“I think reading all those vampire romance novels you love so much has addled your brain, Sunday Rose St. Clair. First, it was Grandma Rose and her faeries, and now you and your vampires,” her mother remarked without rancor as she deftly rolled out the piecrust for the fifth pie of the morning. Sunday Rose, in her task of peeling the Macintosh apples lagged behind her mother, earning herself a stern warning glare that plainly told her to hurry it up.
She sighed, “But Ma, to be able to live forever, just imagine!”
Her mother brushed back a wayward strand of still-bright auburn hair that belied her years. She left a streak of flour on her forehead. “You,” she said, “with your Titian hair, your emerald eyes filled with foolish dreams, your books and poetry, are so like Grandma Rose it sometimes frightens me. She was a last-born child, too, you know. And while some say it’s the middle one who tends to be fey, in this family, I think that’s not so.”
Sunday Rose peeled another fragrant apple, sliced into the large tin basin positioned precariously in her lap. “But, Ma,” she said again. “To live forever? Wouldn’t that be something?”
“I think it would be torture. I’ve done enough baking and cleaning and doing for others in this lifetime. I’d not care to continue it indefinitely. Be practical, child.”
Sunday Rose hurried her pace at another warning glance from her mother, but continued to argue. “It’s not a practical matter. It’s about being able to have endless time to live and love and learn and—to just have more.” Yearning filled her voice as she tried to explain how she felt.
“What do you know about love? You’re just a chit of a thing.”
“I know that I’m going to find someone who will love me no matter what--who’ll love me unconditionally.”