Hayling Island, England, 1913
The sun was just coming up as Ysanne Moreau walked barefoot down the shingle beach. No one else was around yet. Leaving a towel on the dry stones, she continued down to where rocky ground became damp sand, squishing beneath her toes, and then further to the shallow waves running lazily in and out.
She waded in up to her knees and then dove, plunging into the cold water. Since vampires didn't need to breathe, she could stay under as long as she liked.
She swam out a mile and then floated on the surface of the water, sculling her hands. The sky was so pink it looked like it was blushing, and in the distance, morning fog was clearing away, revealing the shape of the Isle of Wight. She could easily swim there. Maybe she would one day.
Ysanne closed her eyes, feeling the warm light on her face, contrasting with the cold sea.
It had taken her a long time to get here, but she finally felt at peace.
The world had changed so much so fast, technology evolving at such a rapid pace that Ysanne hadn't even tried to keep up. Caoimhe had once wondered if vampires would get left behind by this new way of life, and she'd been right. Ysanne had stopped trying and had retreated as much as possible from the world, pretending that none of this change was happening.
Hayling Island was the perfect place for her. There was only one bridge on and off, the thatched cottage where she lived was remote enough that no one bothered her, and every morning she came down to the beach to swim or watch the sun come up.
It wouldn't last forever, but she'd love it while she could.
A familiar figure was waiting for her when she got back to her cottage, sitting on the little wooden bench in between bright flowerbeds. John stood up, beaming, and as Ysanne drew close to him, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
"You've been swimming again," he said, nuzzling her wet hair. "My little mermaid."
It had taken a long time for Ysanne's heart to heal enough to let her take lovers again, and longer still until she felt ready for any kind of meaningful relationship.
John was one of the first people she'd met when she moved to the island, and his bright-eyed enthusiasm had warmed her newly healed heart. He knew that she wasn't quite like other people, and he knew that she brazenly defied societal norms and expectations, but rather than being scandalised by it, he was endlessly intrigued.
Ysanne pulled out of his arms and opened the front door. "Are you coming in?"
They didn't even make it to the bedroom.
John loved it when Ysanne had been swimming. He couldn't swim himself, and apparently the idea of her in the water, the smell of the salt on her skin and in her hair, never failed to excite him. Ysanne suspected it was more to do with the fact that proper young women didn't sneak down to the beach in the morning and go for a swim. Sometimes he told her she was wild, and then he kissed her like he needed her to breathe.
John kicked the front door shut, propelling Ysanne into the kitchen, where he lifted her onto the table and started pulling at her clothes. She wasn't wearing much so it didn't take long, and then he was eagerly pushing inside, his hands tight on her hips to hold her in place, her own hands gripping the edges of the table.
She was pretty sure that John had been a virgin when he met her – their first time together had not lasted long.
He'd come a long way since in the months that followed.
Now he knew how to read her body, he knew what she liked, he knew how to bring her to that edge of sheer bliss and then how to push her over it, and this morning was no different.
But after that moment of sweet release, when Ysanne was resting her head on his shoulder and listening to him struggle to get his breath, John changed everything.
"I love you," he whispered, kissing her ear.
Ysanne froze.
She adored John. He was sweet and kind and understanding and he never asked for more than she was willing to give, but she didn't love him. Or rather she wasn't in love with him. There were things she hadn't told him, and that had nothing to do with being a vampire.
He stiffened slightly when she didn't say it back, but he didn't say anything. He would never push her, and sometimes Ysanne wondered if maybe one day she would love him.
But there was one thing standing in the way of that.
His name was Will.
Ysanne hadn't meant for it to happen.
John was one of the first people she'd met when she moved here, and their relationship had moved quickly from there, but she'd never made any promises, and she'd never guaranteed exclusivity because it genuinely hadn't occurred to her. She'd made it clear to John that a relationship with her wouldn't be a traditional one – she wouldn't publicly court him, she wouldn't meet his family, she wouldn't entertain notions of marriage – and he'd accepted that. It had seemed ideal.
Then, one morning, when she'd gone for her morning swim, she'd found that she wasn't alone. At first she'd thought it was John – he was of a similar age and build, and he wore his hair parted to the side in the same way – but as she'd waded out of the water, she'd realised that this man sported a tidy moustache. His name was Will, and he'd been transfixed by the sight of her coming out of the water in the grey-pink light of dawn. Later he'd told her that she'd looked like something out of a dream.
They'd talked, eventually gone their separate ways, and then he'd been there again two days later, keen to swim with her.
The next thing Ysanne had known, they were in bed together.
That was weeks ago, and they'd fallen into bed more than a few times since then.
Sometimes Ysanne felt guilty about it. She never asked John or Will if they knew each other, because if they did, that would only make things even more awkward.
Sometimes she thought about ending it with one of them.
But she could never decide which one.
They were both important to her, and maybe it was selfish, but she couldn't bring herself to give either of them up.
After John had left to go to work, Ysanne sat on the kitchen table and thought. She would never tell someone she loved them if she didn't, but was being with Will holding her back from properly falling for John? Or vice versa?
No.
Ysanne had lived long enough to know there were many different kinds of love, and many different ways to love someone, and she believed it was possible to love more than one person at a time. But she did believe that loving someone required a certain level of commitment, and she couldn't give either John or Will that while she was still keeping them secret from each other.
But telling them about each other could mean losing them.
She'd been alone for so long, and now that she finally felt strong enough to let people in again, she wanted to keep them. Even if it was selfish. Even if it wasn't fair to them. Even if she felt a pang of guilt every now and then.
Things couldn't continue like this forever – she knew that, but for now she was happy, and she wanted to keep things that way. No matter what.
She wasn't expecting a war to break out.
Hayling Island, England, 1914
The news didn't come to Ysanne herself.
Since no one knew about her secret relationships with John and Will, no one thought to tell her when they were both killed in action, out on the Western Front, within a few days of each other.
She learned about it in passing, from locals discussing the losses and how to comfort their respective families.
She wept for them both, but it had to be done in secret, just as things had been when they were alive.
But someone else knew that secret.
A couple of weeks after she heard of their deaths, a knock came at the front door.
When Ysanne opened it, she found a young woman standing there, dressed in a plain, black dress, her hair gathered in a severe knot. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with recent tears.
"Are you Ysanne Moreau?" she said.
"I am."
The woman looked at her for a long moment, assessing her.
"I'm Bess," she said. "Do you know who I am?"
Even if John hadn't mentioned her often, the family resemblance was clear. She had John's eyes, his chin.
"You're John's sister."
Bess's chin wobbled, and she pressed her lips into a bloodless line. "May I come in?"
Ysanne stood to one side.
She led Bess through to the kitchen, and then immediately wished she hadn't. This room was full of memories, like the essence of John had seeped into every part of it. Like his ghost was still here.
"I know that you and John were courting in secret," Bess said. "Frankly I never understood it, but he assured me he was happy. It wasn't my place to question that."
"He told you about us?"
"John and I were always close, and he kept no secrets from me," said Bess.
Ysanne had no idea what to say to that. She had no room to feel annoyed that John lied to her in that regard – not when she'd kept Will secret all that time.
"Shall we go through to the living room?" she said.
John's ghost was everywhere in this cottage, but the living room least of all.
She led the way, and Bess settled primly on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.
"What exactly did John tell you?" said Ysanne carefully.
"He told me that he was in love with you."
Ysanne closed her eyes.
"He told me that you had never professed love for him in return, and that you'd told him you had no intention of marrying him or anyone else, but he hoped that you'd change your mind when he returned from the war. He was planning to propose," Bess continued.
That hurt more than Ysanne had thought it would.
She wouldn't have said yes, but the thought of him heading off to war, bright with hope and believing that, by the time he returned, she'd be ready to become his wife was a sharp blade between her ribs.
"Anyway," Bess said, reaching into her pocket and drawing out a crumpled brown envelope. "Before he left, he told me that if anything happened to him, I should give you this."
"What is it?" Ysanne didn't take the envelope.
Bess thrust it into her hands. "He'd been putting money aside for a future with you. His instructions were that if he didn't come back, the money would go to you. He didn't want you to ever struggle financially."
That brought the sting of tears.
If he'd come back from the war, Ysanne would have broken his heart, either when she rejected his marriage proposal, or when she eventually left Hayling Island to move on to somewhere new. But at least he'd have been alive.
She pushed the envelope back at Bess. "I can't take this."
Bess pushed it back. "You have to."
"I don't need his money. You should keep it."
Bess's expression hardened. "My brother's last wishes were that you would be taken care of. If I keep the money that he saved for you then I would be spitting on those wishes. Don't ask me to do that."
Ysanne did not want to take John's money. His family didn't have much, and she couldn't imagine how hard he'd worked for it. Equally, she couldn't ask Bess to dishonour the last thing that her dead brother had asked her to do.
"Please," Bess said, holding out the envelope again. Her hand trembled, and her voice was ragged.
Silently, Ysanne took it.
Bess was struggling to hold in her tears, and then she couldn't anymore. She dissolved into sobs, burying her face in her hands, shoulders violently shaking.
Awkwardly, Ysanne shuffled closer and patted her shoulder.
"He talked about you so much," Bess snuffled. "He said you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen." Her gaze grew more intent. "He was right about that."
Ysanne started to speak, and Bess kissed her. It was a clumsy, inexperienced kiss, Bess's cheeks still wet with tears, and Ysanne started to push her away, but Bess pushed back, kissing her more insistently.
Ysanne should have stopped it.
She meant to, but somehow she was kissing Bess back. When Bess hesitantly cupped Ysanne's breasts, Ysanne didn't stop her. When Bess started to pull at Ysanne's clothes, Ysanne didn't stop her. Bess had stopped crying, her face set in determination. Her eyes were so like John's.
Ysanne firmly shut off her brain.
She undressed Bess and urged her to lie back on the sofa, and then she let her hands and mouth do the talking, introducing Bess to a world of new sensations and pleasures.
It wasn't until afterwards, when Bess was shuddering and gasping in the aftershocks of bliss that Ysanne realised what a horrible mistake this was.
Because Bess wasn't gasping.
She was crying.
Ysanne couldn't remember the last time she had felt so angry, so disgusted with herself. Maybe she never had.
Bess was vulnerable and grieving – the last thing she'd needed was sex with the woman that her dead brother had loved.
"I don't know why we did that," Bess whispered.
"I'm sorry," said Ysanne.
Bess sat up, trying to hide her nakedness, and Ysanne turned around, giving her privacy while she got dressed. Why had she done that?
She'd never felt like she'd taken advantage of anyone before, but what else could she call it? Bess might have instigated things, but she was scared and grieving and confused, and maybe she really was attracted to Ysanne, and maybe her grief had become tangled up until she thought it was something else.
Ysanne was older and more experienced and in less pain – she should have stopped things.
She got dressed quietly, and faced Bess.
Bess had stopped crying, her jaw clenched tight, and Ysanne realised that they were never going to talk about this.
It had been a mistake, one that Bess wouldn't even acknowledge.
"Did you ever love him?" Bess asked.
"Yes," Ysanne said, and it was true. She didn't add that she hadn't been in love with him.
"What will you do now?" Bess asked, wiping her eyes.
"I'm leaving Hayling Island," Ysanne said.
She hadn't planned to go yet, even in spite of John and Will's deaths, but in Bess's eyes, she was the last link to John. There was such hope in her eyes, but Ysanne couldn't offer her friendship.
"Where will you go?" Bess asked.
"I don't know yet."
"When will go you?"
"As soon as possible."
Bess covered Ysanne's hand with her own. "You don't have to leave. I can tell my parents about you, I'm sure they'd love to meet you –"
"No," said Ysanne.
Bess blinked.
"I'm sorry, but I just . . . I can't," Ysanne said.
The light went out of Bess's eyes, and Ysanne got the distinct impression that she thought her brother had fallen for the wrong woman. Not that it mattered now.
"Well, then," said Bess stiffly, standing up. "I suppose I should be going."
Maybe Ysanne had been too abrupt, but apologising wouldn't make a difference now. Her hand tightened on the envelope of money.
Bess didn't say goodbye.
Ysanne didn't keep the money.
Every night for the next week, she walked silently through the town, and at every house who had lost someone to the war, she put some of the money through their letterbox, until there was none left.
She buried the envelope in her garden.
Bess would never know.