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amned。
Then there is Jesse Reeves； a twentieth…century fledgling made by Maharet； the very eldest and therefore a dazzling monster； unknown to me； but greatly admired。 Bringing with her into the world of the Undead an inparable education in history； the paranormal； philosophy and languages； she is the unknown。 Will the fire consume her； as it has so many others who； weary of life； cannot accept immortality？ Or will her twentieth…century wit give her some radical and indestructible armor for the inconceivable changes that we now know must lie ahead？
Ah； there are others。 There are wanderers。 I can hear their voices from time to time in the night。 There are those far away who know nothing of our traditions and have styled us； in hostility to our writings and in amusement at our antics； 〃The Coven of the Articulate；〃 strange 〃unregistered〃 beings of various ages； strengths； attitudes； who sometimes seeing on a paperback rack a copy of The Vampire Lestat tear it loose and grind the small book to powder within their powerful and scornful hands。
They may lend their wisdom or their wit to our unfolding chronicle in some unpredictable future。 Who knows？
For now； there is but one more player who must be described before my tale can be advanced。
That one is you； David Talbot； whom I scarcely know； you； who write with furious speed all the words that e slowly tumbling from me as I watch you； mesmerized on some level by the mere fact that these sentiments so long allowed to burn inside of me are now recorded on the seemingly eternal page。
What are you； David Talbot…over seven decades old in mortal education； a scholar； a deep and loving soul？ How can one tell？ That which you were in life； wise in years； strengthened by routine calamity and deepened by the full four seasons of a man's span upon the Earth； was transported with all memory and learning intact into the splendid body of a younger man。 And then that body； a precious chalice for the Grail of your very self； who knew so well the value of both elements； was then assaulted by your closest of friends； the loving monster； the vampire who would have you as his fellow traveler in eternity whether or not you gave him leave； our beloved Lestat。
I cannot imagine such a rape。 I stand too far from all humanity； never having been a fall man。 In your face I see the vigor and beauty of the dark golden…skinned Anglo…Hindi whose body you enjoy； and in your eyes the calm and dangerously well…tempered soul of the old man。
Your hair is black and soft and handily trimmed below your ears。 You dress with high vanity submitted to a staunch British sense of style。 You look at me as though your curiosity will put me off guard； when nothing of the sort is true。
Hurt me and I'll destroy you。 I don't care how strong you are； or what blood Lestat gave you。 I know more than you do。 Because I show you my pain； I do not of necessity love you。 I do this for myself and for others； for the very idea of others； for any who would know； and for my mortals； those two I've gathered to me so recently； those two precious ones who have bee the ticking clock of my capacity to go on。
Symphony for Sybelle。 That might as well be the name of this confession。 And having done my best for Sybelle； I do my best for you as well。
Is this not enough of the past？ Is this not enough prologue to the moment in New York when I saw Christ's Face in the Veil？ There begins the final chapter of my life of late。 There is nothing more to it。 You have all the rest； and what must needs e now is but the brief harrowing account of what has brought me here。
Be my friend； David。 I didn't mean to say such terrible things to you。 My heart aches。 I need you just to tell me that I may rush on。 Help me with your experience。 Isn't this enough？ May I go on？ I want to hear Sybelle's music。 I want to talk of beloved rescuers。 I can't measure the proportions of this story。 I only know I am ready。。。 I have reached the far side of The Bridge of Sighs。
Ah； but it's my decision； yes； and you wait to write what I will say。
Well； let me go now to the Veil。
Let me go now to the Face of Christ； as if I were walking uphill in the long…ago snowy winter in Podil； beneath the broken towers of Vladimir's City； to seek within the Monastery of the Caves the paint and the wood on which to see it take form before me： His Face。 Christ； yes； the Redeemer； the Living Lord once more。
PART III
APPASSIONATA
17
I DIDN'T WANT to go to him。 It was winter； and I was contented in London； haunting the theatres to see the plays of Shakespeare； and reading the plays and the sonnets the whole night long。 I had no other thoughts just now but Shakespeare。 Lestat had given him to me。 And when I'd had a bellyful of despair； I'd opened the books and begun to read。
But Lestat was calling。 Lestat was； or so he claimed； afraid。
I had to go。 The last time he'd been in trouble； I hadn't been free to rush to his rescue。 There is a story to that； but nothing as important as this one which I tell now。
Now I knew that my hard…won peace of mind might be shattered by the mere contact with him； but he wanted me to e； so I went。
I found him first in New York； though he didn't know it and he couldn't have led me into a worse snowstorm if he'd tried。 He slew a mortal that night； a victim with whom he'd fallen in love； as was his custom of late…to pick these celebrities of high crimes and horrid murders…and to stalk them before the night of the feast。
So what did he want of me； I wondered。 You were there； David。 You could help him。 Or so it seemed。 Being his fledgling you hadn't heard his call directly； but he'd reached you somehow； and the two of you； such proper gentlemen； came together to discuss in low； sophisticated whispers Lestat's latest fears。
When next I caught up with him he was in New Orleans。 And he put it to me plain and simple。 You were there。 The Devil had e to him in the guise of a man。 The Devil could change shapes； being at one moment horrific and ghastly with webbed wings and hoofed feet； and then next； the Devil could be an ordinary man。 Lestat was wild with these stories。 The Devil had offered him a dreadful proposition； that he； Lestat； bee the Devil's helper in the service of God。
Do you remember how calmly I responded to his story； his questions； his pleading for our advice？ Oh； I told him firmly it was madness to follow this spirit； to believe that any discarnate thing was bound to tell him the truth。
But only now do you know the wounds he opened with this strange and marvelous fable。 So the Devil would make him a hellish helper and thereby a servant of God？ I might have laughed outright； or wept； throwing it in his face that I had once believed myself a saint of evil； shivering in rags as I stalked my victims in the Parisian winter； all for the honor and glory of God。
But he knew all this。 There was no need to wound him farther； to shift from him the limelight of his own tale； which Lestat； being the bright star； must always have。
Under moss…hung oaks we talked in civilized voices。 You and I b