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November 20, 1870

Luciana

We arrived seven weeks ago to the harsh grey shores of New York; factories and railways belched plumes of smoke into the wide sky, and men in their wool frock coats and bowler hats scurried about the streets like flea-ridden rodents.

I longed for London, with its clean cobblestones and crisp silks, but Marguerite scolded me like a child, pinching my upper arm and hissing, “Settle your features Luci.” Yes, yes, my lip had curled, but when confronted with filthy cotton calico and wagon wheels kicking dust into my nostrils, how else should I have looked?

I did not want to come here.

My love’s quest for broader horizons, her big brown eyes filled with pleading and promises, took me by the wrist and tugged me aboard a sprawling steamship.

The stink of it curdled my stomach, as did the bitter tang of the repulsive men we fed upon during the journey.

I am unaccustomed to slinking around corners and dimming the sky-blue shine of my eyes, but by the fourth night of travel my hunger required tending and my Maggie was sweet enough to facilitate my meal.

She dragged a man in his twenties to our cabin, giggling prettily and fanning her face.

Undoubtedly, the poor creature’s cock was hard at the thought of his hands corrupting her flesh—his ruddy, pockmarked face pinched into a grin beneath his bushy, ginger brow.

Instead, he found a ravenous beast dressed in black velvet.

Maggie’s satin glove muffled his screams as my teeth tore into the pulsing skin of his throat, her giggle becoming true as her gentle fingers stroked my nape.

My love is good to me, and so, I pen this from the window of our mediocre lodging in some shit hole frontier town in Colorado.

Unlike the double-decker trams of London, drawn by horses and uncomfortably tight, we rode in a remarkable train car.

The Pacific Railroad is new and shining, sleeper cars and dining cars fitted with carved wood and lush textiles.

The cost was high, but for a moment, I was truly comfortable.

If we could have remained aboard in perpetuity, I would have been glad to.

But Maggie wanted to see the West—where they pull gold from the earth and untamed land stretches as far as the eye can see.

She craves adventure, and hopes to find it here in the dirt.

We’ve rented a room by the week.

I do not wish to tie myself to this place, but it is acceptable, I suppose.

A small window overlooks the street, where horse-drawn wagons rattle from sunrise to sunset.

A restaurant, bar, and a barber are below us and the men get rowdy and raucous as the sun sinks below the hills.

Construction seems to be everywhere around us; this small town is becoming a city brick by brick.

Had I been younger, the sun here would have been a threat.

My fair-haired Maggie rests through the brightest parts of the day, but I would need only don a coat and pair of amber glass spectacles to walk the streets in daylight if I so desired.

I do not.

A battalion of predominantly dark-skinned men marched through two days past, making camp just outside the town limits.

The fish-belly and leather men of this place hurled coarse words at them, paying absolutely no heed to the rifles perched on their shoulders, driving them out into the dirt.

The proprietor of this establishment assured us that the Black battalion would be gone in the morning—heading out to an army fort to defend our honor and safety from the native peoples.

I have no concerns for my safety, they have posed no threat, but I’m sure he is accustomed to well-off women who look like us having a particular disposition.

We have learned that the people indigenous to these lands are called Tsistsistas among their own, but Cheyenne by the settlers, and that they are feared and disrespected in equal measure.

The night of our arrival, I wished to go outside when everyone had gone to sleep, and Maggie was more than happy to join me.

We are quick, silent, and can slip into the shadows in ways mortal men could only ever hope to emulate, and so we found ourselves a kilometre or so from our lodging, looking up to an unfamiliar sky.

The weather here is biting cold, with wind whipping across the plain like a scythe, and the plains stretching like a black sea in all directions.

I relished the sharp slice of frigid air on the pale skin of my cheeks.

If I closed my eyes, I might have imagined I stood on a mountaintop, surrounded by snow.

I might have imagined us back in Trentino, after all this time.

When we had made our way far enough from the town for its faint light to fade entirely, the stars sparkled brightly in the inky sky and the sight of such clear, vast nothingness stole the breath from my chest.

I have not needed to draw breath for a century, but I still experience that sensation of awe when one is made acutely aware of how miniscule they are in the grander tapestry of the world.

Surrounded by still silence and ice-scorched air, we came upon a small group of men astride horses.

The Cheyenne were nearly as quiet as Maggie and I, their beasts’ hooves a muffled thudding rhythm against the packed clay earth.

One solitary man paused, glancing our way for a mere fraction of a second as his fellows continued on, but I knew he had felt us.

I felt it in the tightening of his musculature, his quickened beating heart.

His cheekbones were high and sharp, framing a strong nose and wide, soft mouth.

His hair lay in two thick black plaits down his back, a sturdy coat and some sort of cloth wound about his body to defend from the chill.

The tone of his skin was neither dark nor light, but somewhere in between.

He looked like he belonged, at ease and seamlessly blending into the landscape.

I had a fleeting thought that perhaps this is how he had known of our presence—some innate connection to his homeland, a sensitivity to changes in a place he knows as well as he knows himself, like returning home to a picture frame being out of place.

But if he saw us, he did not care.

The group rode off without a sound, disappearing through the scrub brush without looking back.

As I write this, the last light of day has begun to shift to lavender and peach.

Despite the dust and coarse nature of the settlers here, even I cannot deny the natural beauty of the rolling hills and expansive plains, the immense mountains to the west capped in white swaths of snow.

I would prefer to be elsewhere, but for now, I am content to follow Marguerite wherever she likes.

She is still in the fragrant bloom of her eternal youth, and it is lovely to see her come into herself while filled with excitement and optimism.

But hunger claws at my gut, and so, when my love rises from her rest, I will indulge its call.