Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
No. Then he’ll think I’m actively trying to get his attention.
I fought with myself for a good two minutes on what the hell to wear before throwing the silky nightgown back into the drawer and just picking an oversized sweater and some shorts. As I dressed, I heard the balcony door open, and I wondered what he was doing. Stepping out into the living room, I saw him sitting leaned against the door, staring up at the moon, the book still clenched in his hand. I tilted my head to the side to see which one of my novels he refused to surrender. Of course, it was Pride and Prejudice.
Walking over, I slid between the door and his body, reaching to take it from him. He glanced back at me, the corners of his lips turned upward into a smile.
“Why are you women obsessed with this book even still? It perplexes me,” he questioned as I sat down across from him, hugging the pages to my chest.
I thought about it. “Firstly, I am sure men enjoy Jane Austen as well. Secondly, I could hardly speak for women all over the world. And lastly, I enjoy it is because it is like a fresh fairytale, where the female is impassioned, bold, and witty but with hints of Cinderella.”
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Cinderella?”
“Come on. You know, servant girl goes to the king’s ball. She meets a handsome prince but has to return home before midnight,” I said, and he stared at me still. “Seriously? She leaves behind a glass slipper?”
“Ah…” His mouth parted slightly as he remembered. “The tale of the Little Glass Slipper, you mean. I do hope you not believe an Englishmen came up with the tale.”
“I’d never really thought about who came up with it,” I admitted. “It was one of those stories that have been told so often and in so many different ways that it just feels like it belongs to everyone now.”
“It is Greek,” he said so sternly that I tried not to laugh.
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really,” he shot back with the same inflection in his tone that I had. “It is the story of Rhodopis by the Greek geographer Strabo.”
“Personal friend of yours?”
He frowned, his lips in a hard line. “I am not that old, Druella.”
At that I couldn’t help it; I did laugh. “Sorry, please go on, what was the original about, or has it remained the same?”
“From what I recall,” he said slowly, and I could tell he was straining to think. “The tale came from the sixth century, a Greek woman named Rhodopis, who was kidnapped and sold into slavery by the Egyptians. One day while she is bathing, she has one of her slippers—though not made of glass—stolen by an eagle who flies it all the way across the Nile and drops it in the lap of the Pharaoh. He takes it as a sign of the gods.”
“Talk about convenient.” I crossed my legs and sat well. “So, the Pharaoh sends out his men to search all the land for her?”
“Exactly, and she is made the queen.”
“And they all lived happily ever after,” I said like I was reading the end of a story. “So funny enough, the story only became more realistic with time. I’m not sure who would ever believe an eagle would drop your sandal into the lap of your one true love.”
“I am sure you would most definitely believe it,” he replied.
“And you know me so well, how?” I shot back defiantly.
All he did was nod to the book in my hands. “Firstly, your entire home is completely and utterly filled with stories or paintings that require you to suspend belief. Secondly, you are a creature which is even less likely among humans to exist than an eagle who delivers slippers. Finally, how often do you explain yourself in firsts, seconds, and lasts?”
He was teasing me!
Glaring, I placed the book inside the doorframe of my apartment. “How about we just skip to the story where you explain…Oh, I don’t know—everything—like you promised. No more avoiding it.”
“I wasn’t avoiding it,” he lied, and I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.
“Yes, you were, so out with it old man.”
His jaw cracked the side as he huffed a bit. Shaking his head, he glanced back up at the moon over my shoulder. “How much do you know of being a vampire?”
“You’re avoiding my question with a question.”
“I am not.” He shook his head sincerely. “But in order for me to explain, I need to understand how much you already know of what it means to be a vampire. What it means to us.”
No one had ever asked me that, but it had been something I had wanted to ask so badly. What did it mean to be a vampire? What were the rules? Where was the line? What next? I so badly wanted to ask but never really felt like I could. It made me feel like the dumbest kid in the middle of the class, asking something that was obvious.