Phoebe could now classify the information coming through her nose into the same five categories that warmbloods used for tastes: sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and savory. Phoebe knew simply from smelling an animal or a person what they would taste like, and whether or not she would enjoy feeding from them. It was far more humane to sniff than to bite, and raised fewer human eyebrows.
Witches, Phoebe discovered while walking along the rue Ma?tre Albert with Jason, smelled almost saccharine. Though she had a sweet tooth, and still enjoyed standing outside the window at Ladurée to smell the macarons and see the beautiful colors, the scent of witches turned Phoebe’s stomach. She wasn’t sure how she was going to endure spending time with Diana. Perhaps one became less sensitive to such a powerful odor, or became more aware of its top and bottom notes, like a fine perfume?
Phoebe’s memory had changed along with her senses. Instead of becoming sharper, however, it had grown fuzzier and more fragmented. Once she could recall precisely what color she wore on her birthday ten years ago, how much every handbag she owned had cost, and the titles （in accepted chronological order） for every canvas Renoir ever painted. Now she couldn’t remember Freyja’s mobile number from one hour to the next.
“What is wrong with me?” Phoebe had asked Fran?oise after she couldn’t find her glasses. “I want to take Persephone into the garden and it’s too bright out.”
It was eight in the morning and overcast, but Phoebe still found the light hurt her eyes.
With Fran?oise’s help she located the glasses, but then misplaced Persephone. The two of them were reunited in the laundry room, where Persephone napped in a basket full of Miriam’s dirty clothes.
“All manjasang have trouble with their memories,” Fran?oise said. “What did you expect? You have too many now for one brain to hold. It will get worse the longer you live.”
“Really?” Nobody had told Phoebe that. “How am I supposed to go back to work?” A sharp memory was crucial for someone working with fine art. You had to be able to recall stylistic differences, changes in techniques and materials, and more.
Fran?oise gave her a pitying look.
“I am going back to work,” Phoebe said firmly.
“So you say.” Fran?oise tucked one of Miriam’s T-shirts around Persephone like a blanket. It read COUTURE IS AN ATTITUDE, a sentiment with which Freyja did not agree.
Phoebe was finding that being a vampire, like most things in life, was a delicate balance of gains and losses. With every loss, be it temporary like her job or permanent like the taste of ice cream, there were gains.
One day, Fran?oise found Phoebe studying the latest mark she’d made on the doorframe. To Phoebe’s relief, she had grown a full inch.
“Your teacher is here,” Fran?oise said, delivering a freshly laundered pair of ballet tights and a leotard.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Phoebe replied, noting the date on the doorframe in red ink. Freyja had asked her to stop scratching the wood in favor of a felt-tip marker that smelled of cherries and unidentifiable chemicals. “I’ve grown, Fran?oise.”
“You still have a long way to go,” Fran?oise replied.
“I know, I know,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Fran?oise was not talking about her height. Even so, Fran?oise’s criticisms did not sting as they once had.
“Do you need help?” Fran?oise asked.
“No.” Phoebe could manage dressing herself now without popping all the buttons off her blouses and buggering up the zippers.
She peeled off her pajamas and bathrobe. Both were silk and kept her from waking up at night itchy and raw-skinned. Phoebe was still uncommonly sensitive, even when compared to other young vampires. Fabric, light, sound—they all had the potential to make her irritable. But Phoebe was now aware of these triggers and was able to manage them most days.
Phoebe slid the tights over her legs, keeping her fingernails free of the mended patches that reminded her of previous attempts to wrestle with the slippery nylon and Lycra. This time she got the blush-colored hosiery on without a snag, a hole, or a wrinkle. Next came the black leotard with its skinny straps that went over her shoulders. They’d snapped in two several times and been replaced. Phoebe adjusted them so that the neckline of the leotard fit properly. Then she checked her silhouette in the mirror and picked up her toe shoes.
She’d been taking classes with a tiny Russian vampire with long legs and big eyes for several weeks now. Phoebe and Madame Elena practiced in the mirrored ballroom, which had excellent acoustics and a resilient wooden floor. Madame Elena’s son, Dimitri, a mousy-looking vampire who appeared to be in his early thirties, accompanied them, pounding on the keys of Freyja’s grand piano with a determined air.