Character:  Felicity Anne Dhoskan

HISTORY:

I woke up in a blood-sweat again tonight. That bloody nightmare had plagued
yet another sleep of mine… I woke up screaming a name that would never cross
my lips during my waking hours. Robert, my ghoul rushed into my chambers up
on hearing my shriek. I was trembling, clutching at my blankets. He swiftly
moved to my side and wrapped his arms protectively around my shoulders. I
pressed my wet cheeks again his wrinkled face. "Shhh… ma petite…" he said,
stoking my hair, gently rocking me.

I have been having this dream since the night my entire universe was turned
upside down. And I will tell you of this night, but not before I tell of my
life before…. The world where I believed that love could shelter me from
everything hurtful and lies were something only told in fairytales.

 My name is Felicity, and I was born August 12th, 1937, the middle child of
three and the only daughter of the Dhoskan family.  I can still picture my
father, Arthur, and my mother, Grace, as clearly as I could fifty years ago.
I remember my father being a handsome man, with dark hair, dark eyes and a
soft, spoken voice. I idolized him in the way that every little girl
idolizes her daddy. I loved to watch in silent awe as he straightened his
tie, dusted off his shoe and headed to the office. He was the head of a very
old and prestigious law firm in London. Typical of fathers of that era he
always appeared to be very firm with us; caring about appearances and our
education. But at home he would show kindness in so many other ways; from
taking my older brother to court with him to watch an important trial, by
bringing me home a thick pad of paper from the art store, or by taking my
baby brother to sail his new toy boat in the park. He was kind and fair and
I loved him a great deal.
 My mother Grace, to me, was the most beautiful woman to ever live. Not in
the way that the woman in the fashion magazines from Paris were, that I saw
in the drugstore. She was beautiful because her hair was soft and always
smelled of roses, because her eyes were softly creased from smiling, and her
laughed sounded of hundreds of tiny bells chiming. She was eloquent and
graceful, and was well liked in the community. She frequently held luncheons
for her women's group after Sunday mass, serving tiny sandwiches and tea in
fragile china glasses. My mother also loved literature and it was very
important that her children were brought up well read. She loves all
classics, favoring Oscar Wilde above all others. It was she who noticed my
talent for art and encouraged me, bringing in private tutors and spoke of
someday sending me to Paris to study with the great artists of the world.
She was a good mother and I know she loved each of her children with every
fiber in her being.
 My baby brother Alan, was young when I lost them, only nine years old. He
had barely begun to realize the wonders and beauty of the world. I would
often find him in the garden feeding squirrels from the palm of his hand and
talking with a ladybug he had found in a flower. He would sit with my father
in his study very seriously and listen to my father and my uncle talk about
business, nodding like he understood. He would make my mother laugh ever she
was cross. And a night never passed when he wouldn't visit my room and ask
me to read to him, always falling asleep halfway through. When ever I think
of Arthur I feel and aching emptiness in my heart, and I mourn for the loss
of one so innocent.

But of all my family it was my brother Montague that I was closest to. I
remember my mother telling stories of how it was Montague who held my hand
as I took my first steps. That is how Montague was, he was always there to
lead along my way, making sure that I never stumbled and that I didn't stray
from the proper path. She told me of the time when I scraped my knees
playing jump rope and how he cried harder than I did until I was bandaged. I
remember waiting impatiently by the gate for him to return from his first
day of grade school, eager to hear of all his adventures. I remember the
time that he was sent to the schoolmaster's office for punching a boy who
had pulled my braids until I cried. I was always in awe of his strength, his
determination and his unfaltering loyalty to me. As children we were, to
each other, the only playmates that we needed. But perhaps my most vivid
memory of Montague was once when I was seven or eight father brought
Montague home a model plane to put together. He spent hours at the kitchen

table putting it together, meticulously gluing each tiny piece to the next.
I watch from a distance just amazed at his careful diligence. After supper
Montague went to the sitting room to do his lessons and I edged my way
closer to his plane. I picked it up and carefully inspected it. I noticed
that the glue was slightly loose on one of the wings. Wanting to help and
show him that I was big enough to be trusted with such important thing, I
picked up his tube of glue. Needless to say, my idea did not quite go as
planned and the end result was my hand stuck to his toy. Montague was
furious when he discovered his toy was missing and quickly noticed that I
was missing as well. My mother and he scoured the house for me, and Mother
eventually found me tear streaked and hiding in a linen closet on the second
floor. When I told her that I was afraid that Montague would never forgive
me she told me, "Darling, you and your brother share something very special.
He will be angry with you for a little while, but he will forgive and
forget. Go apologize like a good girl." I hung my head and went to find my
brother. I found him in the guestroom looking under the bed. He heard my
sniffle and turned around glaring. "My plane, you ruined it! How could you
Felicity?" Tears were running down my face as her glowered at me. "Well,
give it back!" I looked up at him and wailed, "I would but I can't!" I held
my hand out flat and there hung his plane, very much attached to me. His
eyes started to soften, then he cracked a grin and then he started to roar
with laughter. Though my tears I started to giggle along with him. I was
that day that I knew that Montague and shared something better than just the
love of our family. We had a friendship that would carry on forever….
Unconditionally.
 

Shaking my head clear of the horrid dream that I had awoken from, Robert
wiped my tears like one would a child. "I am alright. Thank you Robert." I
rose as he put my robe around my shoulders, walking to the window. I drew
back the curtains and looked out into the city streets of Cardiff, the
capital of Wales and my home for the past 15 years. The night was clear and
the starts were bright. I walked to the restroom and washed the streaks from
my face and sunk into the bath that Robert had drawn for me. The steam
rising around me looked like smoke swirling into the air… I shuddered and
tried to rid those thoughts from my mind. I mustn't think of that tonight, I
thought, the night is too beautiful and there is so much to see. I dried off
and dressed, and called a goodbye to Robert and Mimi, my housekeeper. I
tossed my duffel bag and portfolio into the trunk of my car and drove off
into the night. I headed north of the city to the village of Tongwynlais, to
the Castell Coch, one of my favorite places in all of Britain. It is a
structure so grand one cannot help but be enchanted by it. It reminded me of
the fairytales that Montague and I used to read to each other on the hill be
the cottage outside of London where we would spend our summers.
As I was setting up my easel I couldn't help but be taken back to those
times time. He and I would read to each other when we were younger and as we
got older we would act the out characters that we knew so well. I would
always be the princess captured by the evil dragon and he would be the brave
prince that would slay the dragon and bring the head to the king as a
trophy. I never told Montague, though sometimes I wanted to be the brave one
and save him once in a while. But he seemed to enjoy it so; I just couldn't
bring it up. I remembered that his favorite story was always "Alice in
Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass". His favorite part was scaring
me by reading the poem of the Jabberwocky in his deepest, spookiest voice
until I would yelp and tell him to cut it out. As my hand flowed over the
canvas that night I remembered the painting of the Cheshire Cat that I
painted for him for his 16th birthday. His eyes came close to brimming with
tears as he looked down at it. He looked up at me with a knowing look and a
smile before he blinked them away so father wouldn't see…. When I think of
that painting and all the others that were lost… a lump formed in my throat
as I continued to paint.

 An hour or so had passed when I heard a padding of footsteps from somewhere
in the woods behind me. With my senses heightened I listen to them approach
as I reached down and drew my pistol from my bag. I turned and saw off in
the distance a thin mountain lion sneaking up on me. I carefully drew the
pistol close and with great precision shot at the ground just inches from
the great cat's feet. With a yowl, it turned and ran back into the forest. I
knelt and wrapped my gun in my oilcloth again and went back to my painting.
 As Montague and I aged he became more and more like father, very rigid and
formal. One summer he turned and informed that he had no time for such
childish games as our fairytale world. "Father is going to teach me to shoot
today," and quickly turned and ran out to the back field. That summer I
played alone, with just my imagination to comfort and amuse me. The
following summer I went to watch him with his target practice. He noticed me
standing back and then he lowered the gun. "Felicity, do you want to give a
try?" For many nights to come he and I would shoot bottles, cans, pinecones,
whatever we could find. Even as we grew older we still shared games and
laughter together. Those were probably the happiest times of my life.

 I looked from my painting to my watch and knew from the stirring inside me
that I was time for me to return to Cardiff and feed. As I drove back to the
city lights I couldn't help but wonder if our cabin still lay barren in the
woods. I thought briefly of returning there but I feared all the memories it
would bring back for me. Perhaps Uncle Ambrose had sold it after my father's
death anyhow…
 Uncle Ambrose was my family's physician and my father's best friend. They
had been friends in university and from what I understood my grandfather had
helped pay for Uncle's education. He was always very close to us, though we
had seen less of him during our final years together.

 I parked in a lot near the city center and headed to an exclusive club that
thrived with artists, which was usually my favorite place to be. Though
there was a lineup out the front door and around the corner to get in, but I
simply walked to the front of the line and with a nod the bouncer pulled
back the velvet rope and I entered. I wove past the sea of familiar faces to
the back room where a member of my herd was waiting. Shortly after, feeling
refreshed, I found a corner table and sat back, smiled a few hellos and drew
out my sketchbook. I sat there for a long time, well into the remainder of
the night, drawing the bartender, and thinking about times passed. At one
point, I was interrupted by a male voice behind me. It was an acquaintance
of mine wanting to say hello and talk of useless drivel that the poseurs
tend to enjoy. He sat and spoke at me while I sat and pretended to listen….
 I remembered the first time that Montague and I had a real argument,
following which we didn't speak for nearly a week. My first suitor, Horace,
came calling for my first date when I was 16, and I wasn't quite ready so he
sat in the sitting room to wait. My mother and Montague entered the room to
greet him. Mother offered Horace a glass of iced tea, which he politely
accepted. When she left Montague started to rummage through the drawers of
the desk, as if looking for a book. Montague lay on the table several books
and carefully placed on top a small handgun. As Montague started drilling
him with questions, (where were we going, when would we be back, were others
going to be there), Horace started to look more and more uncomfortable.
Mother interrupted with his drink and told them both that I would be down
momentarily. Montague rose to leave the room, but not before leaning towards
Horace and quietly threatening that a single hair on my head was touched he
would personally see that those hands would be removed as punishment. As I
arrived in the sitting room, ready to leave I noticed Montague smiling and
Horace was looking quite pale. I looked at Montague suspiciously and left.
That night I had been sure that Horace would try and kiss me, and my heart
fluttered at the thought of my first kiss. But Horace was very distant and
kept me out of arms reach all night. On the drive home I finally made him
confess what Montague had said to him before we had left. I slammed the car
door when we pulled up to my house and fumed inside. I stormed upstairs and
thrust open Montague's bedroom door. I found him sitting in his armchair
reading and he looked up. "How was your date?" he asked. "You… you… snake!"
I screamed. "Do me a favor, stay out of my personal life. What I do is my
own business." Montague shrugged. "He wasn't good enough for you anyhow. You
can do much better." "But that is my decision to make! Not yours! Stop
trying to control me!" Later Montague apologized, but that incident caused
the first small rift in our friendship. We were growing up and things were
beginning to change.

I looked back to the man sitting at my table who was still talking as I
nodded in regular intervals. As I watched his face in disinterest I pictured
my brother face the last time we talked. He and I looked very similar. We
both had striking dark hair and eyes. We both walked with a straight
posture. We both carried a serious face most of the time, though he was much
more serious than I was. I was forever telling him to lighten up, to come
out dancing with my friends and I, to go for drives in the country and have
a picnic, for him to leave the house and find a girlfriend. But he would
simply shake his head and tell me of some paper he had to write or some text
that had to be read. But he always looked a little wistful when I would tell
him of the fun I had. But aside from my teasing I admired him. He always we
smarter than I. Everyone always knew that someday he would join father's law
firm. He had a great deal of patience, something I never had. He also had
control of his emotions, while I cried at the drop of a hat. But though I
was a bit jealous, that jealousy was shadowed by the pride I felt for him
with his every accomplishment.
 Though Montague and I usually got along famously, as I got older he became
more and more controlling. He would often scold me for not taking life more
seriously. "Life is more than just fun and games Felicity," he would tell
me, "you have to learn to be more responsible." He would often lecture me
for wearing my sweaters too tight or too much lipstick ("you don't want to
attract the wrong kind of people").
 I remember the last conversation that I had with my brother far too well. I
must have replayed it a million times over and over in my head, wishing that
I could change the past and the words that were said. It was the spring I
was 22 and I was heading off to Paris in the summer to attend Art School. I
was dating a young man named Maurice. He and I had met months earlier in an
art gallery in London and had spent the whole day sipping tea in a cafe and
arguing over who we thought to be the greatest artists to walk the earth. He
was originally from Paris himself and was in London visiting his aunt and
uncle. He told me that his family was very poor and he had come to London to
convince his wealthy uncle to pay for his schooling. He had been so many
places and seen so many wonderful things and promised to someday show me all
the wonders that the world had to offer. Montague met Maurice after we had
been dating for about six weeks and took an immediate disliking to him. One
night, sometime after midnight I had quietly snuck out of the house to meet
him in the park. He and I sat under the trees and talked well into the late
hours. He told me that he was leaving the next day back to Paris and that
his uncle had finally agreed to pay for his school. I cried a little but he
promised that he would wait for me and that when I arrived, he and I would
elope and be married. That someday we would live in a small house in the
northern countryside and do nothing but paint all day. We talked about
having children and how we would teach them the beauty of life and all it
had to offer. He told me that we would go to North America and see the
Statue of Liberty, we would climb mountains in the Rocky Mountains, and
paint the aboriginal culture of northern Canada. He kissed me gently and
promised he would make me that happiest woman alive… and I believed him. I
walked home that night on a cloud. But my happiness was not long lived. I
snuck up the stairs as quietly as I could and slipped into my room. I turned
on the light on my bedside table and jumped about ten feet in the air.
"Montague, my god, you scared me to death." He sat there in stony silence. I
looked back him with an even stare. After a minute he quietly but firmly
said, "do you have any idea what time it is?" I shrugged carelessly. "You
were with him again, weren't you? Felicity, I have told you million times,
he is bad news. I don't trust him. I have heard rumors…." I cut him off.
"You are just jealous Montague," I sneered. "Just because I have found
someone who I love and he loves me." He shook his head. "I have heard rumors
about him Felicity. That he associates himself with a bad group of people.
That he is a thief and a liar. He is only going to hurt you. If you know is
good for you, you will stay far, far away from him." I felt the anger
growing inside of my like a volcano. I exploded. "How dare you say such
things. He is kind and decent. You are just such a snob that you think just
because he doesn't have money that he isn't good enough for us. Well you
should know that when I move to Paris he and I would be married. And don't
worry, you will never hear from me again, from either of us. In fact I don't
care if I ever see you again. Get out! Get out of life forever!" He looked
at me with hurt in his eyes. "Get out!" I screamed. I picked up a picture
from my table and threw it at him, smashing it on the wall only narrowly
missing him. He quietly picked up the picture from the floor, a portrait of
he and I taken only months earlier and set it on my desk. He stood and
walked out of my room. That was the last time I ever spoke to him.

I blinked quickly and brushed the tears out of the corners of my eyes, and
my surroundings came back into focus. The young man had long since left my
table and I was sitting alone. Suddenly I felt as though the room had gotten
much smaller. I had to get out of here… I rose and quickly walked out,
ignoring the calls from my friends. I brushed by the doorman and walked
quickly back to my car. As I was driving home I tried to calm myself. Damned
dream, I wish I could just put it behind me, I thought halfheartedly, but
not really meaning it. I pulled into my drive and turned off the ignition.
Instead of walking back into the house I walked to the backyard and into my
garden. I deeply inhaled the smell of the roses that were in full bloom and
sat back in a chair in the courtyard. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it,
watching the smoke swirl up into the air…. The smoke… just like that night.
My hands began to tremble as my mind went rushing back to the night that had
plagued so many nights sleep. The night that I could never forget and I knew
would torment me for the rest of existence.

The night was March 9th, 1960. It was only a few hours after sundown and I
was in my room finishing a painting of our house that I was going to give my
mother for her birthday. I hummed Mozart on my breath and was counting the
days until I could see Maurice again. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted
by a loud crash downstairs and then I heard my mother scream. I heart leapt
into my throat. I rushed into the hallway just to see Montague running
downstairs. He turned to me and yelled, "Felicity, hide, don't go down!" And
then he was gone. I slammed my bedroom door and locked and then slid my desk
in front of it. My heart was beating wildly as a heard screams and shouts
downstairs. I rummaged in my closet and found the pistol that my father had
given me. I shaking hands I held it and prayed for my family. Then I felt as
though my heart stop. My God, I thought, Alan is in the nursery alone. I
pulled my door open, squeezed through and ran down the hall to Alan's room.
A pale man I had never seen before was there when I entered, just as he
snapped my brother's neck as one would break a dry twig. His lifeless body
fell to the floor. I screamed and pulled the trigger on the pistol, and
again… and again. He turned to me and kept moving with every shot I took. He
grabbed me by the throat… then all went black.
 It was as though my heart jumped back to life and I gasped for air. I
looked up and a man I had never seen before was looking down at me. I tasted
blood on my lips and I began to scream, but his hand tightly covered my
mouth. My eyes flashed wildly from side to side and I realized that the room
was being engulfed in flames. The man picked me up effortlessly, as one
would a parcel. Through the smoke I saw my baby brothers corpse staring back
at me, his eyes lifeless and a trickle of blood running from his mouth. We
moved at an amazing speed down the back stairs and away from the house. I
remember crying as the house got further away and the flames left from the
windows. The wail of fire engines could be heard in the distance. Again I
fell into darkness.

I have no idea how much time passed, as I was unconscious. When I woke
groggily, I realized I was on a hard cement slab and I tried to adjust my
eyes to the dim light. I struggled to sit up. I saw the man who pulled me
from the burning house sitting in a rickety chair and staring at me. I
started to scream and he just continued to stare. "You know, it will really
do no good to scream like that. There is no one here to hear you. Besides,
my dear, I have no interest in hurting you. In fact that would completely
defeat the purpose of saving you, would it not?" "You monster!", I screamed,
"You murdered my family… oh God… my family…" I started to sob. "No, no, my
dear it was not I who slew your precious family. It was my enemy who tried
to kill the Dhoskan's. He wanted to wipe out the family line… but I ruined
that plan by rescuing you!" he laughed. He turned back to his table and
continued writing. I later learned his name was Edward. Edward was the first
vampire I met.
 I remained in Edward's haven for several weeks. In the beginning he had me
sort and file his boxes of business records. Then later when he learned of
my artistic abilities he had me draw charcoal landscapes on the walls of his
sewer haven. I didn't deduce that he was a vampire until nearly a year
later, after my embrace. I just assumed he was a madman who was using me to
seek vengeance. He did explain to me however that the man who had slain my
family was Victor Gabriel who was his archenemy, for reasons he never
explained. He told me that what was left of my family remains were now
resting in a cemetery not far from where we were. He also told me that our
home had burned to the ground and there was nothing left of my old life. I
still feared him though he did not seem intent on harming me. I remained
with Edward until one night he returned to his haven in a rage. He yelled
intelligibly for some time, ignoring my demands to know what was wrong.
Finally he realized that I was there and looked at me. "You… are no longer
of use to me. You will leave tonight." "But… where will I go? I have no
where to turn, no home to return to!" "That is not my problem," he told me
coldly. That morning, just before sunrise he turned me out into the street.
So there I was in the streets of London. No home, no family, no money. I
panicked. Now, in retrospect, I realized that if I had thought about it I
could have turned to the police, to my father's colleagues, to my Priest or
to Uncle Ambrose for help. But I panicked. I was afraid of what Victor

Gabriel would do if he discovered I still lived. I wanted to be near someone
who loved me and would tell me it would be all right. I found myself that
morning at the jeweler selling the rings on my hands and the gold locket
around my neck. With that money and merely the clothes on my back, I went to
the airport at the ticket window. "One-way ticket to Paris please."

 My first day in Paris was one I will not forget. Thankfully my mother had
insisted I learn French at an early age. It was my first time there and for
hours I wandered the streets in a daze before asking for directions to the
art school where Maurice and I were supposed to be enrolling that summer.
Luckily, the offices were open. I approached the woman at the front desk and
lied and said I was a cousin of Maurice and I was looking for an address to
find him at. At first the woman was hesitant, but after much pleading she
gave me address. I followed her directions to the area where he lived. As I
closer I grew more afraid. The neighborhood was filled with rundown houses
with filthy children playing in the streets and women in dirty aprons
sitting on the doorsteps. Men yelled catcalls from the doorways of buildings
and people stared at me with dark eyes as I walked past them. Finally I
found the house and rang the front bell. An old man in a stained shirt
opened the door. I told him who I was looking for. "Maurice, eh? He is not
here, but I know where you can find him. Or you can come in and wait if you
like," he sneered. I quickly declined and he gave me directions to a tavern
a few blocks away. It didn't take me long to find it and I hesitated before
entering. The windows were smeared in grime and the paint was peeling from
the sign. I took a deep breath and walked in. I found him at a table in the
back sitting with seedy looking men and women with thick make-up and low-cut
blouses. "Maurice…" I whispered. He looked up as if he didn't recognize me.
I could feel the stares of the others as he sized me up. In a drunken haze
he finally recognized me. "Felicity? What are you doing here?" I burst into
tears. He took me back to his apartment, which was just a room in a rundown
boarding house. I told him about my family and what had happened to me over
the weeks that we had been apart. He held me tightly and I fell asleep in
his arms that night and for the first times in weeks, I felt like things
were going to be okay.
 I didn't take me long to realize that he had changed though. The next day
he had asked me if I had any money and I told him that I only had a few
pounds left. He told me that he would hold on to them for safekeeping and,
trusting him, I handed them over. Soon after he asked about my inheritance,
and flew into a rage when he learned that I had left without getting any
money. He stormed out and didn't return for hours. When he did return I was
sleeping on his mattress on the floor. I woke when I heard the door close,
but I smelled the whiskey on his breath before I saw him. He kicked off his
shoes and threw himself on the mattress, pinning me beneath him. He pressed
his lips hard against mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth. I gagged and
tried to push him off me, but he was too heavy. He muttered a woman's name I
had never heard before and began pulling up my skirt. I cried and pleaded
with him to stop, but it was as if he couldn't hear me. He just pressed
further and further. I cried and tried to pretend it wasn't happening. I
hoped if I was quiet it would soon be over and the pain would stop. I could
feel the wetness of blood running down my thighs. With a grunt and a
shudder, I felt him spill inside me. Finally he rolled away. I was shaking
and crying uncontrollably. "Shut up," he snarled. But I couldn't stop
crying. "I said, shut up!"  He sat up and hit me hard across the mouth. I
cried out and stumbled away from him, cowering in a corner. Within seconds

he was asleep. After cleaning myself in the bathroom, I quietly crept by
where he lay. I took the few francs he had in his pocket and his watch and I
left that night. I never saw Maurice again.

The next few months were the bleakest of my life. I was penniless and
homeless. I slept in shelters whenever I could, but most times found myself
sleeping in parks or empty buildings. I ate in soup kitchens a lot, but most
days the empty pains in my stomach were ceaseless. Now that I think about
it, I guess it was only the pain that reminded me I was still alive. It was
hard being a woman alone in the streets, so I cut my hair and wore large
men's clothing to protect myself. It worked and most people ignored me,
thinking that I was just another homeless bum who had drank his way to the
streets. Though, unlike many of the other homeless people that could be
found in the streets of Paris I refused to beg for change. I would wake
every morning and go to a park and draw portraits in charcoal on the
sidewalks. People would drop coins by me as I drew. I saved every cent I
could, hoping that one day I could afford passage back to London. As the
days grew colder and summer turned to fall it became more and more difficult
to get money. Often my hands would be numb within an hour and I would go to
sleep with only having collected a few francs. But every night just before I
left to find shelter, a young man and woman would visit me and watch me draw
under the light of a street lamp. They often would make requests and I would
draw what they asked. They were always generous with me and provided me with
enough money buy a hot meal. They always had a kind word for me. More weeks
passed and the leaves had long since fallen from the trees. It was the night
of the first heavy snowfall, and by the time I got to the shelter all the
beds had been filled. I sat in an alley by a heating vent trying to keep
warm. But soon I lost feeling in my hands and feet and I began to have to
fight for consciousness.  The last thing I remember that night was strong
arms lifting me and carrying me to a car. I was asleep before the door had
closed.
I woke the next night and as I opened my eyes I realized what had happened.
I sat up panicking and tried to prepare myself run, but I suddenly felt
faint and had to lay back down. I heard a vaguely familiar female voice. I
opened my eyes and in the faint light I saw a woman's smiling face. "Shhh…
it is ok. I will not hurt you. Just relax. You are safe here." I recognized
her from the park. She was the woman who would visit me with the man and
have me draw for them. She helped me sit up and brought a hot cup of tea to
my lips. I sipped the drink and relaxed. I realized that I was in fresh
clothes and I was washed, and lying in a soft bed wrapped in quilts. The man
must have heard my stirring and knocked gently on the door. "Jean-Paul, come
in. She has woken from her sleep." He smiled gently at me. "My dear girl,
you gave a us quite a fright. We weren't sure if you would make it for a
while there. I am pleased to see that you are well now. Madeleine, I believe
that Robert had finished in the kitchen. Would you please ring for him?"
"Certainly, darling," she replied and left the room. He helped me sip the
cup of tea until Madeleine returned with a kindly looking older gentleman,
who I assumed was Robert. He had a kind smile and gentle eyes. I liked him
instantly. After eating they left me to rest, and I promptly fell asleep
again. The next evening I woke feeling fully alert and rested. I wrapped
myself in the robe that lay across the foot of the bed and walked into the
hallways. I was in a beautiful home, filled with antiques and paintings that
looked like the belonged in a museum. My breath was taken away by the beauty
and it made me homesick for my childhood home in London. Robert was soon by
my side guiding me to the sitting room to join Madeleine and Jean-Paul. I
look back at them now as not only my friends, but my saviors as well.
 

The alarm on my watch snapped me out of my memories. I looked at the time
and ground out my cigarette. That is the only bad thing about summer, I
thought to myself, the nights are far too short. With a sigh I walked though
the back door into the kitchen. As I walked to the foot of the stairs Robert
turned the corner. "Will you be needing anything else, my dear?" I smiled at
my old friend. "No, thank you Robert. I will be fine. You should rest. The
sun will be rising soon. I will see you tomorrow." He stepped to me and
kissed me on each cheek. "Goodnight." I continued up the long staircase to
my suite, running my hand along the finely crafted banister and enjoying the
soft cushion of the rich carpets beneath my feet. I softly closed the door
behind me and changed out of my clothes. I made sure that the canvas blind
was tightly sealed around my window and I drew the drapes. I lay down on my
bed and my head swam with all the memories of the evening. I turned my head
to my night-side table. I smiled as I looked at the portrait of Jean-Paul
and Madeleine. I had received a letter from them the day before telling me
of their travels through Africa. They had sounded so very happy and told me
of the wonderful things that had seen. They also told me of how they missed
me and hoped that I would join them soon. They are such good friends, I
thought to myself, I owe them so very much.

I remembered that first night that I was with them in their fine house in
Paris. Robert led me to their sitting room. Bach was playing on the record
player and there was a fire roaring in the fireplace. Jean-Paul looked up at
me from where he sat. "My dear, please join us." He motioned to the wingback
chair in front of him. "How are you feeling?" he inquired, "well rested?"
"Yes, thank you sir. I do not deserve such kindness. I do not wish to burden
you with my presence. I hope I am not imposing." Madeleine shook her head.
"Of course not. Tell me your name child." "Of course, how rude of me. My
name is Felicity." "Well, Felicity, tell me how it is that such a well
spoken and talented woman as yourself came to find yourself in Paris. You
are obviously not native to this country." I told her that I was from London
originally, but I had come to Paris to try and start over after I lost my
family. But things had not gone as I intended and after a man had taken
advantage of me and stole everything I had, I found myself without anywhere
to turn. Madeleine looked at me sympathetically. Then she turned to
Jean-Paul. They held their gaze for several minutes, as if carrying on an
unspoken conversation. The she turned back to me. "Felicity, we have a
proposition for you. Jean-Paul and myself are both greatly impressed by the
talent of one so young. Your art is beautiful and we wish to see more of it.
We would like to take you under our employ. You see, we have a new wing to
our home that has yet to be decorated and we believe that you are just what
we need. If we supply you with the art materials you need and you are
willing to paint for us enough paintings to fill our new rooms, you are
welcome to stay with us for as long as long as you wish. We will pay you
handsomely, you will have your own rooms, and you will be free to come and
go as you please. That is, of course, if you accept our offer." I sat in
absolute dumfounded silence. Finally I managed to say in a hushed voice,
"you wish for me… to live here… and paint for you." "Yes. That is exactly
what we are proposing. Will you accept?" Tears filled my eyes and I nodded
silently. "Good, then you shall start immediately." Madeleine smiled. "I
hope you will be very happy with us Felicity."

I sighed and pulled my blanket tighter around my shoulders. And happy I was,
I thought. Madeleine came to me the next evening with canvasses, paints,
brushes, and easel, unlike any I had ever seen. Wanting to please her, I
asked what she thought I should paint. She simply smiles and left me alone.
I picked up my pencil and started to sketch. For hours I sat in my studio
that night. I could hardly keep up with my hand. The colors flowed from my
brush like they had never before. It was as though my arm had grown a mind
of its own and was determined never to stop.
And I suppose it really hasn't since that night. Art, my painting, the
wondrous feeling of capturing light, emotion and beauty with the stroke of a
hand, has consumed me since that night. I found myself living for my art, as
everything that I had lived for was lost to me. I wept, I laughed, and I
remembered, though my art. I painted for my mother in thanks for supporting
me every step of the way. I painted for my father who taught me that hard
work will get you everywhere as long as you don't forget who and what you
are working for, and to pay close attention to detail. I painted for Arthur
who taught me to stop and look at the beauty of life and that every moment
of life is precious. But mostly I painted for Montague. His strength, his
devotion and his love touched me even beyond death. I knew that though I
could no longer hear him, or see his smile, he would forever be watching
over me as he had in life. It was through my art and the friendship of
Jean-Paul and Madeleine, I was able to begin to heal move on in my life.
They paid me generously and I was able to support myself. I lived with them
and they asked nothing from me except that I share with them my gift of art.
I learned that Madeleine was a beautiful pianist and I would often fall
asleep listening to her haunting melodies. Jean-Paul was a landowner, owning
and operating many estates though out Britain. They were well spoken, well
mannered, and fascinating. They had been all over the world and met so many
people. They would often join me in the evening and talk to me about their
travels. I told them of my family and how much I missed them, and my hopes
and dreams for myself. They took me out to the theatres and galleries of
Paris, which were unlike any I had ever seen. Jean-Paul would often bring me
dancing at the beautiful galas that Paris is known for. They were the first
true friends, besides my family, that I had known. It took me only a few
months to fill the halls of the new wing of their mansion with my paintings
but even then I was not asked to leave. Madeleine then began to arrange to
have my paintings displayed in local galleries and theatres. Soon they began
to sell and I began to make a comfortable salary from the profits. Soon I
had saved enough money to buy a small house in London and perhaps restore my
father's business. For weeks I obsessed over the decision to return home. I
wanted to visit my family's grave so desperately, to tell them how much I
miss them. I wanted to find Uncle Ambrose and tell him that he didn't lose
all of us, and that I was still his family. But in the end I opted to not
return. I still feared the man who had done this to us and the retribution
he would seek when he found I lived. I feared facing the memories of that
night that haunted me every night of sleep. Also, I thought, I have built
myself a life here with my friends. If Montague were here he would have
wanted me to move on with my life and to follow my dream of becoming a
successful artist. Even though he wasn't with me, I still wanted to make him
proud. Things were perfect with my life at that point. I was painting and
making a name for myself. I had friends who were very devoted to me.
Though as wonderful as they were there were oddities that couldn't be
explained. From the beginning I noticed the odd hours that they kept. I
would never see them before twilight and they would stay up long after I had
gone to sleep. In the beginning I just assumed it was because they were
glamorous and sophisticated, living the lives of high society Parisians. But
as the months passed I grew more and more curious. I also noticed that
though we spent many, many nights together, we never dined at the same time.
I wanted to ask questions, but I was so afraid of stepping my boundaries.
They had given me so much and I though it would be rude to pry. Robert would
often see me staring at them questioningly after they stopped in the dining
room to say hello while I dined. I would ask them to join me and night after
night they would simply tell me that they had already eaten. After almost a
year of living with them I couldn't help myself. "Robert, would you sit with
me for a few minutes," I asked him after one such evening. "I don't want to
step on any toes, but I have to ask. Why is it that Madeleine and Jean-Paul
never dine with me? Why do they sleep until dark only to return to bed just
before sunrise? It is almost as though they are living the life of a vampire
or some such nonsense. Or is it just my overactive imagination working
overtime again?"  His face grew very serious and his voice fell to a hushed
whisper. "Felicity, there are some things that will explain themselves in
due time. Please, be patient and you will everything you need to eventually,
when you are ready. Until that day, I suggest that you keep your questions
to yourself." He laughed as I frowned and my face grew very serious. "Ma
petite, please don't fret about it. If things carry out as I assume they
will, I believe that things will happen for the better." For many nights I
often wondered what he meant. It didn't take long to find out.
It was the eve of January 16th, 1960 when I hear a soft rapping on my studio
door. "Hello Robert," I greeted him cheerfully. "Hello Felicity. Madeleine
and Jean-Paul would like to talk with you. They are in the sitting room." "I
will be right down." I hung up my smock and washed my hands and walked down
the stairs to where they waited. They both smiled as I sat in a soft velvet
wingback chair. They glanced at each other then turned back to me. My heart
sunk. What had I done, I thought, had I out-stayed my welcome, were they
going to tell me to leave? I bit on my lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Jean-Paul cleared his throat and spoke. "Felicity, Robert told us of your
inquiries about our rather odd lifestyles. We knew this night was coming
soon so we are prepared to tell you everything you want to know." It was on
that night Jean-Paul revealed to me his secret. He told me of the dark gift
and all that it brought. He told me of the changes physically and that there
were many others like them, entire societies within mortal society. He
explained that there were clans, and that he was of the clan Ventrue and
Madeleine was Toreador. He told me of his gifts and abilities, as well as
Madeleine's. I sat in silent awe as he talked my head filled with questions
but my mouth had grown too dry to talk. And then he made me the offer, to
join them in their way of life. They would give me the dark gift. Madeleine
explained that Toreador were the lovers of beauty and art in the world of
their kind and that she wanted to allow me to share my gift with true
artists and art lovers. The Jean-Paul's face grew more serious. "I know this
a lot to take in Felicity. But we truly believe that your ability should not
be allowed to whither and die. However it is your choice. No matter which
decision you make, things are going to change. If you decide that this is
something you don't want then we will just take the memory of this
conversation from you. You will continue to live with us for a while longer
and soon you will leave us. We will still love you and visit often, so don't
fret about losing us. This is a very important decision. We will leave you
to think." They stood and left the room.

My mind was racing wildly. I had never dreamed… to give up humanity and all
the life that I know… but the life I had before is gone… they are my life
now… Toreador… a chance to belong to a family again… the chance to
experience everything I had ever dreamed of… I would never have to along
again…  I knew my choice. It took me only moments to decide on my fate. I
was going to accept their gift and join them.
 

My life has changed dramatically from mortal to immortal. It was perhaps not
as eventful as my mortal life, thank god, but it has been very rich and
fulfilling. Madeleine and I have become dear friends and she helped to
immerse myself in the life of a Toreador. Though some can be petty and
catty, I find myself feeling like I am part of a family again. I became
greatly involved in the art world of Paris. Soon after my embrace I decided
to open a gallery, and one grew into two. Soon I had four in Paris and four
more scattered in other cities of France. I became greatly involved in the
Camarilla aspect of my life, not as a Primogen or Prince as I don't really
care for politics (that was more Montague's forte). I often helped in
organizing events and maintaining the cultural aspect of the Elysium. I have
always had very good relations with the clan Ventrue thanks to Jean-Paul. I
have gone to several of them for financial advice with my galleries and a
good relationship formed within those meetings. The Malkavians have seem to
always taken a liking to me. They would often come to my galleries and stare
of my paintings for hours. Though I have never been personal-friends with
anyone from the Gangrel clan I have also never had any differences with
them. They very much intrigue me; their desire to travel and keep moving as
well as their closeness to nature has always left me in silent admiration.
My opinion on the clans Nosferatu and Brujah are very similar. I truly
believe that it is just a few bad apples in the barrel that ruin whole
bunch. I have met individuals from both clans who I liked, but as a whole I
really have no use for them. The only clan that I really strongly dislike is
the Tremere. Jean-Paul told me quite often that they were not to be trusted
and they never had anything but their own gain in mind. Again and again I
have seen proof of this. My contact with the clans who are not of the seven
has been very limited however and I have really no opinion to voice. Within
the seven though, my group of friends grew, even making strong bonds with a
few. I was courted a few times by different men but my interests never
stayed with them for long. Perhaps it was that I had no room in my life for
romance because my art took up so much of it. Or maybe it was that after
Maurice I could never really trust again. Either way, that has just never
been a part of my life. In 1975 I sponsored my first art scholarship to one
of the local universities. In 1980 I had finally become financially
independent enough to open a public school of the arts in a small town
outside of Paris, where even the poorest of artist could study. My unlife
was moving in directions I could have only hoped and dreamed for. I was
sublimely happy.

It was in September of 1984 that I decided that it was time for me to leave
Paris. I was happy there and the people were wonderful but I felt like I was
missing something. I figured that I was going to around myself for a really
long time so it was time to try and find what was needed to fill that gap.
Madeleine and Jean-Paul were saddened to hear that I was leaving but not
surprised. They promised to visit often and write all the time. I had
thought of returning to London at first, but the idea of returning there
still made my blood run cold. I remembered how my family had once visited
Wales for a week during our summer vacation and I had loved the city of
Cardiff. I decided that was where I was to make my new home. Jean-Paul
helped me buy my new house in the outskirts of the city. They also both
insisted that I take Robert and Mimi with me. Robert and I had become very
close and Mimi was a sweet girl who would serve me well and ask no
questions.

And so I have lived here for almost 15 years. My business is successful. I
have a wonderful circle of friends. Madeleine, Jean-Paul, and Robert have
become my family. But still I feel like I am missing something.

 The next evening I woke to the sounds of the city starting to wake. I could
hear Mimi somewhere off in another room vacuuming. The sounds of Mozart
wafted up the stairs from where Robert was reading the evening paper. I
wrapped myself in my robe and went to find him. "Hello Robert, how are you
tonight." "I am well Felicity. Is there anything I can get you?" I flopped
into the armchair across from him. "Yes, pass over a piece of the French
newspaper. Lets see what is new and exciting in Paris." I leafed through the
pages not really seeing anything newsworthy… my heart nearly stopped. I was
staring into the eyes of Maurice. Yes it was he, older but I would recognize
that face anywhere. My eyes quickly darted to read the article. "Felicity?
What is wrong child? You look like someone walked over your grave." Robert
was staring at me with concern. "Oh Robert, this is a man from my past, a
horrible person who hurt me very deeply. He would found stabbed in the park
last night. I haven't really thought of him in years." My mind started
racing.

That's it, I thought. That is what I need. I remembered back to the night
when Maurice pledged his love to me. He promised to take me all over the
world, to show me things I had only dreamed of. "Robert," I said standing up
abruptly, "we must pack my things. I am going away for a little while."
Robert looked startled. "Where are you going?" I smiled. "To North America."

It has taken several days to arrange all the details, but I am now on my
way. I am more excited about this than anything before. I am going to first
head to northern Quebec to paint the aboriginal cultural, then head west to
the Canadian rocky-mountains. Then I will head south to California and see a
palm tree and shop in Beverly Hills. Then it will be back up to the north to
New York City to see the Statue of Liberty. I know that just getting over
there will completely exhaust my transportation resources so I will have to
spend a few weeks in eastern Canada. I was told by one of my peers that
there is a domain there so I will present myself tot he Prince and ask to
reside in his city for a little while. Saint John… well perhaps I will be
able to find a few lighthouses to paint.