“You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. ” “Is she the one who made you into a vampire?” “Yes. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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