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Giselle usually didn't stay up past midnight. As a responsible student, she tried to get at least seven hours of sleep, but sometimes she had just a little more study to do, or Tate was online and it merited a late night chat. Tonight, she was just relaxing though, reading a large, scholarly book with 'ARCHETYPES OF GOTHIC LITERATURE' stamped in big gold letters on the spine. At her bedside table was a glass of cranberry juice, and she was dressed in her plain black dressing-robe. It had been a stressful day, and she was willing to stay up a little to have some time to herself. The book was interesting, as least, and nothing was quite as satisfying as analyzing literature to get a clearer idea of what in society spurred people to write it.

She sipped at her cranberry juice, turning a page. Gothic novels, full of fainting women, dastardly tyrants, and family curses painted a very odd picture of 18th century life, but the parodies that followed it showed that no matter how fanciful society might get, someone would always be there to tie people firmly back down to Earth.

Giselle froze, because only one person "knocked" on her door like that.

She was not frightened of bloodthirsty and irrational people. She had read of Robespierre, of Caligula, of Henry VIII, of Richard III, and all of history's figures that could win the category "Least Likely to Be Nominated Posthumously for a Nobel Peace Prize" hands down. Mostly they seemed nefarious, but reports were either exaggerated, biased, or just plain wrong. Even the parts that were true didn't come out of nowhere. One was not born mad or bloodthirsty. Every historical figure had reasons behind their actions, even if the reasons were not always the best.

Thus, when she had met Frankie, she had adamantly refused to be frightened of her. No one got to be like Frankie without some cause for it, and likewise she could not be a threat to Giselle unless Giselle gave her a reason to be threatening. Liking her was quite a different matter, but as as a self-professed historian, she knew better than to fear her. She refused to even flinch at the sound of Frankie's voice. Whether she was crazy or not, she was still just a Twilight and manga obsessed teenager, and thus Giselle could deal with her. Of course she could, she was better than her!

If she just kept repeating that, she would not be afraid, she convinced herself. It wasn't even as if Frankie was at the head of the French revolution. Compared to Robespierre or Napoleon, she was a kitten. Not scary, not threatening, an inferior.

No matter how inferior Frankie was, though, it was hard not to hesitate late at night. "Yes, who is it?" she called, stalling the inevitable and asking a question that was practically rhetorical.

Giselle wasn't quite sure why, but Frankie seemed to invade her space more than she did other people. Perhaps Frankie found her intellect intriguing, or perhaps she thought that if she bothered Giselle enough, then she'd do better in history class. Either way, she simply refused to leave Giselle alone, and being her neighbour made it even easier for her to drop in at unexpected times and breathe heavily. It was all quite bizarre.

She was at least less strange than Erzebet Bathory. It would show if Frankie was bathing in blood.

Giselle weighed her options. She couldn't pretend she didn't hear her, it was too late for that. At least Frankie wouldn't be interrupting her schedule, and she knew there would be far more nonsense to put up with from her if the door did not open, than if it did. So, for the sake of her schedule, she reluctantly went to open the door. "Good evening, Frankie." she said coldly, "May I help you with anything?"

Some students had trouble understanding Shakespeare. Giselle never had. Giselle had, from a young age, understood Shakespeare quite well. She had been obliged to, both by her father's high expectations for her, and her mother's inordinate fondness for Kenneth Branagh adaptations of the Bard's plays. She could understand Shakespearean English with little effort. The language Frankie spoke was more difficult. Giselle attempted to keep up with new slang, as she was of the opinion that one had to understand someone in order to be better than them. She knew what 'lolz' meant and 'ho' and even 'foshizzle', although she sometimes wished she didn't. However, it always took her a moment to process things when Frankie addressed her.

"I know s**t." Giselle repeated, consulting the mental Giselle Dictionary of Lesser Beingese.

It either meant she knew something or nothing. As the latter was unthinkable, she assumed the former. So Frankie did want help, help with...

Uh.

Something.

She knew that when Frankie referred to a 'dark and terrible Edward', she had to be talking about the travesty that was the so-called 'Twilight Saga'. When she talked about how she was alone whilst others were screaming though, she lost her. Was she upset about being lonely?

Offering to help Frankie with loneliness was begging future restraining orders, so she refrained from it. Instead, she said "What would you like to know?" Hopefully it would be a short question.

Giselle did not mention that if Francine Cullen came along, it might suggest that incest came along with her. That was not tactful, and surviving a visit from Frankie required the same kind of tact required at the Treaty of Versailles** Some of Giselle's enemies could be ignored, overlooked, or even condescended to, but Frankie was an enemy who confusingly was inferior to her in intellect but somehow totally made up for it in crazy.

Giselle had heard stories. Bad stories. And she did not particularly feel the urge to test how likely they were to have happened late at night alone with Frankie. Yes, she had history textbooks and plenty of other blunt objects, but it was different threatening unexplained freak occurences with a book than it was threatening an actual person. Girls who turned into blood and killer kittens did not get litigious afterwards.

"Well, historically, there's little proof that ghosts and vampires are real. Most of it is hearsay and legends." She realized this was not the best way to start off with Frankie, but she refused to tarnish the historical record even in her own self interest. "In Russia, the Tsarina hired Rasputin to heal her son. Perhaps you should hire a mystic. And of course, the British have more than their fair share of ghost stories, partially because their monarchs kept on killing each other. So I suppose finding a royal dead body and standing next to it might also work. As for vampires, all you have to do is find someone quite gruesome, lie to them by saying that bathing in blood is the secret to immortality, and offer them a castle in Transylvania. The rest really just sorts itself out, I'm told, though inbreeding helps, I suppose."

"Of course, if you really want something, er, 'crazy' to happen to you, I'm sure you merely have to wait." Giselle herself had already had an encounter that seemed paranormal, but plenty of things seemed inexplicable. She wasn't baout to discount it as a hoax just yet, especially not when her neighbour was Frankie.

"Is that all?" she asked tartly.

**But not necessarily displayed at the Treaty of Versailles. World War II happened for a reason.