viaticumforthemarquise:

I typically do not live anywhere where I have access to mirrors, nor do I go to any extreme to attempt to see my reflection. 

But, the world being what it is, I am once in a while in a position to catch a glimpse of myself in the glass. 

What do I see?

I see what I am sure many others see: a woman, older but of indeterminate age (the dark gift altered the ability to see me for the age I was when I died, though it is obvious that I am not as young as many of the others), with a mass of blonde hair, with blue (sometimes violet, sometimes grey) eyes, and small, kittenish (to borrow Lestat’s words) features. 

I see my brother’s hair.  

I see my father’s chin. 

I see my mother’s fine cheekbones. 

I see my son. Always. 

I see my daughter. 

And then I pass on. 

;A; we all know that 8th child was a daughter!

• “I was the seventh son and the youngest of the three who had lived to manhood” = there were 7 sons
• “And now, after eight children, three living, five dead," 

That 8th child could have been a daughter. What are the odds for it being another son?