Nocturnes

And Miss Froom?

Well, suffice it to say that Miss Froom was thinking of Edward in return.

As the light began to fade, Miss Froom suggested that they finish up, and inquired if Edward might like to step inside for some tea. Edward readily agreed, and was about to take a seat at Miss Froom’s kitchen table when she asked him if he wouldn’t like to wash his hands first. Now it was Edward’s turn to be embarrassed, but Miss Froom hushed him and led him by the hand up the stairs, where she showed him into her spotlessly clean bathroom and handed him a towel, a wash-cloth, and a bar of clear soap.

“Remember,” she said. “Right up to the elbows, and don’t neglect your face and neck. You’ll feel better for it.”

Once she had left the room, Edward removed his shirt and cleaned himself scrupulously. The soap smelled a little fu

“Wear this,” said Miss Froom. “No point in being clean in a dirty shirt. I’ll let the other soak while we eat.”

Edward took the garment and put it on. It felt a little rough against his skin, and there were small rust-colored stains upon the sleeve and the shoulders, but compared to his own shirt it was spotless. Truth be told, Edward’s shirt had not been entirely fresh before he began his labors on behalf of Miss Froom, and he rather hoped that the lady in question would ascribe its unfortunate state to his exertions in her garden and not to any lapse in personal hygiene on his own part.

When he returned to the kitchen, Edward saw that there was an array of cheeses and cold meats displayed upon the table. There were also assorted pastries and biscuits, and finally there was a large fruitcake that still steamed slightly from the oven.

“Were you expecting someone?” Edward asked.

Actually, it looked to Edward as if Miss Froom was expecting a whole team of someones, and that he had seen less lavish spreads at the end of village cricket games.

“Oh,” said Miss Froom. “You never know when company will drop by.”

She poured him some tea and Edward, famished, began to eat. He was finishing his third sandwich before he noticed that the woman on the other side of the table was not joining him.

“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

“I have a disorder,” said Miss Froom. “It limits what I can eat.”

Edward didn’t press the lady further. He was largely ignorant about the female body, but he had learned from his father that such ignorance was only right and proper. There was, he gathered, nothing worse for a man than to inadvertently set foot in the minefield marked “Women’s Troubles.” Edward decided to make for less dangerous territory.

“You have a nice house,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Miss Froom.

There was another lull in their discourse. Edward, unused to taking tea with strange ladies in their kitchens while wearing unfamiliar shirts, was struggling to keep the conversation going.

“You’re not, er…?” he began. “Um, I mean, is there a-”

“No,” said Miss Froom, cutting him off at the pass. “I’m not married.”

“Oh,” said Edward. “Right.”

Miss Froom smiled at him. The temperature in the kitchen appeared to Edward to rise a couple of degrees.

“Have a bun,” said Miss Froom.

She extended the plate of pastries toward him. Edward opted for a lemon tart. It disintegrated as soon as he bit into it, showering him with crumbs. Miss Froom, who had stood to pour him some more tea, placed the teapot back on its stand and brushed softly at Edward’s shirtfront with the palm of her hand.

Edward nearly choked on his tart.

“Let me get you some water,” said Miss Froom, but as she turned she staggered slightly, apparently about to fall. Edward rose swiftly and held her shoulders, then helped her back to her seat. She looked even paler than before, he thought, although her lips were redder yet.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little weak lately. The winter was hard.”

Edward inquired if she needed a doctor, but Miss Froom told him that she did not. Instead, she asked him to go to the refrigerator and retrieve from it the bottle that stood beside the milk. Edward did as he was told, noting as he opened the door that the interior of the fridge was very cold indeed, and returned with a red wine bottle.

“Pour me some, please,” said Miss Froom.

Edward poured the liquid into a cup. It was more viscous than wine, and had a faint but decidedly unpleasant smell. It reminded Edward of the inside of a butcher’s shop.

“What is it?” he asked, as Miss Froom took a long mouthful.

“Rat’s blood,” said Miss Froom, wiping a little dribble from her chin with a napkin.

Edward felt certain that he had misheard, but the stench from the cup told him that he had not.

“Rat’s blood?” he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. “Why are you drinking rat’s blood?”

“Because it is all that I have,” said Miss Froom, as though the answer were obvious. “If I had anything of higher quality, then I would be drinking that instead.”

Edward wondered how hard it could be to acquire something tastier than rodent’s blood, and decided that it couldn’t be very difficult at all.

“What about, er, wine?” he suggested.

“Well, wine isn’t blood, is it, dear?” said Miss Froom gently, in the tone teachers are accustomed to use with the slower children in the class, the kind who sup from ink pots and misjudge the time it takes to get to the toilet.

“But why blood at all?” asked Edward. “I mean, you know, it’s not what people usually drink.”

Miss Froom was now sipping delicately, if distastefully, at her glass.

“I suppose you’re right, but it is all that I can drink. It’s all that gives me sustenance. Without it, I would die. Any blood will do, really, although I don’t care much for goat’s blood. It tastes a little strong. And rat’s blood, naturally, is a last resort.”

Edward sat down heavily.

“All a bit much for you, is it?” asked Miss Froom. She patted his hand lightly. Her skin was almost translucent. Edward thought he could see bones through it.

“What kind of person drinks blood?” asked Edward. He shook his head at the awfulness of it.

“Not a person,” said Miss Froom. “I don’t think I can call myself that any longer. There is another word for what I am, although I don’t like to hear it used. It has such…negative co

It took Edward a moment to figure out the word for himself. He wasn’t very smart, but then Miss Froom liked that about him.

“Is the word va-?” Edward began, but Miss Froom interrupted him before he could speak it, flinching slightly as she did so.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s the one.”

Edward quickly moved away from Miss Froom, putting as much distance between them as he could, until he realized that he had backed himself into a corner.

“Stay away from me,” he said. He rummaged under his shirt and removed a small silver cross. It was about half an inch long, and he had trouble holding it between his thumb and forefinger without hiding it altogether.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Miss Froom. “I’m not going to hurt you. And put that away: it doesn’t work anyway.”

Edward kept the cross outstretched for a moment or two more, then, rather sheepishly, put it back inside the shirt. Nevertheless, he stayed as far away as possible from the now faintly threatening woman at the table. His eyes cast around for possible weapons to use in the event of an attack, but the only heavy object he could see was the fruitcake.

“So it’s not true, then, about crosses and suchlike?” he said.