The
thorn has pierced my finger, pierced my skin. My blood wells up, a bead of life
that rises and gleams in the moonlight. Black. It reflects the slit of a dying
moon. The roses are all about me. Their velvet blooms are damask, Bourbon, musk, they swell like the breasts of harlots and their scent is sweet as sin. My crystal goblet holds blood-red wine, drained of its colour by moon and stars.
What has brought the beautiful Dove to this place? Why must she forever fear the sun? The answers lie in her memories of blood and wine and roses.