A train glides across snow-covered plains. The dim glow of a town beginning to emerge from the dark horizon ahead.
Corvus: Stand straight.
Rubuska: Mmh ... ugh—ah!
A red ball tumbles from her head, unspooling a long strand of yarn that leads back to the knitting needles in the conductress's hand.
Her scarred hands do not pause their work.
Corvus: Twelve seconds. Again.
Rubuska: Yarn is round ... How can I balance a round thing on my round head for thirty whole seconds?!
Corvus: By standing properly. You can at least do better than that.
Rubuska: I've been keeping this thing on my head forever!
Corvus: Stewardess Rubuska, I trust you have more than twelve seconds of self-control in you.
Rubuska: ...
Corvus: This isn't to punish you. I'm proving a point.
Corvus: A train steward's duties are to patrol the cabins, maintain decorum, and provide service.
Corvus: They do not extend to telling stories of vampires, blocking aisles with inane chatter, or hanging upside down from luggage racks.
Corvus: Have I hired a stewardess or a bat?
She puts pointed weight on the word "stewardess."
Corvus: I expect you to study your handbook thoroughly, and above all else, that you keep your feet on the ground.
Corvus: Pick up the yarn, wind it back. I'll begin the count again.
Rubuska: ... sigh
Rubuska: But the passengers were all having so much fun ...
She mutters the words under her breath, but nonetheless winds up the yarn, before returning the ball to her head.
The "Danube Dawn" churns a flurry of whirling snowflakes that rush past its windows.
Passengers doze, some write letters in the dim lamplight, and others fold creases into Christmas wrapping paper.
The stewardess-in-training rubs her sore neck as she slips through the cabin, pausing to lift a dropped blanket back onto a sleeping passenger.
With a yawn, all memory of her posture training fades, as her limbs and back droop into a comfortable tilt.
Rubuska: Haaah ... ahhh ...
Aima: Rubuska! The conductress let you go so soon?
Aima: How did it go?
Aima holds an empty kettle. Her concern for the trainee's progress is genuine.
Rubuska: Mm ... it could've been worse ...
Aima: Did she quiz you on the safety manual? Section Ten ...
The two stewardesses whisper as they walk side by side down the aisle, mindful not to disturb the passengers around them.
Rubuska: ... Tomorrow she's going to have me balance TWO!
Rubuska: It doesn't make any sense ...
Rubuska: Aima, did she ever make you balance yarn?
Aima: Huh? N-no, never ...
Aima: But I have helped the conductress wind her yarn when she's busy.
Aima: No matter how late work runs, she always finds time to knit.
The young stewardess drops her gaze, as if caught in a peaceful memory.
Rubuska: Why is she always knitting, anyway?
Rubuska: Don't tell me, she's planning to make the whole train a scarf?
Her companion can't help but giggle.
Aima: She has much to handle in a day. The "Danube Dawn" wouldn't be able to run without her.
Aima: She once told me knitting gave her a chance to "wind her thoughts."
Rubuska: I'd say she's thinking about far too many things ...
She looks around at the roomful of knitted pieces, where even the tiniest ornaments on the table are dressed in finely stitched covers.
Rubuska: No more hanging upside down in the cabins ... I never want to balance another ball again!
Rubuska: She's always so busy. You'd think she wouldn't find time to correct all of my "little mistakes."
Rubuska reaches her desk and pulls out a stack of letter paper. One hand rummages for the lamp as she bites down on the cap of her pen and twists it off.
Aima: Is she making you copy out the safety manual again?
Rubuska: Mm ... no, or well, that can wait!
Rubuska: I'm writing to Annabelle and the others. I'm going to drop it in the postbox at the next station. I hope it will reach them in time.
Aima: As long as you post it before noon, it should reach Budapest in ... five days!
The young stewardess, ever quick with calculations, does the math in an instant.
Rubuska: Great! I promised Annabelle my letter would reach her before Christmas Eve ... Last time I told her the story of Arnold VI!
Letters were dropped into the station postboxes, and later replies came fluttering back from Budapest. Without realizing it, she had already told the stories of Arnold the Vampire I through VI.
Aima: Well, then the next story must be about Arnold VI's descendant—Rubuska I!
Rubuska: ... Eh?!
Rubuska: Rubuska I?
Aima: What's wrong?
Rubuska: N-no, nothing! Right ... next comes the story of Rubuska I.
Her pen trembles, a drip of ink swivels over the page. But the writer reacts fast enough to keep it off her clean white paper.
The story seems to be stuck like dry ink in her pen until, at last, she forces it to flow.
Rubuska: ... Right then! Time to tell of the greatest vampire of this century, Arnold VI's descendant—Rubuska I.
Rubuska: Dear Annabelle ...
Rubuska: Rubuska I was born into a mighty vampire clan, a life of plenty, joy, and laughter.
Rubuska: But fate tested her early, for her strength showed itself too soon ... Hey, don't worry; every vampire must face trials in their life ...
Rubuska's Mother: My beloved, Count Arnold the Bloodthirsty, might I invite you to join us for supper? We intend to find a scrumptious human feast ...
Rubuska's Father: Why, it would be my honor, my lady! We vampires have crept in the shadows of this new world for too long, and I can already smell their fear.
Rubuska's Mother: Oh, look who else has joined our table! Our most infamous young vampire—Rubuska!
Rubuska's Father: And this one too ... another shadow to linger in the night, Kolyo! A most promising vampire indeed ...
Rubuska's Mother: What a splendid age for our kind ...
The smiling mother sets plates on a table covered by a worn cloth. On them: a spoonful of beans, sauerkraut, and chunks of boiled potato.
Kolyo: Wow ...
Young Rubuska: sigh
Young Rubuska: My lady, might I request something other than these ... beans?
Rubuska's Mother: Why, my darling Buska, do you mean that you don't care for these delicious tiny human livers? They're good for a growing vampire. Besides ...
A shadow slithers up the table's edge, forming the shape of a rabbit, then a cat, a dog, a macaw ...
The shadows come alive, circling Rubuska's plate, pecking at the damp, gray-yellow beans.
Rubuska's Mother: See how the shadows love them? Feast, Buska, darling; it would be impolite to refuse such a bountiful gift.
Rubuska's Father: Indeed! Lady Rubuska, I know you must long for the days when we lounged in the finest silks and supped on only the most tender cuts of flesh.
Rubuska's Father: But to be strong, a vampire must have a rich diet, including these bea—tiny livers.
Young Rubuska: Mm ... you are right, my lord!
Rubuska's Mother: Much better, my darling! We must sup on more than blood alone to sustain an immortal life.
Rubuska's Father: Savor all of life's many colors and wonders, my dear.
Rubuska's Mother: Eat well, my children.
The glow of her arcane skill fades, and the small shadows sink back into the threadbare tablecloth.
Rubuska's eyes flit over her mother's hand resting on her worn gold ring, then to the plate before her—once the finest china, now chipped and cracked.
The roof leaks, the table creaks, and in the corner lies the cramped and sagging bed they share. Yet it seems to mean nothing when she returns to the cheerful smiles of her parents.
Her home is smaller now, but it is still home.
Rubuska's Mother: In the still night, Arnold V prowls his lands ...
Rubuska's Mother: The beasts awake from their slumber, sniffing his outstretched hand, knowing his strength and his justice.
Tiny shadows flicker again in the worn gray corner, black silhouettes of animals hopping merrily through the dim room.
Rubuska's Mother: They leap and call from dusk to the breaking of daylight, and Arnold roams with them, bringing peace to all beneath the canopy of his twilight forest ...
The children watch a Shadow Theater performance as they huddle together beneath the covers, lulled to sleep by their mother's gentle voice.
But the sweet weight of sleep is ripped from them by the hammer of gunfire.
Young Rubuska: Mама, it's starting again ...
Rubuska's Mother: Hush ... my child. We must stay quiet.
Young Rubuska: Will they leave?
Her voice is nearly a whisper tinted with fear. The gunfire erupts again, closer now, so close it seems ready to pierce the walls of their tiny sanctum. Yet, even that whisper is enough for her mother to clamp a hand on her mouth.
The enemy has occupied their town.
Rubuska's Mother: Sleep now, child. Sleep.
The hammering continues, never frequent enough to become a rhythm, never rare enough to settle. She presses her hand over her daughter's eyes. Her wavering voice whispering a promise neither believes.
Rubuska's Mother: It will be over soon ... Very soon.
