Rose found the letter detached and informational. He spoke of vampires she'd never met and a conflict she had no part of. She also felt that he wished to say a great deal more but would not.

She tried to exist in Philadelphia.

She tried to be good company for Seamus.

She began writing more lengthy letters to Edward, mainly about Philadelphia and their various hotels and nightly activities. She did not write often, perhaps every six months. Time felt different to her now.

He always wrote back. He kept her informed of everything he learned of Julian's bloody actions, and her fear of a mad vampire she'd never met began to grow. In spite of everything… everything he'd done, she could not help being grateful to Edward for helping her to leave Scotland.

The years passed.

Seamus learned to move about in the world a bit more freely, never allowing himself to be seen by anyone besides Rose, but he never liked the feel nor the sights of Philadelphia, and when she sought out books to read to him, he began asking for accounts of other places in America. He was especially fascinated by accounts of the West Coast, and Rose began to fear he might wish to relocate again.

The adjustment from Scotland to Philadelphia had been almost too much for her, and she had no desire to ever go through such events again. She learned to use her "voice of wisdom" well during hunting. Edward called it her "gift."

Although she had no affection for Philadelphia, she had learned her way around well enough to hunt at safe distances. In addition, though she would never admit it aloud-or possibly even to herself-she had grown comfortable with the thought of Edward just up north in New York, far enough never to see him… but not too far.

But Seamus began asking for more and more books about the west, on gold hunting and horses and new cities cropping up and the adventures taking place there, and by 1870, he began focusing his interests on California.

His obsession began to make her feel more and more alone. As if she had no one to truly talk to-except Edward. And Edward often reiterated the importance of her living alone, remaining in secret. These reminders caused her to think on his existence as well, always staying in hotels, even more alone than herself. At least she had Seamus. She did not feel sympathy for Edward but rather empathy for the hollow, changeless existence they shared. In a moment of weakness, one night in a letter, she expressed these thoughts to him.

He did not answer for a month, and then a letter arrived that shifted Rose's view of their world. The letter was raw and emotional and nothing like Edward had ever written before.

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 never ceased to feel shame after a kill or to continue her efforts to go as long as possible without feeding.

Seamus also liked the city, but even so, as the years passed, he was given at times to melancholy about the state of his existence: endless, unchanging, no one for company but Rose. She could hardly blame him but had no idea how to help.

She and Edward maintained a polite silence.

Remembering their home in Scotland, she took up some of her old interests, such as herb gardening, and she tried to create some semblance of a home for Seamus.

Then in 1913, a letter arrived.

To Rose's shock, she was hit in the face by blatant pity.

How strange, how unexpected to feel pity for Edward. But she did. If there was one thing Rose understood, it was loss, especially the loss of someone she loved. She wrote back, and she offered him comfort.