I didn’t get much sleep that night. No matter how much I wanted to get some shut-eye and hopefully dream about what I could only assume was my past life, I ended up staring at the now-familiar ceiling with a sense of guilt. After Clarissa effectively cut our conversation short, Dorian excused himself. He showed himself during dinnertime, but it was obvious that his mood was dampened. Especially when Mary made him drink his “medicine” after the meal—at least, that’s what she called his weekly dose of blood to keep him sane. Where or from whom it came from, I didn’t bother to ask; but Dorian drank it in one go with apparent disgust in his face, then stood up and left.
Mary had tried to assure me that it was because “he always gets moody when he knows it’s time to drink. He hates it,” but I
