view of their world. The letter was raw and emotional and nothing like Edward had ever written before.
Rose,
Your words shame me.
That you think of me at all with any semblance of charity or concern breaks my heart. I must confess to you now, like a killer seeking absolution from a priest he has wronged.
I have hidden a secret from you for years.
I did not think it possible for our kind to feel guilt, suffer from regret, but I have suffered for my actions that night in your house so long ago. . . . Not for turning you, but for leaving you with no knowledge of what you had become or how to survive. You know nothing of your own kind, but for one of us to make a vampire and then abandon you as I did is a sin. Yet so is making a vampire in the heat of the moment, and I feared what my master would do if he found out. . . . I was a coward.
Then after he was destroyed, it seemed too late for me to make amends to you. I did what I could by sending the warning. I could not even bring myself to look at you. Now, it is far, far too late for amends.
Thirteen years after you arrived in Philadelphia, something happened in Wales, and I never wrote a word of it. Julian turned his father, William, a senile old man, thereby condemning him forever to a state of dementia. The next night, Julian turned a servant girl to care for the old creature, and he put them both on a ship and sent them to me.
I have been living with these two, with this secret, for decades. I could not bring myself to tell you. The old man wears upon me, but the girl, Eleisha Clevon, has given me something I never thought to find.
Redemption.
I have trained her, cared for her, and she needs me.
Finally, tonight, reading your last letter for the twentieth time, I feel that I can tell you that I suffered for abandoning you. I would never sink to ask your forgiveness.
All I can do now is try to make up for the past through my care of Eleisha. Do not fear that I am alone. Do not waste such thoughts on me. Only know that I have suffered remorse you cannot imagine for abandoning you so long ago.
Edward
Rose stared at the letter. Then she crumpled it and threw it into the fire. Did he think these confessions brought her comfort? Did he think she cared that he had suffered for his crimes against her? And now, he had been lavishing his care, his training, on a Welsh serving girl, and he expected this to give him absolution for destroying her life and murdering Seamus?
She was numb.
Slowly, she walked from the sitting room into her bedroom. Seamus was in there, looking at drawings.
“Rose,” he said. “Come look at these pictures of San Francisco. You would like this new city. The streets are simple, but people are pouring in to settle here. Could we at least see it?” His face was so hopeful and yet hesitant. He knew how she hated to travel, feared to travel.
“How would we get there?” she whispered.
“By train. The track to the coast was just completed last year.”
“All right,” she said softly. “I’ll book a train ticket.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Seamus was all she possessed of value now. Her illusions of some connection to Edward were just that . . . illusions.
Once more, the trip was a nightmare, and she vowed never to go through this again.
Upon arriving, Rose sent a two-line letter to Edward telling him of their relocation.
He wrote back, sounding shocked and hurt, wanting to know how he had offended her, but she never answered. After that, he occasionally sent money but did not write. Financially, her needs were few, and due to him, she had barely touched Seamus’ inheritance.
Although she never expected to, Rose found some peace in San Francisco. The people and energy in the air suited her better than Philadelphia. The place was rather primitive at first, but by the late nineteenth century, it had become an international city.
Much of the city was damaged by an earthquake in 1906, but rebuilding followed almost immediately.
In 1908, she bought an apartment on the second floor of a lavish building. Finally, a home of their own.
By now, hunting was easy due to more accessible transportation and the strength of her gift, but she