In typical me fashion, it's taking almost a year to complete uploading this fic. Rest assured, though, that these updates will be more frequent now.


"I have been in love with no one, and never shall . . . unless it should be with you."

-Carmilla, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu


Bonnie can hardly concentrate as she accompanies the inspector through the forest. The first thing she had done when she had woken that morning was to examine her neck to find some trace of the...attack. She could not deny that she had felt foolish, being so ruffled over something as trivial as a dream - no, a nightmare - but the pain had felt so real, so immediate that she hadn't been able to resist checking for some evidence. But there had been nothing. Not even a scratch.

Bonnie raises a hand to her throat now, rubbing at the base of it, at the memory of where a wound should be.

"Are you feeling alright, Miss Bennett?" Inspector Alaric casts a concerned look from under his prickly brows. "Would you like to rest for awhile?"

Bonnie looks up, silent for a moment, before attempting a smile. "No, it is quite alright, Inspector. It is best that we continue on, I think."

When Bonnie had finally made her way downstairs that morning, it was to be greeted by Madame Pearce with news of the inspector's impending visit. There was nothing like a cadaver to spur a lady into proactivity.

"I was surprised to find that you were able to oblige us at such short notice, Inspector." It is Bonnie's turn to examine the other's countenance. His face is pleasant but composed, carefully shuttered as it always is. The way Bonnie has always remembered it.

"Well, you must admit, my dear, that these are slightly strange circumstances." He smiles, stressing the word "slightly." Never mind the fact that whenever he visits the Bennett household it is always under strange circumstances. "I thought I had better pay a visit myself."

Bonnie nods and turns away. The inspector's words only makes the uneasiness inside her sit a little heavier. Ever since the visitor - Klaus, she cannot even think his name without feeling her cheeks burn - fell into her arms, she has not been able to rid herself of the shadowing sensation that things are not quite as they should be. And yet if she were asked to name this feeling of wrongness she would be at a loss. It is as if a constant cloud hovers over her, darkening every footstep, muddying every thought.

Bonnie stays near the edge of the gravel road, keeping her eyes peeled for the turn in the path where she had hid the coachman's corpse. She leads the way, striding to the bend, suddenly eager to be finished with this grim mission. But as she draws nearer to the spot her steps slow. She pushes aside the tangled, low-hanging branches in one swoop, not bothering to hide her abilities in front of the inspector. As an old acquaintance of the Bennett family he is one of the few who does not seem to find her skills repulsive.

"I don't understand," Bonnie murmurs, staring through the dense foliage, almost trying to will the cadaver into appearing. "This was where we left him."

"Are you quite certain? Might it not have been another spot?"

Bonnie shakes her head, still staring at the underbrush. "No, I am certain this is it. Madame Pearce was right here, she pointed out this spot."

The inspector's shoes crunch over the gravel as he paces up and down the road, eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

"I suppose it is possible that he rolled over the incline. There was some rather heavy rain last night."

Bonnie frowns, and her mind scrambles to bring up the memory of splattered windows, or the rushing sound of rain as she slept. Instead, all that floods her mind is embarrassment.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, turning to hide her flushed cheeks from the inspector.

"I might return with a few of my men later in the day. We will let you know if we come across anything. I hope it is alright if I call in at the castle later today?"

There is something cautious in the inspector's voice that makes Bonnie turn back to him.

"Of course," she says, and then realizes that it will be his first visit since the death of her grandmother.

There is a short pause before he gives a brief nod, tips his hat to her, and walks off.


"Well, dear, what did he say? Did he see the body? Does he not think it strange? Did he not accompany you back? I say, that is very inconsiderate indeed, especially when there are coachmen dropping like flies around here."

Madame Pearce's chain of questioning ends in blustery indignation at Bonnie's expense.

"It was one coachman," Bonnie replies, half smiling. Then her smile drops. "And we couldn't find him."

"Couldn't find him? Whatever do you mean?"

"He wasn't there where we left him." Bonnie lowers herself onto the chair by the table. They are in their usual sitting room, with the weak autumn light streaming through the bay windows, and the fire crackling merrily in the grate. Bonnie stretches her legs, crossing her stockinged feet near the heat of the flames.

"But - wherever could he be? He can't have been magicked away."

Bonnie gives her a single, wordless glance before resting her head on the back of the chair.

"Now, Bonnie, you know what I mean."

"The inspector seems to think the body might have slid down the incline due to all the rain last night."

"Oh." That stops the lady for a minute. "Yes, well, I suppose - I can see how that might be the case."

At least someone else recalls something of last night's weather. Though it irks Bonnie that she cannot recall this for herself.

"Is -" Bonnie clears her throat. "How is our visitor doing?"

"It would seem he is still sleeping," Mrs Pearce remarks, with a disapproving sniff. "I really would call that physician if I were you, my girl. Leah knocked on his door earlier to inquire about lunch but there was no answer."

Bonnie nods, heart sinking a little. She had hoped to question him at lunch. Curiosity swelled in her when she was around him, and yet her questions seemed to lodge in her throat in his presence. Perhaps his prolonged absence was a boon. It would give her some time to clear her head, to remember herself.

There's a short knock at the door, and Leah's ruffle-capped head peaks through.

"Oh, Miss Bonnie, you're back." She slips through the doorway to give a small bob before continuing breathlessly. "You will never guess, miss, but I've found some old things of your grandmam's."

Bonnie sits up in her chair. Madame Pearce's eyes quickly flit to hers.

"Of my grandmother's? Are you quite certain?"

"Yes, miss." Leah is beaming with her news.

"But…" Bonnie frowns. "I was sure we had accounted for all of her belongings."

"Well, miss, it's a small chest – easily missed - I found it in the back of the old guest bedroom in the East Wing - yesterday, when we prepared the room for the visitor, in point of fact. I've had Robert place it in your room, miss."

"Very well, thank you, Leah." Bonnie stands up, smooths her skirts, and turns to Madame Pearce. "Would you mind terribly if I cut our talk short?"

The lady, who had just taken a sip of tea, shakes her head, squeaking through pursed lips. "Of - of course not, my dear." She coughs. "I shall see you at lunch, I suppose?"

Bonnie rushes out of the room, barely managing a nod in response.


She feels like a child, tripping through the long hallways at an almost run. It embarrasses her, this urgency, but at the same time she cannot pretend it away, because this extra remnant, this as yet undiscovered surprising part of her grandmother makes it feel like another stolen moment with her.

She has to pass the guest bedroom where he's sleeping and her feet slow of their own accord, almost stopping though she manages not to.

For a castle that seems to have been asleep for the past few weeks, it is now unraveling with mystery and surprises. She can only wonder how much it will unravel.

She reaches her room, and her heartbeat slows down when she sees the small trunk awaiting her at the foot of her bed.

It is small, but heavy. It has no embellishments. It is a plain, faded trunk, and if Bonnie's suspicions are correct, she will most likely find aged household receipts or some other woefully quotidian detail about her grandmother's activities. All the same she cannot help brushing over the metal lock with a soft longing.

And that's when she realizes that there is no key. Leah would certainly have mentioned it if she had found one, but Bonnie looks around for one anyway, even peering under the bed to make sure she has not missed it in her eagerness.

But there is nothing. Only the box sitting there, staring at her, as if to say "Well. What now?"

Bonnie tries to pry it open, feels the warmth of the magic seep from her fingertips, slide over the metal hinges. It seems to bulge, there is even a tiny creak, but there is nothing beyond that. The chest refuses to open.


It is not unusual that they change for dinner. But Bonnie does not usually take so long at the dressing table, fussing over her hair, or taking such care choosing a dress from her wardrobe. She avoids her own eyes in the mirror, not caring to examine the reason for her sudden change in habits. She twirls her fingers and her hair coils atop her head in soft curls, kept in place by small rosebuds. The deep pink of her gown seems to glow in the candlelight, and for a moment Bonnie allows herself to imagine that she isn't Bonnie Bennett, lone witch, and grieving granddaughter. She allows herself to imagine that, instead, she is just a girl with a dancing heart and flushed cheeks, a girl who might twirl in a rose coloured dress under the glittering lights of a thousand candles. A girl who need only worry about whether she will let her suitor take her by the hand when she is wearing no gloves.

Bonnie clasps her hands together and rubs them softly. When she does look in the mirror, the girl she sees is not the one in her mind. This one has eyes as heavy as her heart, and her pink dress seems to barely hide the sense of fragility that she feels. She sees only what she wants to blot out, what she cannot change.

With a jerk of her hand she snuffs out the candle.

He only appears when they retire to the parlour for coffee, following an entire hour at the dinner table when Bonnie had tried to pretend to herself and Madame Pearce that she was not disappointed.

His dark eyes find her as soon as he enters the rooms, and all thoughts of lost girls and weighted hearts flee from Bonnie's mind.

"Good evening." He bows deeply before taking a seat, leaning the cane Bonnie had given him earlier against the chair's arm. His brown curls come alive in the light of the fire, sitting in fluid contrast against his black coat.

"Good evening, sir," Madame Pearce says stoutly, taking the cup of coffee that Bonnie floats in front of her. "I am sorry that you missed dinner. I can ring for Leah and have a tray brought for you."

"Please, do not trouble yourself on my account. I am quite alright, I assure you. A cup of coffee should be perfectly fine." His eyes follow Bonnie's movements as she directs the coffee to pour itself into a cup, before sending it, sitting in its saucer, to where he sits. He takes the cup and saucer with the slow smile that is already starting to become familiar to her.

And yet every movement of her own seems new and alien to Bonnie. Her fingertips seem to shy from his glance when they brush her skirt down, and the skin of her throat aches at the dream-memory of those kisses.

It is as if he can see into her mind because his eyes linger on her throat for a minute. Bonnie's breathing slows. She is captivated by the curl of his mouth that hides behind the rim of the cup.

"Now, tell me, my dear." Madame Pearce's voice breaks through the haze. "Did you have better luck with the chest after lunch?"

It takes a moment for Bonnie to realize that the lady is speaking to her and not to their visitor. The locked, unrelenting chest had been more of a disappointment than she had anticipated, and she had excused herself from lunch, insisting that a long walk would do her good. In truth, she had only wanted to avoid Madame Pearce's questions.

Bonnie shakes her head now in reply. It hadn't been for want of trying, but it had stubbornly refused to reveal its contents.

"A mysterious chest, two lovely ladies in a castle. It all makes for a very intriguing plot for a novel, don't you think?"

Bonnie turns to see Klaus smiling over his cup.

"Don't forget the strange visitor." Bonnie's voice is unexpectedly sharp.

He chuckles and raises his cup to her. "Quite right," he says, taking a sip. "Though you will see, by and by, that I am not so strange."

Madame Pearce clears her throat, and Bonnie gratefully breaks the gaze.

"You will forgive my impudence, sir, but who, pray tell, is your family? From where do you hail?"

Klaus is silent for a moment before answering. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It is a subject which causes me some grief. You see, I suffered the passing of my father recently."

There is a soft gasp from Madame Pearce, and her eyes quickly flit in Bonnie's direction before turning back to Klaus.

"Allow me to offer my condolences, sir."

Klaus bows his head. "Thank you. He was the only family I had. It has been a... trying time."

"Were you on your way to his funeral when the carriage broke down?"

Bonnie's question has Madame Pearce turning to her in shock. Bonnie doesn't know what has come over herself, and if the look Madame Pearce gives her is any indication, the lady is wondering the same thing. Bonnie cannot quite voice her frustration, but she knows that it stems from the carefully controlled demeanour of their guest. Every calculated movement, every ponderous turn of the head seems well-rehearsed. Nothing seems to surprise him.

He looks at her now with his carefully shuttered eyes, and his lips are almost on the brink of a smile. Which is puzzling, considering her question.

"No, my lady," he murmurs. "I was finishing up some business with his lawyers. It has been some time now since I buried my father."

Bonnie tries not to blink as he stares at her. The symmetry of their situations is striking, as is the evasiveness of his words.

Madame Pearce clears her throat once again. "I uh...hesitate to be the bearer of more ill-favoured news, sir, but I am afraid your coachman has vanished."

Klaus shakes his head. "I am not surprised. He did not seem particularly forthcoming with his help when I hired him. He is a carriage-hand from the stables at Matlock Inn, not 7 miles from here, and I do not believe they pay their employees well. They are probably prone to abandoning their patrons."

"Ah. No, I mean, to say that – well, you see, when we found you yesterday, he was – that is to say-"

"He was dead." They turn to stare at Bonnie again. "In fact, it looked as if he had not been particularly healthy when he was alive."

"Bonnie! My dear, I must say, this is not at all proper conversation for a young lady."

"That may be, Madame Pearce, but considering the state of affairs, I think we can temporarily forego what is "proper."

Klaus coughs into his cup, and Bonnie is almost certain that he is laughing at her. Almost. When he looks up again his face is the picture of composure.

"Perhaps the force of the crash was fatal? As to the state of his health when he was alive, I really cannot say. You see, I only made his acquaintance two days ago when I hired the carriage."

"Yes, you said." Bonnie pauses. "And this morning, when I accompanied the inspector to search for his corpse -" she ignores Madame Pearce's wince - "we discovered that it had vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Vanished, sir."

"Puzzling, indeed," he muses. "I did not know corpses were in the habit of playing hide and seek."

Bonnie clenches her teeth, tries to swallow down her ire with a sip of coffee. His eyes are most definitely lit with amusement, and she can feel her own fire up in irritation.

"Ah, you never told us about your family, sir," Madame Pearce reminds him.

Klaus smiles politelyover the rim of his cup. "You are correct, ma'am. We come from an old name, Mihăiță, now with a crumbling family line. My mother passed when I was but an infant - my father really was all the family I could boast."

Madame Pearce tsks sympathetically.

Bonnie is very still.

"And what may I ask is your story?" He smiles at Madame Pearce, and it is easy for Bonnie to imagine him in a ballroom, charming the society mamas into letting their daughters dance with him all night. "Has this castle always housed two lovely roses?"

To Bonnie's astonishment Madame Pearce giggles. Bonnie cannot remember when the lady last giggled.

"You are too kind, sir," she smiles, before sipping her coffee.

"Oh, I am never accused of that, I assure you." His lips curve in a slow smile. "Though – I must ask, and I hope I am not being impudent, but are the two of you related?" His eyes flit between Bonnie and Madame Pearce.

"Oh, oh no! You see this castle belonged to Bonnie's grandmother. I knew Sheila from our school days, and she was kind enough to invite me to live with her in our twilight years."

"I see," Klaus murmurs, his puzzled eyes trailing to Bonnie.

"My grandmother passed away not three weeks ago," she says, answering his unspoken question.

"Ah." Her answer seems to have thrown him. Of all the things that she thought might surprise him, this is certainly not it.

"Did you know my grandmother?"

There is a beat of silence before he answers. "No. No I did not. I was simply struck by the similarity of our situations."

Bonnie stays silent, waits for him to say something politely banal.

He frowns. When he does speak, it is with the slowness that comes with untangling thoughts. "It is not easy to lose a...loved one so young. The world appears both vast and miniscule afterwards." He is no longer looking at Bonnie, his eyes fixed instead on the flames. Despite their warm glow, his gaze holds an underlying coolness.

He moves to set his cup down on the small table next to him. "Excuse me," he says, taking up the cane and slowly rising to his feet. "I am getting rather tired. I believe I will retire."

Madame Pearce coughs, and Bonnie realises with a jolt that the lady is still in the room.

"It is time we all retired." Madame Pearce stands up, gathering her ruffled skirts in her hands, and turns to Bonnie. "Come, my dear."

Bonnie stands too, though her heart sinks. She feels she has barely scratched the surface of the mystery that is their guest.

Her feelings must show on her face because as she passes him he takes her hand and bends closer to whisper in her ear. "I fear that you think me strange still."

"I must admit I do not begin to understand you at all." The words slip out of her mouth without permission.

His low chuckle seems to caress her skin. "Understanding will certainly come. I am optimistic. As someone once said to me, it is not naive to hope." He guides her out into the hallway, letting the softly spoken words linger between them.

Bonnie feels her brow knot. The words are like a faint spark in the deep recesses of her mind.

"Till tomorrow," he murmurs, and with a final press of his hand, he dissolves into the shadows of the hallway.


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