The days following the ball are spent in voluntary isolation.

Sofie is uncharacteristically distant, her head buried between the pages of a book while Emelia wanders the chateau's quiet halls to ward off boredom. It works for the most part but the despair is still present, following her around like a dark cloud.

The gallery is the only place she finds a semblance of peace and so spends the majority of her time lost amongst the antique paintings and sculptures, retreating upstairs when the sun begins to set and before the monsters awaken.

On the third day, Emelia is busy making a detailed sketch of a human-sized sculpture across the room. The woman is carved from marble and wears no clothes, her naked body upright and unashamed. Her right arm is raised, her head tilted toward the sky as the bird in her hand prepares to take flight.

Its unfurled wings are so realistic Emelia almost expects it to break free from the stone and ascend.

"Avem de Libertate."

She jolts at the unexpected words, her pencil skidding across the paper and ruining the picture.

With gritted teeth she glances up to see François standing in the shadowy doorway of the gallery, just out of the fading sunlight's reach.

His presence taints what little comfortability Emelia established the last three days.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here," he retorts. Smart-arse.

"No, I mean- what are you doing here now?" she asks. "It isn't dark yet."

François folds his arms and leans against the door frame.

"Decided to get up early for once," he says, squinting at her through the golden light. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be here."

"Don't worry," Emelia scoffs, "I'm leaving."

She collects her things and gets to her feet, having no desire to remain in the same room as him for a second longer than necessary.

"The statue you were drawing belonged to my mother. It was her favourite piece in the entire gallery."

His divulgence piques Emelia's interest and she hesitates, glancing back at the woman and bird.

Avem de Libertate. Her Latin isn't as good as her French but she understands the simple words.

"Bird of Liberty."

His brows lift slightly.

"You know Latin too."

"Perks of private education," she mutters, shying away from the memories of her childhood and early adolescence when things were less complicated.

Eyes still glued to the statue, she says, "It's beautiful."

"It is," he agrees.

"Did your mother have it made or was it a gift?"

"I'm not sure." François studies the statue from afar, eyes roving over every chiselled detail, probably seeing things her human eyes are too weak to notice. "It's been here for as long as I can remember."

Emelia moves closer to the sculpture and gently brushes her fingertips over the woman's cool, smooth skin. The marble is pristine despite its age and not a single speck of dust rests on its religiously polished surface.

"It's so... bright," she says. "I almost didn't notice it earlier because it blends in with the walls." She turn back round to face François and asks, "Why is everything here like that?"

"My mother wasn't a fan of dark décor," he replies. "Or anything else which was similar for that matter."

"That's kind of ironic," Emelia comments, her lips quirking in amusement. "Considering she was a vampire."

"She was eccentric," he says with a one-shoulder shrug and Emelia's eyes flicker back to him.

"How exactly did she die?"

The question immediately makes François tense, the mask of inhuman harshness slipping over his face again.

"That's none of your business."

"Camille mentioned she was no longer... with you. But she didn't elaborate."

François' shoulders relax but his eyes don't soften; he continues to glare at her.

Unable to bite back the bitterness any longer, she asks, "What did you do with her?"

"With who?" François' brows now pull together.

"The girl you killed," she elaborates, stomach rolling at the memory. "She couldn't have been much older than me. Her family will be looking for her"

"No one's looking," he replies stoically.

"You sound sure of that," she scoffs, hating the absence of worry or remorse in his expression and voice.

"I am sure of that."

"How can you be so certain?" She narrows her eyes at him, teeth clenching together.

"Because the humans we use for the ball are always ones nobody will notice are gone," he says matter-of-factly, confirming Emelia's suspicions of what happened that night as a common occurrence at their annual-undead-get-together.

"They were still people," she snaps. "You think no one missing them is a good enough excuse for murder?"

François' eyes darken as he says, "It's not an excuse, it is nature. I am a vampire. I drink human blood."

"No shit Sherlock!" she exclaims. "I'm well-aware of that but it doesn't mean you can just go around killing people whenever you feel like it."

A smile stretches his mouth - or maybe a sneer. Emelia can't discern the difference.

"I can and I do."

"You're a monster."

"And you're a hostage," he growls. "Are we done stating the obvious?"

God, I hate him.

Swamped with an array of emotions from anger and disgust to guilt and despair, Emelia turns away. Her eyes sting with tears she refuses to shed in front of him. He won't get that satisfaction.

Silence stretches while she regains her composure, breathing deeply to loosen the knot in her chest.

"Would you prefer it had been you?"

The unexpected question has her spinning around to discover François standing right in front of her. The remaining sun had slipped away without her noticing, allowing him to enter the gallery.

"What?"

"Would you have preferred-" he reiterates, "-I'd killed you instead of that girl?"

Emelia's face screws up.

"What sort of sick question is that?"

"One I'd like you to answer."

"No," she says, "Of course not."

"Really?" François doesn't sound like he believes her. He takes a step forward, shortening the space between them further, but she refuses to back away. Screw him and his intimidation tactics.

"Really," she replies, huffing. "Why even ask such a thing?"

She tenses when he raises a hand and resists the urge to recoil when it gently touches her shoulder. Eyes still boring into hers, he trails his fingers down the length of her arm. The light touch makes goosebumps erupt beneath the fabric of her top.

"Why?" he breathes, expression softening. His fingertips finally brush the bare skin of her knuckles and for a moment she thinks he's going to take her hand, but then they slip beneath the sleeve and curl to brush the inside of her wrist. "Because of this."

When realisation hits, it's like being splashed with a bucket of ice-cold water. She gasps, eyes widening. No. No, no, no...

Emelia wrenches her hand back and stumbles away from him, wondering how he found out. She'd been so careful.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he asks.

"That is-" she chokes out the words, throat growing tight. "That is none of your business!"

François' features harden again.

"Oh, so it's fine when you're the one asking questions but not when others do?"

"Why would I answer any of your questions?" she shoots back, hoping the tremor in her voice can pass for anger. "You're a disgusting person."

"Actually, I'm very attractive."

François strolls to the opposite side of the gallery and sits down in the chaise lounge, stretching one arm out along the back of it.

The lounge's velvety material is a stark contrast to his pallid skin and his green eyes almost glow against the dark curls falling in front of them.

Sitting there in the gallery he could pass as another work of art. But Emelia knows better.

He is perfect in a way a stone statue is perfect; hard, strong, beautifully sculpted. But there is nothing attractive about him in the real sense. His lack of humanness renders his beauty empty like a vase filled with fake flowers.

"You have been staring at me in silence for three whole minutes," Francois says. His mouth curves up to reveal his top row of straight white teeth. "If you want to draw me, all you have to do is ask."

Emelia's grips tightens around the pencil and the thought of stabbing him in the chest with it crosses her mind.

"I wouldn't waste a single piece of paper on you."

Francois hums and tilts his head back to gaze at the ornamental ceiling, appearing to have bored of this conversation.

"Your loss."

"No," she replies, turning to leave. "It's really not."