Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. It was perfectly legitimate. We're lost. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. ‘Come, mademoiselle. She laid her hand upon his arm.
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