Quincey left his window open (as he always did, winter or summer, rain or snow or ominous mist), and so she went to him first. He lay sprawled out over the bed, his fair hair tousled and his brow furrowed in contemplation of something far too serious in the world of dreams. His gun, knives, crucifix and bible all lay on a table a few feet away, far out of his reach. Lucy paid them a glance and then turned away, back to his sleeping features.

Her first touch was feather-light, on his forehead, merely brushing the hair away from his eyes. Then she grew bolder, running a finger down his cheek and neck and onto his collarbone, tracing the line of it across his chest, under his skin, turned golden from long hours in the sun. Carefully, she climbed on top of him in a manner that she never would have done if she had still been a mortal.

Quincey stirred a bit in his sleep, making an unconscious sound that could have been a groan or a sigh of pleasure, and Lucy was encouraged. She moved to undo the buttons of his nightshirt, but heard the Count's voice in her mind, whispering, Leave no visible evidence of your presence, my dear, and she stopped, instead contenting herself with slipping her fingers between the buttons, touching every inch of him that she could. Then, with a suddenly even more powerful surge of affection, she pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss, feeling her fangs lengthening beneath her lips.

In Quincey's dreams, he and Lucy are far away, in a country he still thinks of as home. It is a cold night in his imagination, and snow falls gently onto the windowsill. But they lie in front of a fire cheerily flickering in the hearth, and Quincey is not cold in the least. He tells Lucy stories in an exaggerated version of his accent, and she laughs, tilting her head back so that her golden hair gleams in the firelight...

Lucy bit Quincey, drinking deep of his blood as if by doing so she could absorb all times together they should have had, all the years of friendship and unacknowledged love. But she drank too long, and with too much desperation, and the Count's hand was soon upon her shoulder. "We must leave," he told her, and though his voice was quiet, it brought her back to her new reality.

She blew a kiss to Quincey, sending with it a repetition of the words "I love you," and left.

Jack's rooms are open perpetually to vampires, courtesy of an inmate there named R.M. Renfield, but the Count did not tell Lucy any of that, showing her there wordlessly.

The bedroom was spartan in nature, with a bed that looked more like a hospital cot than anything else, with a uniform metal headboard and footboard, and starched clean white sheets. A few books stood neatly stacked on the dresser. The only incongruity in the room was Jack's morphine, which was normally put carefully away after he used it, but now was in a mess on the dresser. Lucy, not knowing what such a thing good possibly be, didn't even register its presence, except as a sign of their being something wrong with Jack.

Carefully, hesitantly, as if the slightest mistake could hurt him irreparably, Lucy lay down next to Jack. It was difficult, because his bed was so narrow, and she ended up with her body practically pressed against his, but she managed. Then, still carefully, she reached over and touched the side of his face. He turned towards her, almost imperceptibly, and she smiled. Losing a bit of the hesitation, she kissed him, deeper even then her most passionate kiss with Arthur, wrapping an arm around him as she did so. Her fingers trailed up and down his spine, gently, fleetingly, not breaking from the kiss.

In Jack's dreams, he sits with Lucy, in a parlor filled with the trappings of the life he could never have given her – a marble fireplace, beautiful, polished wood floors, chairs with cushions of the richest fabric. He looks up over the top of his book to see her reading as well – Jane Austen, that favorite author of hers. She hums as she does so, and it is a light sound that lifts his heart. Eventually, it sees the she feels his gaze upon her for, she looks up and smiles at him, and the smile is brighter than all the candles and gas lamps in the world, brighter even than the sun...

Lucy bites him, but not so deep, not so long as she bit Quincey. She longs to give something to him instead of taking away, for his skin is already so pale – no doubt from long hours of working in his asylum, which must be a frightfully depressing place for a young man to spend much time – and she imagines giving him her blood, rich and red and sure to bring color to his cheeks, but she knows not how to do something like that, and leaves him with a farewell kiss, pressing "I love you" into his skin.

Arthur's house was locked tight. There was no door left ajar, no window cracked open. His loyal, well paid servants were all long asleep, as was his sister, none of them much likely to get up and invite her in. She longed to draw him out to her, but she didn't know how to do that yet, and wouldn't understand how to when it came to the mind of her beloved Arthur.

Desperately, she rapped upon the window with her fingernails, crying out his name in a voice as cold now as her Maker's, a voice which was lost to the wind as soon as she spoke. Eventually, she wept, and her cries turned to keening, becoming even more like the wind into which they evaporated, but it did no good.

Arthur does not dream, though in the morning he shall think he has. His eyes shutter open, and he sees, at his window, a phantom garbed in white, with fair hair and eyes he knows too well. He hears his name too, as if spoken by the wind, but when he looks again, it seems the woman is already vanishing into mist, and he feels tears in his eyes. It was only a ghost after all.