I came to myself on the ground, my back to the trunk of a young chestnut tree, and he was gone. And the mild balmy night had turned to a gray winter dawn.

Home I went—to my “undisclosed location,” only minutes away on the currents of the wind, to ponder what I’d learned from my friends because I couldn’t do anything else.

The next night on rising, I caught the scent of David on my jacket, even on my hands.

I fought off the desire for him and forced myself to relearn how to use my powerful computer, and to obtain yet another e-mail address through another service, and then I sent a long missive to Maharet. I asked if I might visit her, wherever she was, and if not, would she communicate with me in this way? I let her know that I was aware of how things were changing for us, and how Benji’s pleas for leadership on the part of the older ones echoed the feelings of many, but I myself did not know how to respond. I asked for her thoughts.

Her communication was brief. I must not try to find her. Under no circumstances approach her.

Of course I asked why.

She never replied.

And six months later, her numbers were disconnected. E-mail no longer valid.

And in time I forgot again how to use the computer. The little iPhone rang a number of times. It was David. We’d talk, it would be brief, and then I’d forget to recharge the little thing. He did tell me he’d found Marius in Brazil and he was heading there to talk with him. He told me that Daniel Malloy, Marius’s companion, was in very good spirits and that Daniel was taking him to Marius. But I didn’t hear from him again.

Truth was, I lost the little iPhone. And went back to calling my attorneys in Paris and New York now as I had always done, with an old-fashioned landline phone.

A year passed.

I was lodged now in my father’s château in the mountains of the Auvergne—in my special hiding place in “plain sight,” so to speak, and where no one thought to look for me—the renovations on it now almost complete.

And the Voice came again.

“Have you no desire to punish those fledglings in the capital?” he asked. “Those vermin who chased you out of Paris last time you were roaming there?”

“Ah, Voice, where have you been?” I asked. I was at my desk drawing up plans for the new rooms that would soon be added to this old château. “Have you been well?”

“Why did you not destroy them?” he asked. “Why do you not go there and destroy them now?”

“Not my style, Voice,” I said. “Too often in the past I’ve taken life, both human and preternatural. I have no interest now in doing such things.”

“They drove you out of your city!”

“No, they didn’t,” I said. “Goodbye, Voice. I have things to do.”

“I was afraid you would take this attitude,” he said. “I should have known.”

“Where are you, Voice? Who are you? Why do we always meet like this in audial encounters at odd moments? Aren’t we ever going to meet again face-to-face?”

Ah, what a blunder. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I looked to the great eighteenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece, and there he was of course in the guise of my reflection, down to the old bag-sleeve shirt I wore, and my loose hair, only he wasn’t reflecting me otherwise, but rather peered at me as if he were trapped in a glass box. Lestat’s face twisted with anger, almost petulant, childish.

I studied the image in the mirror for a moment and then I used my considerable powers to force it to disappear. That felt extremely good. Subtle and good. I could do that now. I knew. And though I could hear a low rumbling in my head, I was able to sink it down, down below the lovely music, the music of Sybelle playing the piano that came from my computer, Sybelle broadcasting from New York.

The simple fact was, I wasn’t interested in him anymore. I didn’t even bother to thank him for advising me to come home here, home to these stone rooms in which I’d been born, home to the quiet of this mountaintop. Why didn’t I do that? It was he who’d put the idea in my head, he who’d guided me back to the old fields and forests, to this sublime rural quiet, this breathtaking and familiar solitude where I felt so safe, so content.

I didn’t care enough to thank him.

Oh, it would have been nice to identify him before banishing him forever. But we don’t always get what we want.

Part II

THE OPEN HIGHWAY

THROUGH THE

SAVAGE GARDEN

5

The Story of Rose

THE FIRST TIME Rose saw Uncle Lestan, he carried her up into the stars. That’s how she remembered it and nothing ever weakened the conviction that he’d scooped her up from the terrace by the seawall and carried her straight through the clouds and towards the Heavens. Rose remembered always the chill of the wind and those stars above her, millions of stars fixed in the black sky like myriad burning lights. She remembered Uncle Lestan’s arms around her, and the way he whispered to her not to be afraid, the way he brought his coat close to protect her.

They were on another island when Rose learned her mother had died in the earthquake. Everyone had died. The entire little island had gone down into the sea, but this island would not, Uncle Lestan said. She was safe with him here. He’d find her people in America. He gave her a beautiful doll with long blond hair and a pink dress and bare feet. It was made of vinyl and would never break.

This was in a beautiful house with rounded windows and big balconies over the sea, and two very gentle ladies took care of Rose though she couldn’t understand a word they said. Uncle Lestan explained they were Greek ladies, but he wanted Rose to remember: What was her last name? What was her mother’s name?

Rose said her mother’s name was Morningstar Fisher. She had no father. Her grandparents didn’t like her because they didn’t know who her father was and they wouldn’t give money anymore to Morningstar. Rose remembered seeing her grandmother and grandfather in Athens, Texas. “We don’t know who her father is,” the old man had said. Rose’s mom had given up, and carried Rose out of the little brick house and across a big field, and they’d hitched a ride to the airport in Dallas and flown away with Mom’s new friend, JRock, who had money from his band to live in Greece for at least a year.

“They don’t want me,” Rose said. “Can’t I stay with you?”

Uncle Lestan was so kind to Rose. He had darkly tanned skin and the most beautiful blue eyes Rose had ever seen. When he smiled, Rose loved him.