“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.”Best,
January Bain
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