Author's notes: This took a bit longer to write than I'd planned. Well, here it is. Don't worry, story isn't dead.

She was passionate, dusky, voluptuous, enthusiastic...in short, Sarah absolutely despised everything about her. What's more, she couldn't believe...just couldn't believe this...maid...this human was given the pick of all the dresses before her!

"No, not that one!" Sarah snapped, rushing forward just as the woman reached towards a very rich, red dress...possibly even more luxurious than she remembered her own tattered ballgown being when it was fresh and unsullied. She'd had her eye on it the entirety of the night, and she'd be damned a second time if she let it go.

The woman slapped her hand away, letting forth a stream of funny, angry, nonsensical words. It was all very lyrical, but of course Sarah couldn't understand any of it. For a moment, she wondered how firm the Count truly was about that little rule not to eat anyone without his permission...but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what he might do if he was. Whether she thought he favored her or not, she had no desire to upset him. That glowing anger in his eyes when she'd fed from Alfred had been cowing enough.

In fact, Sarah rather wanted to get on his good side. She'd thought of him an awful lot these past five years, in-between nostalgic thoughts of her humanity for startlingly fleeting moments. She wanted to prove that there was still something about her to capture his interest, even now that the blood in her veins was no longer her own, but the stolen remnants of life from the meals she had taken in the past month or so.

Slumped in her chair, she kept her knees close to her chest while the frothy trails of her skirts draped about her in a halo of creamy white silk. It was unnerving to be here alone with her thoughts and the natterings of indecipherable gibberish spilling about the room from that...woman. No Alfred to cling to her, or dote on every single movement she made, to practically feast on the sight of a curl falling over her ear, or imagine a thousand ways the curve of her neck was more appealing than any meal…

It was tiresome, filtering through his thoughts, whether he was aware she did it or not. Alfred's head was a tiresome mine of melodrama. The Count, at least, had a mind she could not pierce. He was, in short, far more interesting. Even before she had died. Alfred was and always would be practically a boy, and the Graf...oh, he was the very essence of a man.

The Italian woman claimed that dress despite Sarah's protests, and whisked from the room with her ill-gotten little treasure, leaving her behind to stare after the witch. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. How on earth was she expected to dazzle at the ball if she couldn't wear red?

Sarah stared at all of the remaining dresses, lined up side by side on a wire the hunchback had fashioned to stretch across the room so they could be shown to their best advantage. She plucked glumly at the skirt of the one she wore. She supposed it was better to have this, or the remaining options, than to wear rags and webs, dusty scraps of mildewed white or black...the things she'd recalled the others wearing at the only ball she'd been to. Compared to them, she knew she'd still be more than sufficiently dazzling. But...she wanted to be the only one…

And she wasn't. She just wasn't. Sarah began to wonder if she was just a bauble to be cast aside once the Graf had his fill of her blood, when the door creaked slowly open, and Alfred poked his head into the chamber. Sarah stood up, smoothing out her skirt, "yes? What is it?"

He nodded to her, "I thought you might want some help."

"Help? With what?" She snapped, "I can't drink your blood here, Alfred."

He cringed, easing further into the room and leaving the door open behind him, "no, I meant I thought you might want help picking something to wear."

She gaped at him. It would have been less astonishing if he had told her he was a frog and proceeded to hop about the room eating imaginary flies. "You want to help me pick a dress?"

"Well," he glanced back over his shoulder, "I know you'll probably want to look your best. I saw the Italian woman running by with something red, and I knew you liked that color…" He shrugged, "if you want me to leave, I can."

"No, no," she held up a hand, stepping forward, "you can help me. I suppose."

Sarah glanced back towards the dresses, folding her hands primly in front of her waist, "so...which one?"

He was taken aback, "I'm sorry?"

"You said you wanted to help me pick something to wear, so...pick one, Alfred!"

He pursed his lips, walking closer to the dresses and reaching out to run his fingers along the material of a canary yellow nightmare. Sarah wrinkled her nose and shook her head, "it's too...yellow. I want to look like an angel, not spoilt milk."

"Oh, I was thinking about myself," he gingerly removed the dress from its hanging and held it in front of himself, giving a ridiculous twirl, "what do you think? Does it match my eyes?"

Sarah lowered her eyebrows, "what are you going on about?"

He nodded, "yes, of course you're right...I shouldn't wear this at all. Perhaps I'll take it as my partner to the dance," he strode across the room carrying the dress at arm's length, draping one of the sleeves over his shoulder just as he attempted to leap into a parody of a two person quadrille. He only ended up tangling his feet in the material and ripping it as he stumbled to the ground.

She tried to remain stoic, but she couldn't help herself. Sarah began to laugh. Really laugh, for the first time in...ages. "No, Alfred, she's far too graceful for you. How about…" She walked towards the line of dresses and lifted an emerald green one into her arms, admiring the way the actual jewels sewn into the neckline glittered in the candlelight, "this one would look far better. She'd match your coloring," Sarah held the dress out to him.

Alfred slowly untangled his legs from the miserable pile of yellow fabric on the ground and climbed to his feet. Something seemed to change in his face, as if the joke had suddenly gone just as sour as the dress, and he came closer to her, pressing the dress back closer against Sarah's person and smoothing the blouse over her chest, "no. I think this one would suit you better, Sarah."

She blinked back at him several times, having half a mind to give him yet another reminder that she wasn't interested in any sort of ridiculous poetry or love letter he'd probably prepared for her and tucked into his trouser pocket, but before she could, Alfred stepped back and bowed to her.

"I hope I've been of some service. I'll see you later in the evening at supper?"

Her jaw dropped open, and she was at a loss for words. When he stood back up, he didn't even step closer to touch her hair to smooth an imaginary fly-away curl, or stare overly long into her eyes to try and force one of his silly thoughts into her mind. Instead, all Alfred did was smile...and leave the room.

She was dumbfounded, and had long forgotten about the dress by the time the hunchback returned to gather up the rejects and remove the wire from the wall.

He couldn't believe he'd done that. Though Alfred's fingers had itched to touch her hair, and he wanted to say so much more, he forced himself to follow Herbert's advice. To make her laugh, engage her, and once that was done...leave. It seemed unfair to do so, to treat her like a passing interest, but he pulled it off.

His nerves were still humming from the effort. If any of this silly plan really did work, then...maybe she'd want to dance with him at the ball, maybe she'd want to go further out into the world, to Venice, Paris, every romantic corner where the blood was richer, the life more vibrant.

"Oh my, Alfred, you're turning into quite the apt pupil," a lyrical voice remarked, and he felt delicate fingers dance along the small of his back before falling away as Herbert fell into step beside him, his smile very self-satisfied.

He didn't shy away this time, growing all too used to the unwanted attentions the older vampire seemed desperate to heap on him. Alfred supposed he'd just have to put up with it, and if it never went further than a touch or a suggestive remark, it would be no worse than an overly enthusiastic dance instructor.

"You know, darling, there really is so much more to the game of love making than just a pretty remark or gasping sighs," Herbert advised, "after all...I was peeking around the corner when you left dear Sarah. I should say she was very intrigued by the new Alfred."

"New?" He scoffed, "I'm the same man as I always was. She's just finally beginning to notice me...I will admit, maybe your idea did help it along a little, but…"

Herbert held up a finger, just close enough to Alfred's lips to almost alarm him. "Alfred, it's a little soon to start feeling so smug, isn't it?" He casually drew an arm around the young man's shoulders, leading him down the corridor, "mystery, you know, is one of the most alluring qualities a lover can have...always leave her guessing. Don't be so obvious about that heart you've hemmed into your sleeves. I don't doubt your pining has been so desperate she's actually been able to hear your thoughts," he smiled and looked upwards, "I know I have."

"I'm...what?!" Alfred exclaimed, quickly removing Herbert's arm from his person and stepping back, "what do you mean?"

"'Oh, I should do anything for you, if you would only look at me a little longer. Those lips, I would kiss them until they were redder than blood, how I would devour every inch of you if I could...Oh...Sarah!' Really, Alfred. Do try and be less...cliche."

He sputtered, "I...I never thought...never said...you…"

Herbert drew an elegant hand to his mouth to cover a tittering laugh, "no, you didn't think that one, dear. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"