Chapter 17: Old John Can No Longer Endure the Steam
The sudden change in attitude softened Vivian’s voice considerably, making Eve wonder again what she was planning this time.
Still, she rose first and cautiously walked to the bedside without sitting immediately.
“Sit,” Vivian repeated.
Eve sat. The mattress sank slightly. The two sat side by side, speechless, and the ticking of the clock became clear again.
“Besides your name, what is your surname?” Vivian suddenly asked, staring at the wall painting ahead instead of at Eve.
“Young Miss, I have none. My given name alone is Eve.”
“None? Judging by you… you do not seem like someone of ordinary background.”
Respect could be exchanged for respect; Eve followed the same principle. “I am merely a maid employed by the Hatherin Family. Nothing more.”
Silence returned.
Then Vivian turned her head and studied Eve seriously, her gaze moving from silver hair to crimson eyes, then to the bridge of her nose and red lips.
“What is the Young Miss worried about?” Eve suddenly asked.
“Hah? What could I possibly worry about?!” Vivian raised her voice, glaring at Eve’s profile. Whether it struck a nerve, only she knew.
Soon after, the small figure deflated, hugging her pillow and muttering softly, “Since you were placed here by my father, you must have some task, right?”
“Young Miss, I do not.”
“I do not believe you. That old man definitely sent you to spy on me! If not that, then something else!”
“Truly, nothing…” Eve said helplessly.
Why did she not believe the truth? The Hatherin Family Head was merely a bridge and also connected to higher authorities, placing her here as an observer.
One could say it was surveillance—but not of Vivian.
“I do not care. You are!”
“If the Young Miss says so.”
What else could she do? Better to indulge her imagination. At least it kept her from frowning all day. Was she not rather adorable like this?
“Hmph. I cannot be bothered arguing with you,” Vivian said, turning and crawling toward the head of the bed, rummaging through the cabinet.
She soon pulled out a very thick book and tossed it backward. Eve caught it precisely, while Vivian slipped under the blanket.
After a long day she was exhausted. Once settled, she let out a long breath and stared at Eve. “Tell me a story.”
Hm?
Eve glanced down at the heavy book. The title read 《One Hundred Thousand Bedtime Stories》. So she wanted to be lulled to sleep.
“What kind of story would you like, Young Miss?”
“Anything,” Vivian said, appearing to close her eyes but secretly leaving a slit open to observe. “As long as you can tell it. Or can you not read?”
“I can, naturally.”
“Then hurry. Do not pick childish fairy tales to brush me off—I have heard enough of those. And come closer. I do not want to strain my ear listening.”
“Understood.”
Eve moved slightly closer, back straight, placing the book on her lap and opening it.
Only then did Vivian secretly open her eyes wider. From this angle, she could see Eve’s lowered eyelashes.
Quite pleasing to look at…
Eve flipped through the table of contents, chose a story she deemed not childish, and turned to a page past the hundredth.
“This story is titled 《Old John Who Kept Steaming》…”
“Wait. What kind of name is that?”
“I do not know.”
“Tch… continue.”
Eve resumed, her voice calm and emotionless. “The protagonist is a retired soldier. His comrades called him Old John. He served for fifteen years, and in his final battle, he was shot eight times in the chest.”
Vivian raised an eyebrow.
“But he survived,” Eve continued.
“Shot eight times and still alive? Are you joking, or is the story joking?”
Interrupted again, Eve patiently explained, “Because in the chest pocket of his uniform were eight items.”
“They were: a copper pocket watch from his daughter, a silver necklace from his wife, a steel cigarette case left by his brother, his father’s old canteen, a wooden slingshot made by his son, a fountain pen from his mentor, a coin given by a comrade at parting, and a protective charm from his mother.”
Vivian: ???
Her face clearly read What are you even talking about? Yet unconsciously she became an attentive listener, adjusting her lying posture and moving slightly closer.
“Every bullet hit that pocket? What kind of luck is that?”
“Because it is a fictional bedtime story. Young Miss, please do not mind irrelevant details,” Eve paused, then added, “Though I also find it absurd.”
Vivian froze briefly. Rarely, she did not argue, only stared at Eve for a moment before snorting softly. “Continue.”
“Afterward, Old John returned to his hometown farm upon retiring. He believed he would spend his old age peacefully, watch his daughter marry, and see his grandson grow. But on a full-moon night, the farm was attacked.”
“Not bandits, nor beasts. The attacker was a vampire.”
At this point, even Eve was slightly surprised, her reading slowing unconsciously.
“His family died beneath the vampire’s sharp claws and fangs. Old John survived only because he hid in a secret compartment in the barn. Through a gap, he watched the farmhouse burn and heard the screams fade.”
Eve turned the final page.
“At dawn, after the vampire left, Old John crawled from hiding and stood before the ruins. He touched the pocket on his chest, where the eight items that once saved his life remained.”
“He realized he was still a soldier, yet he had feared death and watched his family perish. Finally, he drew the pistol he carried and used the last bullet to end his own life.”
Eve closed the book. “The story is over, Young Miss.”
Silence filled the room for a long time before Vivian spoke first.
“A vampire?”
“Young Miss does not know of them?”
“Of course I do!” Vivian retorted immediately, pouting at the doubt. “I only question whether such things truly exist. I have never seen one.”
Eve silently remarked inwardly—if she had seen one, that would be troubling. She reopened the book and found the appendix page.
“There is a description here: Vampires—legendary undead beings, born bloodthirsty, varied in form, typically with pale cold skin, crimson pupils, and sharp teeth.”
“Some individuals possess extraordinary abilities, such as high-speed movement or mental control.”
She finished reading and lifted her eyes, only to find Vivian staring fixedly at her.
“Pale cold skin… crimson pupils?” Vivian repeated, her gaze sweeping across Eve’s face.