"Yes. Although Asher is now included in these looks. Do you know my father still believes that the only good vampire is a dead vampire? Thank heavens the rest of my family no longer believes that nonsense! Asher, being Asher, could care less about the glares, but he does feel a bit guilty at the major's disapproving stares directed at me."
"Regretfully, Major Van Helsing is who he is, and has his own fears to live with," Eve said. She sighed. "I doubt your father will ever truly change his opinions. You know the old cliché, that you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Well, I rather doubt you can teach an old vampire slayer, either. He will always judge a vampire by his coffin, and not what lies in his heart. I highly recommend that you ignore any feelings of guilt you suffer for disappointing your father, and not let the man's feelings affect you at all." Eve was reminded again of her father's devious interference. She could hardly wait to track the old reprobate down, and to tell him exactly what she thought of his rotten plan.
She grimaced and continued with her advice: "No, we cannot remake ourselves to suit someone else's image. We must always be true to who we are and what we are, with all our faults and all our remarkable capabilities for forgiveness and talents for whatever," Eve counseled. Her thoughts grim, she made another notation, this time for herself:
Lock Bluebeard in a sea chest and throw away the key.
Lady Jane nodded, an intense expression on her face. Growing up under her father's rule had made her want to please everyone, most especially the major. The major, a man not to be satisfied with anything, had never lavished a single word of praise upon her, making her feel like a failure. That continual feeling had severely crushed her spirit, and if not for her beloved ostrich; her dog, Spot; her dearest friend, Clare Frankenstein; and her brother, Brandon, she likely would have faded away while polishing the family silver.
"You're quite fortunate, you know," Eve reminded her. "You're married to a handsome earl who loves you, and the rest of your family admires him."
"I know. I am quite pleased at how my uncle, Jakob Van Helsing, my cousins, and brother have all taken Asher into their confidence. Why, my brother can hardly wait at times for Asher to come popping out of his coffin to talk to him about things," Jane said. "Although the first few times it happened, Asher said his nerves were in quite a state. A vampire usually gets staked when he wakes to find a Van Helsing standing over his coffin. He doesn't get asked what gift to buy an angry mistress."
Eve laughed. "Yes, I can imagine. Having a renowned vampire hunter perched by your coffin could be quite unsettling."
Jane blushed becomingly. "My husband never minds rising to the occasion when I wake him up."
Eve made a notation on her pad:
True love is a wonder to behold.
She smiled and commented, "Dreams do come true." For some people, she thought wryly.
Jane nodded happily. "Yes, I am fortunate. A series of misfortunes and my fears ended in a marriage made in hell but a honeymoon made in heaven."
"Oftentimes good can come from mishaps and mayhem," Eve agreed. Although in her case, it was quite different, she thought fretfully. Just look what trying to avoid being married had cost her! Her fake marriage was now being shoved down her throat, along with a tasty yet tasteless blackguard pretending to be her husband.
Glancing over at the clock upon the fireplace mantel, she realized that time had passed swiftly. She reached inside a desk drawer and pulled out several different pictures with black smeared upon them: her art treatment therapy. She handed one to Jane, determined to get to the root of the woman's phobias.
"It's time for the black stains again?" Jane asked approvingly. "I do so love to use my imagination on them. It's like when I sit down to sketch birds."
"Inkblots," Eve corrected kindly. No matter how many times she used her inkblot therapy, her patients got the terminology wrong. She'd even tried to drill the name home using a roar-shock method, but to no avail.
Her patients' inability to remember the name was particularly aggravating, because Eve was rather proud of her thrilling new methodology in treating the mentally ill. It had begun as an accident back at the University of Vienna. For an internship, she had been working at a hospital. One night, tired and worn-out from three straight days and nights of being on call, she had spilled a bottle of ink. At the time she had been taking notes. A patient had commented on the black spots, giving Eve a brief glimpse into his fog-shrouded mind. Soon she was trying the stains on other patients, and eventually discussed it with her mentor, Dr. Kroger. He had embraced the new therapy. Together, they had refined the stains to conform to various images they felt might stimulate the subconscious mind.
"Now, what does this one remind you of?" she asked.
"Asher putting on his cloak," Jane replied. "Did I tell you that he thinks I have the prettiest feet he's ever seen?"
"Odd, I thought the earl would be a neck man," Eve remarked.
Lady Jane blushed. "He loves my neck, too," she admitted. "He's just batty about necks and feet." Then, pointing at a certain spot on the stain, she added, "Yes—Asher's putting on his coat, and that is Spot by his foot."
Eve rather thought the inkblot resembled a pirate sword. "This one?" she asked, holding out the next picture.
"Let me see. Hmm." Jane put her finger to her chin. "This one reminds me of Asher rising from his coffin. He's smiling happily upon seeing me. Waking him is so divine. Did I mention that he calls me his little ray of nonfatal sunshine?"
"How lovely," Eve replied stoically. Each to her own desires, she decided. Holding up another mess of black splotches, she asked, "How about this?"
"Asher—waltzing."
Eve twisted her pearl necklace, making notes on her notepad.
Obsessive patient. Whereas a spot definitely resembles a person walking a plank, Lady Jane sees her bloody husband. We need to focus more on her fear of bloodlust rather than plain old lust.
Warily, she flipped over the next picture.
"Dr. Eve, really!" Jane protested. "I can't believe you have a picture of Asher stepping out of the bath!"
Eve almost broke her necklace, twisting it viciously. This was really too much. Young love was a wondrous thing, a many-splendored thing, but not when it barred the way to unlocking submerged and perhaps crucial memories. "Lady Jane, I beg to differ. This particular ink spot is of a crow's nest aboard a pirate ship. I have never had any erotic ink spots in my possession, nor will I. And I certainly would never place in my therapy an ink spot of your husband without any clothes. Perhaps if you look closer at the picture, you might see something else." Her fingers began to tap on Henry Morgan's skull in slight vexation. "Something not dealing with your husband."
Accepting the request good-naturedly, Lady Jane lowered her head to again study the ink spot. Her brow wrinkled in concentration. Finally, after several moments passed, she spoke decisively: "You're quite right. I can see that now. It isn't a picture of Asher standing nude in this black blot."
"Inkblot," Eve again corrected.