"Ian and I leave tomorrow night. Would you care to join us for a drink tonight? We like to drink brandy while our servants pack for us. It makes us feel useful."

     "Body language," William murmurs, his hand moving from his mouth. "Bricks do not know how to be subtle, cobblestone, shuttered windows. Those are the obvious markings that something is not right, mais oui. The body language of the people will show it far sooner than buildings, yes?"

     "Seventy-five years," William repeats. "Non non non, we will have to remedy this." He does not grin as he says it, though there is nothing in his expression or energy to say he is upset. It is merely something to be rectified.

     It is painfully honest. If he were holding anything now, it would have dropped again by this point. Hansl wears his confusion like the finest of clothes - askew to imply the nakedness beneath.

     "Bonsoir," Frederic de Champenois nods as you rise. He takes up his pad and his charcoal again, his cigarette lighting his way. And he returns to his sketching. In the foreground, a figure takes shape. A tourist approaches the statue of Voltaire, facing the past and the future in the same moment. Behind him, traffic moves in shadowed blurs, punctuated by sudden illumination...

     Who am I, to be here? What will I say? I must trust in myself. Trust in yourself, Hansl, I say, and I look in the mirror and I wonder, Hansl, I really wonder, how well can this possibly work out?

     Here we are, two refugees from the old Axis of Evil, evil things ourselves. Or maybe you are not, Hansl Arnaul. But I am. And I am content with this, my lot. Which was not much more than a gutter from the time I was born. And now look at me! Dining with princes with my pinky raised as I sip from the neck of the world.

     The body disappears, pulled into the darkness by loyal hands, and Iovis Macarelli strides away from his evening's correspondence.

     Now you see it. Now you don't. He is a veritable illusionist in the exchange, the sleight of hand and redirection covering the slide of the envelope into the inside of his coat.

     "Tumult," Sabine decides, voice still careful, "you have seen great tumult. The Emperor is not a light card to have laid upon you. There were responsibilities in your life, and your goal was to ... conquer..."

     Habits. Old habits that have become impulses, impulses that became compulsions, compulsions that, in some cases, became illnesses. And still we ride to Fontevraud...

     William looks at you and Ciardan for a time and he shakes his head. I'm not busy. Not now. "It is hard when friends leave us," William offers quietly to the air. The wind will carry his words to you.

     This was once the great hall. We had our Christmases here, our battles here, he would stand at the fire there and not eat his dinner and never see me.

     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.

     "...Whether it wears the veneer of art or the cloak of insurance or shipping conglomerates. It's the same game. And you know ... how I play, oui? I ... do not have a business such as I do, and control such as I have it, because I am good-looking and lucky."

     "It's not for me," he murmurs, grinning at the French plate on the Italian sports car. "No one would call me El Hefe. What's that mean, anyway?" Ian blinks in rapid succession.

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.

     And soon the Toreador are on what talents one may or may not have. Guild, artistes, or poseurs. The world's so drawn along such lines.

     At the top of the staircase, there is a vision in pink. First, the shoes, like a pastel enamel, or perhaps the pink swirl of art glass, they appear.

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     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."

     Falcon straightens, rubbing your shoulder. "The heart is like that," he whispers, "...blessed and ruined once it has known Divine beauty. Then, it becomes a restless sky hunter."

     Abbey, hospital, college, tomb and prison -- it moved through its ages like a man or woman, with glorious beginnings, difficult adolescence, opulant maturity and aged ruination.

     "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..."

     He skips, almost, happy in this atmosphere. There is a glamour to the air, a scent of wonder that draws people like this man. Tibalt. Never ask him his full titles, he'll lie for hours.

     "I need you, William. Too much now. Before, it was wanted you too much. Now...it's something else. I can see it."

     "You can move to Europe, if you like. Stay here. Stay in Strathfayr. Stay in Switzerland. I don't care. Just...do something. Choose. If you like it here, stay. Who cares about the rest." Whatever that is.

     The house was likewise full, the downstairs hall became the second gathering place. Staff and vintners and guests alike converged. There was finally a moment, sometime around one in the morning, when he could find you and suggest to you that you should both slip away for a few minutes...

     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     In each vineyard, there are feet crushing grapes, juice that is tasted, wine that will be made from the old-fashioned labor of feet. This wine will be used next year, in hopes for a better harvest than some have seen due to the strange late summer weather.

     "I have to ask you something, William," Raymond chirps, leaning on the table with an elbow now. "What is it that you have on Victoria Gifford or her Sire?" he smirks. "A boon enormous? You...saved their lives? You helped her gain status, hmm? You can tell me, I will not repeat it."

     The ville itself is full of its inhabitants and those of the smaller, neighboring villages. There is music, laughter, even a little tango in the cobblestone streets nearest the castle walls. Every restaurant is packed -- Orangerie, Trente Ans, Dame Lombarde's -- and the air smells of wine, bread, cheese, and the incense of burning grape leaves.

     Bringing up the rear again is Sebastian. He's fine to be in the back, really. Unnoticed. Invisible. He follows along, still smirking. This is the weirdest interview for a mistress he's ever witnessed...

     Not so far away, Ian floats beneath the water, on the floor of the warm bath. He lets himself sink, like a stone, his back against the stone and concrete. Angelic he looks, with his white-blonde hair scurrying around him, and the hue of warm water casting blueness on his skin. His arms are extended, as if he's drowned, oddly enough.

     So when the phone rings, his cell phone, on his nightstand, it is not greeted with a quick lift and you, by extension, given a quick and awake greeting but instead continues to ring as a large Plantagenet hand emerges from a pile of bedding and fumbles for it in the darkness.

     "You talk too much," Ian whispers and smiles softly. A slight pull of his lips. He sighs then, expecting some response will come.

     Raymond's palm remains upright in offering, even though his eyes wander the dress. "And no, you did not keep me waiting. No man, upon a sight, could say that his time was lost."

     "You should pay very close attention to your ensemble. The more attention you pay to it, cher, the more attention... he will pay to it." I feel like I'm Educating Rita.

     "Victoria," he says, the name almost purred. A side-effect of being French. "Please, my father was Monsieur Marillet," Raymond teases, hand extending as he comes to his full six-foot height.

     "I call this...making up for lost time," Ian explains. His fingers slide into yours and he stands, pulling to bring you with him.

     For the past few years, I've looked at restoration from a purely selfish angle. The paintings, my hands, my work, my life...

     I clasp my hands behind my back as I walk in silence, the Caravaggio in the vault, resting for the night. But all around me, amours, is the evidence of restoration.

      "I think it is self-fulfilling prophecy," Ian begins in medias res, "...that We," the vampire sort, "...are doomed to destroy any chance of contentment in our damnation. What little fire there is, we snuff. I - I will admit - am very good at such. And I've learned to realize it. I did not expect it to see it today."

     "Rimarrete stasera con me?" Marco asks you, he grins it, the devil, against your ear.

     Time has a face. It is not his, it is not yours, it isn't even Villon's. Sky and stars, the firmament face of Life and Time, is witness to the epochs and eras, the sole survivor of every revolution, from evolution to humanity's petty skirmishes.

     "I have to submit to domination. To have the knowledge of my working on it stripped..." Whatever it is, it is huge.

     "Penance done," Ian whispers, his tongue leading his mouth to yours once more.

     At least...did you enjoy it...Your Majesty? Somewhere in all of that, Ian felt the king find his crown.

     You can teach an Old Plantagenet new tricks. Perhaps you thought he might never understand. He might never get it. That all of that information was wasted. That those heated conversations in Seattle and later in New Port were just exercises in releasing consonants and vowels to the atmosphere.

     "Ragazzi bei, entrambi voi...li avro bisogno ancora, presto. E quello che cosa desiderate?" Ian stirs at the lingering touches across his skin, smiling in comfort.

     "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.

     Ganymede striding to the shallows, water lowering from chest to waist to hips.

     He's a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle as he regards the Norman. "It has been a few years, hasn't it, lord."

     "Guillaume FitzEmpress!" the screeches go. "I know you're here. Hiding." A stop. Boots silent. "Gah, get yer hands off me. Yes, I know I can't come in like this. Yes, I know he's busy. Fuck. I created the word 'busy'." A sigh. "Hey," Edward chirps, "God, you're getting all your oils on my jacket!"

     "I'm sure that's what it is," he adds, laughing a little. You're on a roll, Plantagenet, and nothing will stop you. Not some aged Ventrue Secret Master. Or Gehenna for that matter.

     Goddess! You're going to consider this?

     Restoration is a strange process. Often, it is so subtle as to go largely unnoticed. But with the passing several nights, from last year to the next in a single sunrise and sunset, it lies everywhere, obvious.

     You and he walk the chessboard gallery, two knights, no kings in sight. But as you so adroitly put it: Fuck 'em. Who needs 'em. Hands slide into his pockets as he watches the tiles moving slowly by.

     This is not our place, Eduard...

     The amber hue owed to the lights of Chenonceau, lit as they are every night. But this night, they burn for new residents. And the lights echo across the quick moving waters of the Cher, ripples highlighted.

     Another point of truth, laid down in a solitaire of them. She's no idea what she's in the middle of...

     Was he not the one desired? Last year ... not far off in time from this, just after Yule I think. You were longing, bored. Even as you are now. And he arrived like golden fucking dawn, with all his Goodness. And you wanted it.

     He clears his throat, and his hands unlace and find his pockets. He looks at the floor. "I have... met someone... recently. Very recent. I do not know what I am doing, Ian. He is... mortal... and a magician... and he is moving to Poitiers..."

     To be a whelp like that. Richard's years have seen too much. Lost too much. And he's not even King of England yet -- bastard Henry. But there's a smile to see the one whose inherited his title. The one his mother told him to give up...for something more. "Will, you are a work," he calls out, swinging down from his own mount.

     It was deliberate. We stayed inside because we feared going out. No, that wasn't it. We stayed in because we were tired of going out. No...
     We were tired of my going out...

     There are some rooms that, when you and he are not here, are simply not used -- or have the residue of tourism. He lights the candles. He opens the windows. Life will be breathed into it again. Chinon resuscitated...

     "It has been too many years since I have been on the Mediterranean... and with you, with art, with male models and the promise of adventure..." Sensuous, his mouth holds the smile that follows with a scandalous curl.

     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...

     And books from Paris now join those of Chinon. Books delivered lately from Scotland now join French bretheren. And the lights in the library remain on all night.

     "Your rights to Poitou actually come through my mother... and my grandmother's name was also Aenor. Eleanor's mother..." And suddenly the universe makes sense. It is right to tell this story. It is right that this becomes Truth. Known. Tasted. Swallowed.

     "So, how goes, chicky? Guess all's well in bells now?"

     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.

     Happy are we, that have learned to love and be loved, teach and be taught, to depend and be depended upon. Happy are we that have learned...that nothing else matters.

     "The Council did not use you, signora. What do we have to gain by suffering?" Girault settles upon the chair. Yes... the We was intentional.

     When I should want to rant and rave, you still me. When I wish to thunder and storm, you steal the wind and with the slightest touch dissolve the lightning.

     I have narrowly escaped being a midnight snack...

     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.

     That look. Priceless. And with you, he doesn't have to be so... civilized. So civil. It is ... pure Plantagenet. "I can put the bullet back in, Meurelle... pussy or no..."

     "'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...

     Do you know I shall show you every room of this castle when I proclaim it jointly yours? Do you know that I shall scrawl it out for all to witness? When I present it to you, no man after shall doubt it... but that it should be so. Vicomte du Poitou...

     That...is the sound of a motorbike. And it is not veering. Soon, a light can be seen in distant wheat, more than likely someone driving through it. The tops of silver-gold bend, yielding to something's approach.

     You are the bright focus in his universe. To touch you is to touch the Divine and the Desired.

     "I have brought you things asked for and things not... warm clothes and clean... hello, beauties," he takes time for the horses as he moves toward the bank, quieting his voice.

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself.

     Has either of you felt so Alive? So in tune with each other and the world around that nothing else matters? So unfettered by vampiric life as to feel safe and secure?

     "Dieu, William Plantagenet," Ian rolls his eyes, still unbelieving after all of these centuries. And as you rise to seek him again, Ian's hand does come out, halting the approach.

     The fountain speaks with an audible and inaudible voice. It is ancient. Older than these walls. As your hand touches the white marble, images trickle like water...