Page 18 of Fangs, Frost, and Folios
Isadora was in her early nineties and slept for much of the day, but she’d lived for many years in a house of vampires, so early evenings were one of her more alert times.
“Sadia.” Isadora’s voice was strong. “Of course, come in and sit with me. I was going to work on a puzzle. Would you like to help?”
“Sure.” The girl seemed to relax around her great-grandmother. “Is it the butterfly puzzle still?”
“Oh no. Your grandfather and I finished that one yesterday. I’m working on the edges of a new landscape.”
“Is it a picture from Mexico?”
“How did you know?”
With age came nostalgia. Tenzin remembered Nima’s desire to be reminded of her childhood home in her last years. She had surrounded the elderly woman with her favorite food, music from Tibet, and colorful quilts to keep her warm.
“This one is pretty.”
“That is a town named Tlaquepaque near Guadalajara. It’s not far from where I lived when I was your age.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” There was a long stretch of silence. “I like the umbrellas.”
“Aren’t they pretty? And the houses there are just as colorful. It’s an artists’ community.”
“You’re an artist. Is that why you lived there?”
“Oh no. I wasn’t an artist when I was a little girl. I only started taking pictures when I came to this country.”
There was more silence as the girl and the old woman worked on the task together.
“Do you think I’ll be able to go back to Damascus someday?”
“I’m sure you will, Sadia. Do you want to?”
“Yes.” The answer was firm. “But I know it’s still dangerous.”
“I’m sure it won’t always be that way.”
“Do you think any of my birth family is alive?”
“If they are, do you know who would be able to find them better than anyone?”
“Mama and Baba.”
“That’s right.”
Tenzin closed Giovanni’s journal and set it to the side. Vampires were powerful, immortal, and well-connected, but even they couldn’t always overrule human governments. The tragedy of Sadia’s family was something she didn’t often think about because there was nothing she could do to remedy the loss of the girl’s parents.
She knew Giovanni and Beatrice kept Sadia as connected to her Syrian heritage as they could when they lived a covert life among humans. Dema came from a Syrian background. They spoke Arabic with the girl and attended religious services at the Syrian Orthodox Church.
It was a stark contrast to Ben, who had Lebanese blood but no connection with his mother’s family and only limited contact with his father’s.
Roots. Blood. Ancestral memory. If she closed her eyes, she felt nothing for them. Her blood had died thousands of years ago. If any of it survived, it was a diffuse diaspora across Central Asia.
But Sadia wasn’t five thousand years old—she was twelve.
The girl sighed. “Do you think they’ll be back before Christmas?”
“I suspect they will. Caspar is on a video call with your father right now. Do you want to talk to him? I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“No. Mom texted me this morning. It’s cool.”
