Camellia extricated herself from the last pair of concerned eyes and headed to the AAH’s stairwell. As she fled the gathering of sympathetic colleagues, their feminine voices drifted down the hall:

“She’ll be alright.”

“Do you think she…”

“...I don’t know her very well, but I don’t think she hurt Sorin.”

“She is a dhampir. So many of them become hunters…”

“I just don’t know.”

Camellia clutched a heavy box and small drawstring bag to her breast. She opened the stairwell door, slipped inside, and let it close behind her. The voices stopped.

Closing her eyes for just a moment, Camellia paused and took a long breath.

Then, she walked to the steps and began to climb. The stairwell was quiet and empty, but each time she passed a new level, her heart beat fast. She worried someone would enter the stairway and join her on the climb.

No one did.

Several steps but only a few moments later, she stopped at her level. She stood before the door and rested her hand on the knob. Twilight, fast approaching night, twinkled through the stairwell window. Camellia knew someone would be in the hall beyond. Twilight was the time other anthropologists dressed for dinner, or retrieved items from their rooms, or had secret trysts with their lovers. Though, it didn’t matter what they did, she just knew someone would always be there. And, she hated it.

Camellia wanted to sigh, but she made no sound. Unwilling to go through the door, she stepped back, to avoid being hit, and waited in the stairwell.

She looked at her bag and box. As far as she knew, the small bag contained personal belongings that she had left at Sorin’s house. The same could not be said of the box, clearly labeled with the inscription: To Camellia, From Sorin Calaret. Not to be opened by others.

The box, left to her by her deceased lover, was worn, which meant it must be old. Sorin was so particular about his things. Maybe, that was why everyone ensured she got it. Even with Camellia under investigation concerning his death, they had allowed her to take the box, and the lock was intact. No one had peeked at her inheritance.

Camellia didn’t know where to find the key. As far as she knew, no one else did either. The executor at Sorin’s house offered to cleanly break the lock for her. She refused and said she would do it herself. When night came, she would snap the lock, and no one would glimpse what was inside but her. Camellia wrapped her arms around the box and tried to cover the inscription. She managed to hide most of it.

Now, Camellia could go into the hall. She twisted the knob, keeping her arms in the awkward concealing position. She opened the door.

No one greeted her. Every door stood closed. When the stairwell door swung shut, the hallway darkened, and Camellia traded every sound for silence.

Camellia walked the hall, no longer afraid that someone would exit a room. Through the eerie silence, she moved slow. She let her arms relax and allowed the inscription to show. She reached her door and balanced the box in one arm. Taking her key from her coat pocket, she unlocked and opened her bedroom.

Camellia found the space inside dark. The parchment colored walls reflected little light, and the brown molding and dark door reflected less. Still, she had more light in her room than in the hall.

Camellia entered and approached her small desk. She almost placed her new belongings on the worn surface but stopped.

A breeze whispered behind her, and Camellia turned around. She saw her door, open and gaping. Hadn’t she closed it?

A quick glance made it look like nothing lay beyond, just darkness. Camellia returned to her door, shut, and locked it.

She sighed and cradled her things. Camellia turned and walked to her bed. She almost sat, but again, she stopped. Frozen for a few moments, she regarded the box and the bag. Sorin had touched them. Now, she touched them. Camellia glanced behind her and saw that her skirt brushed the bed. In a way, Sorin now touched her bed.

Camellia stepped away. She lowered herself to the floor and placed the items down, bag atop box.

Camellia knew what she would find in the bag: stray underwear, a trinket, a prized bra. She pushed the bag to the side.

The box presented a mystery. Camellia knelt before it and slipped a knife under the lid. She broke the lock.

She caught her breath and opened the box.

Rocks and geodes gleamed back, catching the last light of day and the first light of the moon.

Camellia sighed. More rocks.

She picked up a geode of amethyst and admired it. Laying over the rocks, lounged a cloth necklace, a choker of black, with a red rose at the center.

This is nice. A present? Camellia grasped one end and lifted it, only to drop it on the nearby floor.

Another piece of jewelry glinted, Sorin’s large, silver dragon ring. Camellia tossed the ring outside the box. It tinged on the wood and rolled a foot away.

Camellia frowned and removed more rocks. Some she placed on the floor; others, she tossed. Camellia reached for yet another geode and paused. A page corner peeked out from behind Sorin’s collection. She tried to pull it free, but she had to remove more rocks to dislodge the papers.

When she finally freed the pages, she found some of Sorin’s archaeological notes. Most were outdated or already published, and she tossed them aside one by one.

Sorin had given her crap. Maybe, she could sell the gemstones. The papers she would give to the AAH and let others sort through them.

Camellia’s eyes narrowed as she reached the last paper. It was a large envelope with a letter affixed to the front:

My dear, dear Camellia,

I know you’ve been wanting these for the past few months. How long has it been? Maybe, it’s been years. Only you know. But, I write from my point of view, and I say that it’s only been four months since you tearfully begged for these.

I’ve either cut you loose and relinquished this envelope, or I’ve died. In either case, you’re probably merry!

Let me add to your merriment by telling you this envelope contains everything. Every photograph. Every negative. Every last copy.

Burn them if you like. I don’t care.

Without Love,

Sorin

Camellia did not open the envelope. She remembered these pictures. She needed them. She put her face in her hands, and she silently thanked Sorin for giving her something after all.

As she put the envelope back in the box, her hands shook. I need to get rid of these. But, not around my father. And, not here. A hotel. Somewhere in the woods. For now, they go in.

Camellia replaced all the rocks, hiding the package. Then, she snapped the box shut and pushed it away.

She reached for the bag and pulled it to her side. Camellia opened the drawstring and pulled out items of long forgotten clothing.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Not mine.

Two pairs of underwear and a bra littered the floor. She threw the last item, the one that wasn’t hers, towards the door. The filmy lingerie drifted to the threshold.

Camellia shook the bag and found it not empty. She narrowed her eyes and reached inside. At the bottom of the bag was another smaller bag. Camellia grasped the velvet cloth and pulled it free. A tag hung from one of the drawstrings, and Camellia read: For You. Don’t open until you reach Groaza.

This is not for me. This is not Sorin’s writing. Camellia thought the hand might belong to a woman.

She opened the bag and looked inside.

An Obsidian Mirror!

Quickly, Camellia held the little bag closed.

Her heart raced, and she cursed Sorin. The daywalker stone wasn’t enough for you? You just had to ask her to steal an ancient Volanter artifact too?

Camellia lifted the bag, ready to throw the mirror harder than anything she had yet thrown out of that box. She held her arm aloft and faltered.

She remembered her view inside the mirror. A strange, shadowy desert where Sorin and she wandered. Sorin moved over the sand unaware of her, and she almost pitied him as he struggled to find his way. Camellia passed every obstacle and tried to get him to wake up and follow.

I could look one more time, find him in there, and maybe this time, he’ll hear me. He doesn’t have a body to wake to, but that doesn’t matter. I could still say all the things I want.

Camellia prepared herself. She waited till her heart and breathing slowed. She cultivated determination and slid the mirror from the little bag.

Camellia looked at the black face, ringed in blue Volanter symbols. She stared deep.

What was I doing?

Under a moonlit sky, Camellia stood on the hillside. She looked up.

The moon seemed so close and yellow, dusted gold across its cratered surface. Camellia watched it, and the scenery below the sky seemed to dim. Shadows hovered and shimmered in her peripheral vision, and the distant sound of cicadas filled her ears. For several moments, she simply stared.

Then, she looked down. The scene suddenly lit, and she rubbed her forehead. After several quick blinks, Camellia cast her eyes on the hillside below – far below.

This is no mere hill; this is a mountain.

In the extra moonlight, she could see a long rocky trek. Though the moon was yellow, the ground was blue, cold and untouched. Further, she saw a grassy valley, and beyond that, she could see a forest. Great trees, mostly deciduous, created a thick canopy.

Camellia peered closer. Below that canopy, hundreds of people danced and ran. Light glowed from inside the forest, and shadows flickered between the trunks. Camellia deduced that she had stumbled on a secret party.

Maybe, not a secret to them. Just a secret to me.

Camellia resolved to leave the party undisturbed and turned. She cast her gaze up the mountain and found that the peak had been shorn off.

On the mountain’s flattop, dozens of skinny men haphazardly sat around a campfire. Each one wore a fall festival mask to signify the season of the New Year. Their costumes didn’t extend beyond their faces. The bone thin men wore nothing, bare from their necks to their feet. Their naked, somewhat wrinkled bodies looked pale and hunched. Every one of the men stared.

Camellia took a step back. All the time she had been looking down, there was a party not fifteen feet away. Many sat frozen, mid-meal, cradling meat in their hands. No one offered her refreshment or beckoned for her to join them.

So, she turned and left the mountain in a hurry. Camellia glanced back every few steps. At first, none of the men followed. Then, a few came to the edge and watched her leave. She could see knobby knees and ankles as well as some privates, which looked overlarge on their thin frames.

Camellia quickened her pace. Finally, she glanced back and saw no one. She searched the mountainside for places they might hide. There were a few suspicious rocks and boulders, but most were too small to hide a man, even a short and skinny one.

She took her next steps backwards, slow and steady, searching the landscape. By a nearby rock, motion flickered, and Camellia jumped. But, it wasn’t a man. One of the bluish rocks itself had moved.

Camellia stepped closer.

Fused with the rock was a melted woman. The woman struggled to get comfortable and frowned as she adjusted her head and arms. Her arms seemed boneless, and her hands ended in sausage fingers. The woman’s melted jowls seemed incapable of a smile. The best she could manage seemed to be a slight frown. She laid back and closed her eyes.

Camellia checked the other rocks: all women, sunken into the ground to varying degrees. Camellia looked down and found that she trod on the skirt of a woman so melted that her entire body could fit in a large mixing bowl. Her head remained an adult size, yet the rest of her was a puddle of skin. The skirt looked like cheesecloth, riddled with fine holes.

Camellia stepped off the garment and turned around. Just as the rocks were everywhere, so were the women. Camellia took careful steps, steering between the rocky landscape to avoid the dresses and sometimes lumpy hands and feet.

When she passed, a few women opened their eyes and raised their heads. All cranky, they readjusted themselves and went back to sleep. Camellia let them be.

As she stepped off the mountainside, Camellia smiled. A few pebbles skittered into the grass.

She glanced back and saw one last rock of a woman. The grumpy elder stared at Camellia. The woman had the tight Groazan skin and very pointed features of an aged individual. Long silvery hair flowed from the top of the elder’s head down to her melted waist. Her dress splayed out, over the ground, wrinkled and blending with the rock.

More cheesecloth, Camellia surmised, not really sure.

The woman glared at her and reached with a not-quite melted arm. Camellia didn’t move, but her face twisted with disgust. With uncoordinated fingers, the woman grabbed her cheesecloth skirt and pulled. Camellia felt the tug beneath her feet and realized that she stood on the woman’s dress, at least on the long train.

Camellia stepped off. She looked down at the gravel and kicked some of the pebbles back up the hill. They didn’t reach the woman, but Camellia didn’t care. The woman frowned, wriggled side to side, and settled again, closing her eyes.

Camellia turned away and stepped onto the grass. She walked closer to the woodland party, and now that she could see more detail, she decided she wanted to attend.

Men and women laughed, frolicked, and chased each other through the trees. The golden glow of the party exuded warmth, and Camellia could see light within some of the greater trees.

Shadows of elegant party goers danced within the massive trunks. The biggest trees housed silhouettes of ballgowns and distinguished suits. They evoked thoughts of fairytales and shadow lanterns.

Outside, among the lesser trees, the guests wore messier costumes. Many wore the heads of animals over their own and paired it with a tattered dress or shirt and pants. Two men wore tight black suits with horse tails and horse heads. A nearby woman wore the same, except she possessed a twisted black horn, protruding from her forehead. Another scantily clad woman wore a smile over her belly, eyes on her breasts, and a large bucket on her head.

As Camellia trotted closer, she glimpsed her costume of choice. She wanted to emulate the women in modest, prim dresses, and animal masks. Each carried a weapon, and a young bunny hefted her axe high. Camellia smiled and ran for the party.

She arrived at the edge, amid the sounds of music and screams. As she stepped one foot off the grass into the woodland, everyone stopped. They stared. She heard no more music and no more screams.

Camellia stepped back out, hoping to restart the music. Still, they stared. Camellia looked at her own attire. She wore a simple dress and coat, hazy and undefined.

How rude of me. I need a costume. Camellia walked back over the grass.

Long moments passed before the music and revelry began again.

What can I wear? Camellia fingered her blurry coat – no – farm dress, white with flowers, rolled up sleeves, and a high collar. Very inappropriate.

She unbuttoned the collar. Her hands moved from her neck and continued down to the end of the buttons at her waist. Camellia removed the overdress and tossed it aside.

Now, she wore her undershirt and petticoat. Both were stark and detailed, simple and white. She could create a costume out of them.

Camellia searched the ground. She found a sprig of flowers, a small berry bush, and two nearly symmetrical branches.

Camellia snatched up the branches. I could be a tree.

She remembered the rocks – the melted women. Had they dressed as rocks all in good fun and found themselves having no fun at all?

No, I don’t want to be a tree, but that gives me an idea.

She walked back to the base of the mountain.

As the women melted into the ground, they left the looser parts of their clothes behind. Camellia found a woman, practically just a sleeping head. The woman’s dress blew loosely over the pebbly dirt, and Camellia snatched up the crinkled blue fabric. She tore it, receiving just the skirt, but it would be enough.

Clear of the woman, the dress reverted to a pale green, and the crinkles slipped free, leaving Camellia a length of silk. She wrapped it over one shoulder and down her torso, letting the excess hang over her petticoat. Camellia searched for something to tie it off.

She spotted a length of grass that whistled in the autumn wind. Camellia shook her head.

She heard the sound of metal, slinking over itself. A long-jeweled chain blew down the mountainside from its original host. Camellia chose the chain, affixed it to her waist, and cinched the costume in place.

With this chain, I will not be a tree or even a nymph. I will be a horned goddess.

Camellia took the twin branches and held them by her head. Somehow, she affixed them in her hair. Now, she sported pretend antlers.

What else should I have?

Camellia found her old dress. It tried to escape over the grass in the wind. She snatched it up and searched the pockets. She tossed aside a small key, some lint, and a paperclip. Finally, she pulled out a little black choker with a red rose. She put it on.

I have everything but a mask.

She knew she wouldn’t find a mask here. She would need to settle for something else. She perused the mountainside and a short ways up found some loose coal. She spread it over her eyelids and stuck a few leaves in her hair. Finally, she grabbed the sprig of flowers and twisted it into her subtle dark waves.

Now, I am a horned goddess. Even if I should turn into that, I don’t think I would much mind.

Camellia walked to the party’s edge and stepped inside.

Drums pounded through the soil, and violin melodies wove among the trees. A few party goers stopped to wave at Camellia. Ahead, men chased screaming women, and partiers stole parts of their friends’ costumes. People ate and drank, purposely spilling the drinks of their neighbors and taking from each other’s plates.

Camellia much preferred this party to the one on the mountaintop. This party was the right one for her.

Camellia craned her neck and looked at the mature forest. Thick trunks rose into a perfect, lightless canopy. Even the large moon and its yellow influence disappeared behind the leaves and intertwining branches. The ground below was dirt, just dirt. Nothing could grow so starved from sunlight, not even Groaza’s typical shade loving plants.

Amid the revelry, Camellia spun a slow circle, looking up and around and down. She smiled.

A man in a two-faced mask approached her. One face covered his own. It smiled. The other hung off the side in a melted frown. He pointed at his mask, the un-melted side, probably to signify that he smiled at her. He offered her a plate of food and drink.

With a nod, Camellia accepted, and he skipped away. She walked to an upraised root and ate. She had no utensil, so she picked up the slippery meat with her hands. Then, she took a drink. It tasted good, though not quite like her mother’s or Sorin’s. It lacked the warmth and shared memories of the first, and of the second, it lacked the smooth chill and stories of distant cultures.

Screams in the distance attracted Camellia. She downed her drink and stood.

As Camellia wandered deeper into the forest, she saw several of the shadow lantern trees. Those little microcosms of party had tables, chairs, bands, and fancier costumes. She never seemed to get close to one, but that was alright. The tree rooms seemed too upscale for her and her costume.

She continued to walk and smelt smoke, not the smoke of birthday candles but the kind that rose from burning hair. Camellia crinkled her nose and looked ahead. A few fires rose among the trunks. She stared and like a moth, approached the light. She didn’t watch her immediate surroundings and bumped into a short tree. Camellia put a hand to it and felt a familiar curve, like her own hips and waist.

She gazed upwards, and a forlorn woman gazed down.

Camellia withdrew her hand. She could see the remains of the woman’s costume still at the hem – between the roots – and at the neckline – right before the branches plumed upwards. Camellia walked around the tree.

I’m glad I decided against that costume.

After she walked several steps, she turned back. She spared the tree woman one more glance and found the transformed partier afire. The tree woman burned to the whoops and cries of the revelers, but she didn’t cry.

Camellia felt that was wise. After all, she’d picked the costume herself.

Camellia passed through the party. Her path seemed empty and a bit dark, but on either side, people danced, chased, sang, screamed, and cried.

She saw most of the revelers from a distance. Occasionally, partiers ran up with a little present, usually a bit of food or drink. Camellia nodded her thanks, and once alone, she tossed the food and gulped the drink, placing the cups upside down on the ground.

Other partiers brought flowers and leaves, bits of branches and cloth. Camellia added a few leaves and flowers to her costume. The branches and cloths, she affixed together and stuck in the ground like little flags. Marks that she had passed.

Before she did anything with her presents, she waited, until she was alone. But, one partier managed to watch what she did with his twig and handkerchief. As she stuck the stick into soft dirt, he clapped, revealing himself, and ran away.

Camellia startled and rose. She walked in the opposite direction of the man and rounded a massive tree. Camellia searched the forest. All the trees nearby were equally massive, thick enough to house a room or a small cottage.

The forest grew darker than it had been. Camellia put her hand on the tree trunks and felt their rough bark. She kept contact with the trees and began to weave around them.

As she walked, grinning masks and animal faces peeked around the trunks. Camellia crept forward. The faces hovered and, then, ducked away. Camellia paused and listened. She heard their retreating footsteps. Once the footsteps seem to circle around behind her. She whipped her head to check for the reveler, but the footsteps changed direction and suddenly moved away.

Her heart pounded, but Camellia turned back and continued on.

She followed the curve of the trunk, and as she expected, a new face hovered into view. Camellia approached, step by step. The bulbous nose, slit eyes and crescent curve of a moon-man peered back. Camellia came within feet of the man, and the face retreated. She stopped and waited. No footsteps.

Camellia took a shuddering breath and stepped forward. She stayed close to the tree, waiting to see the partier’s mask again. Light trickled across the bark and grew brighter with each step. As she rounded the tree, she saw not the moon-man but the moon itself. It filled a break in the canopy and cast a yellow glow on the clearing below.

Makeshift tables and campfires filled the open space. Partiers sang and danced, ate and cooked. But, everyone avoided the very center of the clearing, where a huge chair sat.

Camellia strode forward, ignoring the revelry. She moved to the chair and stood right before it. It was big enough for two men to sit beside each other. It had a back nearly six feet tall. She could picture one of her brothers standing atop the seat and barely reaching the head.

And, the chair did have a head. A smiling woman’s face, pale and full and round. Dark hair fell over the back and side of the chair, down to what Camellia would call its shoulders. The arms of the chair were the arms of the woman, and Camellia lifted one great hand to find that the arms could move. Plush velvet covered the entire chair, and the cloth, nearest the ground, fell like the hem of a dress.

Rest here, Camellia thought. She glanced behind her. Everyone steered clear, and no one watched. If no one else wants a turn.

Camellia sat, and the chair smiled. It wrapped warm arms around her, and she settled against the back.

Oh, I’ve missed you. You hardly ever visit, and you’re the first to sit tonight.

The night is still young? Camellia suggested.

No, the night is old. It’s been going on forever.

Camellia considered that. Long nights are not my favorite.

Nor mine.

The chair began to hum a lullaby, and Camellia closed her eyes. She knew only she could hear the soft music through the chair’s back, where it kept its voice. Camellia listened to the wordless song and let her mind drift.

The drinks here are good, but the food could use some more time in the oven. She remembered both the good and bad sustenance.

The chair paused its song and agreed, Yes more time.

I think if there were a costume contest, I might win. Everyone seems to like mine. Eyes still closed, Camellia smiled and remembered all the offerings given to her.

I love your costume, the chair agreed again. Then, it resumed its song.

That’s the benefit of wearing someone else’s skin. Camellia’s smiled faded from her face, and she felt herself drifting to sleep.

Lately, when she tried to sleep, a disturbing image always slipped in, followed by a random and urgent thought. In this case, Camellia saw the farm cats and their little sheep dog grabbed by the scruffs of their necks and tossed somewhere out of view. Her eyes popped open. She forced the image away, but now, she felt too awake to sleep.

Camellia shook her head. After a night of partying, I’ll need to...I’ll need...something for the AAH. I’ll have to head back to Presereme before morning.

From her seat, she looked around, searching the forest for her way back. Which way is Presereme? Let’s see I came in by the mountain, where the men were having a party. There are no mountains near Presereme, only on the Eastern border of Groaza. Oh no! Am I that far?

The chair hummed louder.

Camellia sat forward, and the chair hugged tighter.

I need to make plans to get back home, Camellia said.

No, no. My little baby don’t go, the chair begged. You need to stay longer.

If I don’t get back to the AAH on time, I might get suspended! Camellia tried to sit forward again. This time with more force.

The chair just cried and clung to her.

Camellia grabbed both its hands, called on her vampiric strength, weakened somewhat by the prominent moon, and pulled the hands apart. Before the chair could catch her in a hug again, she stood up and whirled to face it. The arms sat limp in the seat, and the chair frowned, wet faced.

Camellia shook her head and stepped back. She turned to find everyone in the party staring.

Camellia growled. It made such a scene. She looked at the chair and its pathetic face. But, why do they care. None of them wanted to sit in it.

Camellia noticed two branches on the ground, near the foot of the chair. She felt her head. Her costume had fallen off. Camellia took short breaths. She wanted to pick up the branches, but she didn’t want to approach the chair again.

One person stood up. Camellia thought a little angrily. Another stood up, and then another. The first took angry steps towards her.

Camellia ran, not the way she came, but further into the forest. She hoped to find Presereme in that direction.

The party did not extend into this part of the forest. Ahead, all the trees stood dark, and no one screamed or whooped. Camellia rounded great tree after great tree, trotting to reach the more open forest. When she finally found a smaller, younger flock of trees, she sighed and walked forward.

For a moment, she paused. Distant steps marched behind her, so Camellia quickened her pace. A short walk lay before her, and she would exit the forest into what seemed to be a small village.

Camellia glanced back. A sheep’s face stared out from the bigger trees. Camellia continued to step towards her goal, but she turned sideways and kept the sheep in sight. A wolf mask peered around another of the great trees. More joined him: a horse, a cat, a dog, a rabbit with its axe, a grinning man, a two-faced woman, a frowning nymph, and more and more.

They crept around the trees and stalked into the party-less wood. Camellia turned towards her goal and quickened her pace. Footsteps hurried behind her. She jogged. Footsteps pounded behind her. She ran.

Though the moon shone bright above, reflecting the sun’s light, Camellia found her vampiric speed. She could no longer hear the sound of footsteps above her own breathing. Camellia burst out of the wood and ran for the village.