France, 1719

Animal blood really wasn't the same as human blood, and Ysanne Moreau couldn't help curling her lip as she drank from the rabbit. It had been too long since she'd taken blood from a human, but what choice did she have?

Artus's house was on the outskirts of town, just far enough away that it wasn't practical for Ysanne to head into town to hunt. Artus would notice if she was gone for too long, and she wasn't ready for him to ask awkward questions.

Once he noticed that she was more than human, she'd either have to risk telling him the truth, or she'd have to end their relationship and disappear into the night.

The thought of leaving him made her chest twist.

The rabbit stopped kicking in her hands as she drained the life out of it, its frantic heart finally stilling.

But a steady thump-thump remained, and chills raced over Ysanne's skin.

How had she not heard it before?

Slowly she turned.

Artus stood behind her, his brow deeply furrowed as he looked at the dead rabbit in her hands, the blood on her lips.

"I don't . . . what are you doing?" he said.

Ysanne just stared at him.

Twenty-six years had passed since she and Edmond had realised it was time to end their relationship and she hadn't seen him since. She'd filled the void left by his absence by taking a steady string of male and female lovers, but until Artus, they'd been nothing but casual bedmates. He was different.

"Ysanne?" he said.

His voice was curious, wary, but he didn't sound afraid.

Ysanne weighed her options.

Artus wasn't beautiful like Edmond. He'd only just turned thirty when they met four months ago, and already grey coloured the hair at his temples, and creases gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he was kind and honest and warm, and she'd quickly come to adore him.

She couldn't run from him now.

Maybe he would turn from her when he knew the truth, but she owed it to the relationship they'd built to at least try.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said.

Artus slumped in his chair by the fire. "I always knew there was something different about you, but I never imagined this."

"You understand why I must keep it secret," Ysanne said.

Artus nodded, running a shaky hand across his face.

"Do you feel differently about me now?" she asked .

Artus gazed at her, the firelight playing off his face. "You cannot have children, then?"

She shook her head.

Tears glimmered in Artus's eyes. "I'm very glad to hear that."

He'd been married once, years before meeting Ysanne, and despite his love for Ysanne, he'd always been honest about the deep love he'd had for his wife. He had thought they would spend their lives together, as Ysanne had once thought she would with her human husbands. But, after suffering several miscarriages, Artus's wife had finally carried a baby to term. Artus had told her that that had been the happiest time of his life. Every day was a step closer to holding his child in his arms at last. Finally he had, but not in the way he'd hoped. His wife had died giving birth to their longed-for child, and his daughter only lived a week before following her mother to the grave. It had broken Artus's heart.

His friends and family had urged him to remarry, to try and build a new family, as if the one he'd lost was replaceable, and he couldn't bear it. He had loved his wife, he had desperately wanted their baby, and he had lost them both. He was terrified of that happening again.

"This doesn't change how you feel?" Ysanne asked.

He took her hand and gently pulled her into his lap, holding her like he had done so many times before.

"It changes nothing," he said, kissing her forehead.

"And you understand that being with me means you will never have a chance at children?"

"I already had that chance. I don't want to risk it again."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to wake up one day and regret making the choice to be with me," Ysanne said.

Artus clasped her hands to his chest. "Ysanne Moreau, I love you. I want a life with you, just as it is now."

"You love me?" A little smile touched her lips. "You've never actually said that before."

"Maybe not, but I have thought it, many times."

"I love you too," she whispered, and kissed him.

France, 1739

The bedroom smelt sour, like stale air and sweat and sickness.

"How are you feeling?" Ysanne asked, carefully propping Artus's pillows so he could sit up.

Even that was an effort for him; she had to help.

His face was grey and drawn, looking much older than his fifty years.

She knew it bothered him – that she still looked twenty-five and he looked old enough to be her father, but neither of them ever brought it up.

"Can you manage any food?" she said.

Artus grimaced.

Ysanne stroked his hair. "Let me rephrase that. You need to eat."

He mumbled something, but he didn't argue.

Ysanne went to the kitchen, where a large pot of soup bubbled away. In the earlier stages of their relationship, Artus had quickly learned that although his human wife had been in charge of cooking for him, Ysanne would not do the same thing. But his health had sharply declined over recent years, until even cooking simple meals required more energy than he could spare. Ysanne had had to take over.

As she spooned soup into a bowl, she smiled, remembering her first attempts. She had learned to cook as a human, but that was a very long time ago, and vampires couldn't taste meals to see if they were any good. Poor Artus had suffered through some absolute disasters before Ysanne got the hang of things.

Her smile soon faded as she returned to the bedroom, carrying the soup. Artus sagged against his pillows, his eyes dull and listless. Every month he got worse and worse, and no one seemed able to help.

She sat on the bed next to him, and lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips. His eyes met hers, hard with anger – not at her, but at his situation.

For twenty years they had loved each other – the longest relationship Ysanne had ever had – but as his health declined, he'd come to rely on her more and more. She was more his carer than his lover these days, and she would never begrudge him that, but she knew how much it hurt him.

She nudged his lips with the spoon. "Eat it while it's hot."

She fed him half the bowl, and then he gently pushed her hand away. "No more," he gasped. "I can't."

Ysanne set the bowl on the floor, and lay beside him, her head on his shoulder.

"You shouldn't have to do this," he whispered.

"It's alright –"

"No, it isn't. I'm supposed to take care of you."

As a vampire, there wasn't much that Artus could do to care of her, but Ysanne didn't say that. Despite her incredible strength, Artus still considered it his role in life to make her happy and to give her everything she wanted, and to protect her from the world. They had never married, but he treated her as his wife, nonetheless.

They lay quietly for a while, then Artus started to fidget, a sign that Ysanne had become familiar with.

"Do you need the latrine?" she said.

Artus's jaw clenched. Of all the things that Ysanne had to do for him, helping him relieve himself was the thing he hated most. But she had to do it. The last time she'd let him walk there unaided, he'd collapsed and split open his forehead. His health had declined even more since then; Ysanne wasn't taking any chances.

She climbed off the bed, moving around to Artus's other side so she could help him up, but she wasn't fast enough.

The sharp smell of urine rose into the air.

Artus squeezed his eyes shut, but not before Ysanne saw the glimmer of humiliated tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Shhh, there's nothing to be sorry about," she said, kissing his head.

She lifted him out of bed and carried him through to the kitchen, where she gently laid him in front of the fire so she could change his clothes and wash him clean. Then she changed the bedding. This wasn't the first accident he'd had, and she'd quickly learned to have plenty of fresh bedding to hand.

"You should go," he said when she came back into the kitchen. "Leave me."

"You know I'll never do that."

He made a frustrated noise. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"Someone has to take care of you."

This time he couldn't hide his tears. "This isn't the future I wanted for us."

She crouched next to him and pressed a palm to his hollow cheek. "One thing I have learned over my long life is that no one can predict the future. The plans we make don't always come to fruition, and the lives that we want to live don't always work out that way."

"It would be better if I was dead," he muttered.

"Don't say that," said Ysanne fiercely, clutching his hand.

"But it's true. I've become a burden on you."

"You're not a burden, and I am not leaving you."

He rested his head on her shoulder, and she leaned her chin on his head, listening to the thump of his heart. It was weaker than ever, struggling, and a cold numbness settled on Ysanne. She had tried to deny it all these months, but she couldn't anymore.

Artus was dying.

She loved him so much but he was slipping through her fingers, and she couldn't stop him.

"Let's get you back to bed," she said, carefully gathering him into her arms.

When they'd met, he'd been stocky and solid; now he was wasted and frail, like a bundle of twigs in her arms. She blinked back tears.

She carried him back to the bedroom, and carefully tucked him into bed, before climbing under the covers with him. His breath was hoarse in his lungs, and she pressed a hand to his chest, as if her touch alone could make his heart stronger.

"I love you," she whispered.

His fingers trailed through her hair, and when she looked up at him, his whole face was soft and warm with love. Through sheer force of will, she held her tears at bay. She had to be strong for him.

And maybe she was wrong.

Maybe the end wasn't closing in.

Maybe he would still get better.

Ysanne put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Stay with me, she thought. Please stay with me.

But in the end he couldn't.

He clung to life for three more days, growing too weak even to eat the soup that Ysanne lovingly prepared, and then finally one morning she awoke to find that he had quietly slipped away during the night.

For the longest while she lay in bed with him, holding the empty shell he'd left behind, and crying the tears that she'd held back for so long.

Another love lost.

Another scar on her heart.

When she couldn't cry anymore, she dragged herself out of bed, and went outside to dig his grave.

On Friday, we're going to meet Ludovic's wife. See you then :)