired all the time and cannot work. Says she has nightmares of some demon.”

“I hear she’s been lifting her skirts a few too many times for the gardener. Perhaps it finally caught up to―”

The women looked startled at my passing, watching me like a doe appearing from the forest. Were my appearances truly so rare? I passed them by, a silent ghost haunting my own home.

Great double doors led to a room never used, not in my nineteen years of living. I was surprised to see one slightly ajar. With trepidation, though I already suspected the truth, I peeked within.

A sole figure stood within the grand ballroom, perfectly centered beneath the chandelier. The sunset illuminated the rich décor through enormous windows dotting the western wall and, cast in shadows of orange and gold, Carmilla admired the cloth-covered statues and unlit candelabras upon the wall. Glittering lights from the glass chandelier, refracted from the fading sun, burst across the floor. She stood among a sea of stars, her skin celestial and alight.

I stepped inside; she turned at my entrance. “I hadn’t the honor of seeing this room during your father’s tour of his home. Absolutely spectacular.” She continued her turn, twirling as though dancing, her gown sweeping around her feet. “And you’ve never been to a ball, you say?”

I shut the door and shook my head as I approached. “I’ve never seen this room in use. When my father and mother were engaged, my grandfather threw an engagement party and invited the entire countryside. But that was the last time it was used.” I let my next words mull about my mouth, nearly choking on them before they escaped. “Perhaps the next time will be my own.”

Carmilla stole my hands when I approached, both of us glittering beneath a rainbow of glass. “To your general?”

Horrified, I shushed her. “No one is to know that. Everyone gossips here. My father would be furious if the news came back to him.”

There was a wickedness to her grin that made my blood race. She placed my hand on her shoulder, and then her own at my waist. “The waltz is back in fashion. I am an atrocious teacher, but I can at least teach you to count in threes.”

She did—tried to, at least, my feet stumbling while hers were light. Though weakness drove her languid motions, she led as well as she could, a gentleman in masquerade.

I wondered, were she a gentleman, if my increasing affection for her would be the same.

In steps of three, but in a square, I shambled along. After a few too many stumbled and scattered apologies, I said, “You must think me so droll.”

“Whatever do you mean, my darling?” We stopped our steps, simply swaying now upon the stone floor, beneath the sea of lights.

“I cannot dance, much less walk like a proper lady, but even underneath your illness, you have so much grace in your steps. And look at you―” I did so, admiring the brocade of her silken gown, the dark sea of her hair as it fell in perfectly pinned ringlets. “. . . you said yourself you love the energy of cities. You know fashion and parties better than I ever could. I feel like a silly country girl standing next to you.”

Our bodies touched, though my skirts and corset prevented me from feeling her. A terrible cage, keeping us apart—

By God—that was dangerous thinking.

I might’ve stumbled back for shock, but Carmilla held me gently enthralled. “You are perfect, my darling. You’re perfect, and you are mine. I could never think less of you.”

She thought the world of me, and I felt like a wolf romancing a lamb. “You hardly know me.”

“I told you—we met thirteen years ago. That nearly makes me your oldest friend.” Carmilla’s blush blossomed in tandem with the light fading from the window. Drenched in darkness, she whispered, “Not a silly country girl—a princess in a tower.”

I saw nothing, merely felt her hand in mine, the slight pressure of her other on my waist. Our steps had stopped—we simply held each other in the dark. “Your romanticism puts poets to shame,” I whispered back, my other senses alight in lieu of my missing sight.

I heard her chuckle, girlish and sweet. “But aren’t you the poet, my Laura? You and your secret writings.” She took her hand off my waist; instead, it burned my neck as she caressed her fingers along the curve.

Nervous, I reach up and clutched her hand, gently pulling it away. “We should go—I scare in the dark―”

“The dark?” Her laughter shouldn’t have intoxicated me so. “Darling, darling, the dark has never hurt a soul. Perhaps be more concerned for its inhabitants.”

If the words were meant to set me at ease, she failed. But her laughter lightened our path as she escorted me to the hallway.