For a time she stood watching the dancer, entranced by the way her raven hair slid over her shoulders as she moved, her sheer unconscious grace and passion. So much potential for love lay coiled inside Violette, but outsiders rarely saw inside the ice shell. She has so many layers, Charlotte thought. Her fervour on stage, her cold armour, the grief and vulnerability that she rarely let anyone see, her unending war with herself, the goddess-demon inside her and her core of deep wisdom. Sometimes she’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, and sometimes the worst. Who can fathom her? That’s why she holds us in thrall, me and poor Emil and almost everyone who sets eyes upon her. Charlotte was conducting an experiment: holding in her vampiric aura so tight that she was effectively invisible. She needed to know if her effort was working, so she could judge whether or not Fadiya had only pretended to ignore her in Paris. Apparently her skills were effective. Violette began to dance in the space between furniture and mantelpiece, and did so unselfconsciously for five minutes before she noticed Charlotte.
