You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.

     "I know what has happened to your Darius, and who was responsible."

     The look on the German's face is one of discomfort, insufficiently masked by politeness. It is the expression of why are you telling me this combined with exactly how much trouble am I going to be in for now knowing this.

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     But then you respond to the subject of Darius and he glances into the fire. Gazing there, he murmurs, "They were very close. Closer than you realize, perhaps."

     William, on the other hand, gets Victoria to turn her full attention, a half incredulous and more than amused expression on her face, "You told me that I should shag him on the first date. If it was a date, mostly it was drinks."

     "Yes," he says excitedly, eyes and eyebrows widening a touch, "I am happy to take you to the Abbey tonight." He pauses half-a-moment, turning to Tori, "Fontevrault, or Fontevraud," slight variation on pronunciation but barely noticeable really. "Victoria wants to go visit the family crypt..."

     Your nights are spoken for. You are risen gently just past sunset. You are led into a great hall and made to sing scale after rising scale, stretching your vocal chords, working your vocal chords. Sometimes with Girault there correcting you.

     "Incroyable," William says, voice carrying as he appears, he grins. Incredible, he says. Unbelievable, he means. "It is good to see you," he says suddenly, warmly in English.

     It's like a breeze, when change comes. The doors fly open, the windows lift, and a wind barrels through that takes the stale, stolid air away. When it's a hurricane, all you can do is hold on. Ian just held on for a few years, not knowing what would happen when the winds died.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls.

     Girault must steal a look, still it comes with the air of Platonic, See I Am Only Looking, William -- I Have Eyes. There is nothing outwardly lascivious about it. Are you beautiful? Yes, one of the world's most beautiful.

     The way I have been. The stress. The...whatever it is... that makes us fight from time to time. My uncertainty. "Also... I will say... I wish I could go with you," Valan whispers. "I wish I were a warrior suddenly. I ... am worried." A pause. "I am frightened. A little. For you."

      "What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.

     .... When I came to stop below a hill that marked one end of the valley that had pierced my heart with terror, I looked up toward the crest and saw its shoulders already mantled in rays of that bright planet that shows the road to everyone, whatever our journey...

     "I guess we call a Toreador we trust." A pause. "The list is short. Girault..." He pauses again, corners of his mouth upturning. "It is a short list indeed when Il Gatto di Firenze floats to the top of it."

     "I thought you might like some company," his voice reverberates against the mist, echoing, melody found in it. He seems to sing, even when he does not. And when the face of Girault looks upon you, he beams.

     "I know... what it is to lose. I understand this loss," he says. "I have been where you are now, three times..."

     The Cymri's mouth purses in thought. Magic. "I believe it came from her... her trauma. The breakdown upon the sudden end of the Bond. What it must feel like with the Line suddenly goes... slack."

     The last hour or so was rather uneventful, as most of it she spent as a ruby, as red as the one she wears on her finger. Time passed and she was returned to her normal state, but she remained still and unconscious. Her small body instinctively curled into the fetal position and then stayed there.

This prison place tastes damp, the smell of stone ? cold and unforgiving ? and the faint scent of anger and frustration. This world is so empty for the nose and lips. Through countless short eternities these two lovers grow bored. They complain, to the others, that the fingers and eyes have worlds to explore while they have nothing. The ears, though, envy them their empty world, and thus the two are silent.

     The change was subtle, perhaps. Could you discern when she had finally crossed that line between lucidity and her current state? Even when she awoke, she was quiet, reluctant to speak much. But at least she was calm and without incident.

But that's changed.

     William opens his eyes. Slowly. You have stopped? Indigo eyes are a shock of violet and blue -- after so much opium, absinthe, tainted blood -- the colors have separated into separate flames, each roiling, color wavering to create the wave-lengths of Indigo.

A fork against a plate. The clicking of nails upon tiled floor. The sigh of cushions beneath the weight of a man. The pouring of scotch. The sound of a woman's voice -- it has a soothing sound, much like the perfume she wears, it wafts. The sound of a man's voice -- still speaking mostly in grunts and quiet noise, not yet forming words.

     What should we do, my love. Next, I mean. Well, I know I must call William, but we can't keep her here. We're not a sanitarium...

     Open the window
     It is close, that voice. Closer than before. More powerful than before. Issuing from your blood, springing up in your mind like a sudden flower.

     Do vampires dream? Certainly. But this one just hasn't done so in a while. But now she is troubled, plagued by a storm brewing. The dark energy within is tightly coiled, ready to spring forth. So far, it's only done so in short bursts. However, her mind has been left splintered, broken, shattered.

No more will the Wolfe howl.
I am half of a whole.

     She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave."

     A hint of humor. Sakir watches the interplay of the three as an outsider would, an interested outsider.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     His smile is also wistful. A year? Certainly not. But indeed, it has been unusually long, and he has been preoccupied. Edward's gaze is momentarily downcast as he inhales, brows arching in acknowledgement. "I know, Davydd," almost seeming sorrowful, his gaze turning sidelong, "...I'll...haveta explain it to ya. Mebbe, over a few? Something decent, huh? On me."

     I want you to go to the summit of the western tower. There is a woman there very dear to me. It would please me very much if you would make her happy...

     Effortless. So effortless. Grace and magic and some subatomic communication. Knowing. In an instant, where each will be. And fingers of the justicar moved, and fingers of the Dignatary were poised and waiting. In seconds between seconds. Even to you, such motions are apparitions.

     Yes, it is a woman singing. But the sound is not that of just any woman singing...
     ...it is the voice of an angel. A dark angel.

     "'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."

     "Chinon..." Tori's voice says, almost numbly as she glances around frantically, ice-blue gaze flickering from person to person. Oh gods, don't let him be here already... no... please...

When I first ran from him, he tormented my mind, telling me there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. How could I hide from a voice inside my own head? He was my constant companion as I ran from Paris. By night, he was a constant monologue, planting doubts and fears in my conscious mind. By day, he fed on my terror as he orchestrated my daymares. Always there, always present, he truly made me believe I could not escape him.

In a way, I don't completely blame him for his bitterness. When they should have been praising him for his discovery, they praised me directly for my Gifts instead.

     "I was telling Will," he smiles, "...that you might be too busy, being Seneschal and all, to come visit an old pair like us."