"Jerrow?" I asked again, as the old steward continued to stare silently at my hand upon the bed.

He took a long, deep breath and let out an equally long sigh, then turned and brought the chair over to the bedside to sit.

Though I was growing increasingly concerned, I felt strangely content to wait for him to speak as he seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

"Calor," he began at last, "Right now you're probably thinking you've had a strange a dream, that you're... Unwell, maybe. Well, that's not..." He cleared his throat, and looked me in the eye again.

"You died, Calor. You're dead." His voice, always deep and rough like old leather, sounded like the voice of the Reaper himself pronouncing my fate.

I remained silent, studying his old, lined face. I wondered again if this entire day was a continuation of a fever dream. I felt that I should believe him, fantastic as it sounded. Perhaps this was the afterlife? Or some strange transition, the last imaginings of a dying mind.

When he did not go on, I asked "I seem lively for a corpse, don't you think?" I'd meant a joking tone, but I only sounded sick.

"Our lady Lilly... Tried to save you. It didn't work. Not like she wanted. She tried to make you... Like her. But instead she made you a thrall."

The word means slave, doesn't it?

He seemed to be waiting for a reply. A few flippant responses came to mind, but for some reason my own predicament - whatever it was - seemed less important than that something might be wrong with Lilly.

"What do you mean, 'like her'?"

He stared at me grimly for a moment before speaking. "The lady Lillian Thrace is a vampire."

My immediate inclination was to laugh. The word 'vampire' brought to mind peasant superstitions about unburied corpses rising to bite out the throats of their relatives on moonless nights. Then a chill ran up my spine. Unburied corpses? Like myself?

I lifted my hand, the one that had been so carefully placed in the sunbeam and examined it. It didn't look like the hand of a corpse. But how long had I been dead? Supposedly dead. I laughed weakly.

"This is a very peculiar prank or a very strange dream, Jerrow. Have I been drugged?"

He frowned, turning his already wrinkled face positively craggy. Abruptly he rose and walked briskly from the room.

I watched the door close after him, then got out of bed and looked for my clothes. The only clothing in the room was the nightshirt I was wearing. Well, if I had to walk through the house half-naked to my room I would, but I was certain that Jerrow would return soon. Instead I went to the window and pulled the drapes for a look outside.

Early for snow, I thought, but this is definitely the Thrace manor. The long, low hill in the distance told me I was looking out an east window from the second floor. Not a part of the house I was accustomed to.

And then I frowned. The white hillside was oddly textured, as if someone had raked the snow. It rippled like... Grass in a breeze.

It was grass. Dead grass. It should be the color of straw. Instead it was a very pale grey that I had mistaken for white. I looked down, to the hedge wall at the edge of the grounds. It was holly, and should be evergreen. It looked black. And the sky, which I had taken to be overcast, was clear with a few high, whispy clouds. It was simply devoid of color.

I am colorblind.

I jumped slightly when the door opened and Jerrow returned, followed by Lilly and the maidservant Beth who carried a folding table and a carafe.

"Li-" Lilly started to speak, but her voice hitched. She took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush, "Listen to Jerrow, believe him and obey him." Then she turned and left as abruptly as she'd entered.

Beth followed soon after, having unfolded the table beside the chair and set the carafe on it. Jerrow pointed at the bed.

"Sit."

I raised my brows at his curt tone but sat. He sat at the other side of the table, frowned at the carafe and mumbled about cups. Then he looked at me.

"You are dead, Calor. You are an animated corpse. You are a thrall, raised into undeath as a servant to a vampire."

My stomach felt hollow. I believed him. It made perfect sense. The faint sense of the unreal that had had me wondering if I was drugged or feverish was suddenly gone.

I wanted to say something but I couldn't think of anything to say. My skin prickled with goosebumps. I felt a tingling in my extremities as horror and dread fought for supremacy in my emotions. I was intensely aware of the complete lack of a pounding heartbeat that should accompany these feelings. I put a hand to my chest, then felt my neck.

Jerrow's lips drew into a thin line as he watched my reaction. "Right," he said, "Well I can see it's starting to sink in, but we don't have the kind of time we'd need to do this right, so give me your hand." He held out his own. In his other hand he suddenly held his belt knife.

"Why...?" I asked, but despite my sudden apprehension, I put my left hand in his. "Don't move," he said - and began cutting a line across the back of my hand.

I wanted to shout, to jerk my hand back, but I couldn't. There was no pain, though with a sharp knife there might not be. I felt only cold, and pressure as my skin parted under his razor-sharp blade. My fingers spasmed and I realized with growing horror that he was cutting the tendons in my hand. Blood welled sluggishly from the cut, thick and dark. Still I couldn't bring myself to resist.

Not my sword hand at least I thought dazedly, staring at the ruin of my left hand. Thick, black blood began to drip onto the table. Is that my blood? Blood shouldn't look like that.

Jerrow set his knife on the table and picked up the carafe. "Your first lesson. You must obey your creator. You don't get a choice, that's why you're a thrall. Lady Lilly told you to believe and obey me, so you will. That's all there is to it."

"Your second lesson is that while you are already dead, you can still be injured. So don't start feeling invincible. However, unlike the living, you can be repaired." Saying this, he let go of my hand to dip a gloved finger into the carafe. My hand stayed where it was, and I thought to pull it back but found I could not.

Jerrow brought his wine-stained finger to my hand and brushed it across the gaping wound. I gasped as a feeling of warmth and pleasure flooded into my hand. As I watched, the wound drew itself together slightly, and with a very unsettling sensation one of the severed tendons snaked around under my skin and reconnected.

"This," the old steward said, holding up the carafe, "Is vampire blood. It is the only medecine you will ever need again, and it cures all ills." His mouth twisted sardonically. "Before you ask, it's not Lady Lilly's, though she lost enough last night." He was suddenly grim again. "One of those bastard assassins was a vampire, and we persuaded him to donate his entire supply."

Dozens of questions struggled to break free from my lips, but apparently "don't move" also included "don't speak" by default.

Jerrow went on, "Because you're not a vampire, human blood won't help you. If you're badly damaged and you can't get help from Lilly or any vampire blood we've managed to store then you'll just have to deal with it." He tipped the carafe and carefully dribbled more vampire blood onto my wound. It looked like wine, though for all I knew it was green instead of red. Thinner than normal blood, I thought. Warmth and a pleasure like a relaxing massage flooded up my arm, and the great gaping rent in my hand rapidly closed. I noted with interest that the blood seemed to soak into my undamaged skin like water into sand. When the wound had completely vanished he set the carafe down. It hardly looked any less full.

"There's a script that I or Lady Lilly will need to read to you soon, a set of clear and concise orders that will give you freedom to act but only in her interests. For now though, you will obey myself and no other. You will continue to perform your duty as a bodyguard to the best of your ability, and you will do your best to ensure the Lady's safety. You may move." Having said all that, he looked at me expectantly.

Questions. Dozens, hundreds of questions swirled through my mind. Practically first, of course.

"Where are my clothes?"