Blackwood Farm - Anne Rice [3]
I don’t expect your pity on account of this. But maybe your understanding will prevent you from immediately annihilating me and Goblin without so much as a warning.
That you can find both of us I have no doubt. If even half the Chronicles are true, it’s plain that your Mind Gift is without measure. Nevertheless, let me tell you where I am.
My true home is the wooden Hermitage on Sugar Devil Island, deep in Sugar Devil Swamp, in northeastern Louisiana, not far from the Mississippi border. Sugar Devil Swamp is fed by the West Ruby River, which branches off from the Ruby at Rubyville.
Acres of this deep cypress swamp have belonged to my family for generations, and no mortal ever accidentally finds his way in here to Sugar Devil Island, I’m certain of it, though my great-great-great-grandfather Manfred Blackwood did build the house in which I sit, writing to you now.
Our ancestral home is Blackwood Manor, an august if not overblown house in the grandest Greek Revival style, replete with enormous and dizzying Corinthian columns, an immense structure on high ground.
For all its huffing and puffing beauty, it lacks the grace and dignity of New Orleans homes, being a truly pretentious monument to Manfred Blackwood’s greed and dreams. Constructed in the 1880s, without a plantation to justify it, it had no real purpose but to give delight to those who lived in it. The entire property—swamp, land and monstrous house—is known as Blackwood Farm.
That the house and land around it are haunted is not only legend but fact. Goblin is without a doubt the most potent of the spirits, but there are ghosts here as well.
Do they want the Dark Blood from me? For the most part, they seem far too weak for such a possibility, but who is to say that ghosts don’t see and learn? God knows that I have some accursed capacity to draw their attention and to endow them with some crucial vitality. It’s been happening all my life.
Have I tried your patience? I hope to God that I have not.
But this letter may be my one chance with you, Lestat. And so I’ve said the things that matter to me most.
And when I reach your flat in the Rue Royale, I’ll use every bit of wit and skill at my command to place this letter where no one will find it but you.
Believing in that ability, I sign my name,
Tarquin Blackwood,
known always as
Quinn
Postscript.
Remember I’m only twenty-two and a bit clumsy. But I can’t resist this small request. If you do mean to track me down and eradicate me, could you give me an hour’s notice to say some sort of farewell to the one mortal relative I most love in all the world?
In the Vampire Chronicle called Merrick, you were described as wearing a coat with cameo buttons. Was that the truth or someone’s fanciful embellishment?
If you wore those cameo buttons—indeed, if you chose them carefully and you loved them—then for the sake of those cameos, let me, before being destroyed, say farewell to an elderly woman of incredible charm and benevolence who loves each evening to spread out her hundreds of cameos on her marble table and examine them one by one in the light. She is my great-aunt and my teacher in all things, a woman who has sought to endow me with all I need to live an important life.
I’m not worthy of her love now. I’m not alive now. But she doesn’t know this. My nightly visits to her are cautious but nevertheless crucial to her. And should I be taken from her without warning and without some explanation, it would be a cruelty she doesn’t deserve.
Ah, there is much more that I could tell you about her cameos—about the role which they have played in my fate.
But for now, let me only plead with you. Let me live, and help me destroy Goblin. Or put an end to us both.
Sincerely,
Quinn
2
FOR A LONG TIME after I finished the letter, I didn’t move.
I sat listening to the inevitable sounds of Sugar Devil Swamp, my eyes on the pages before me, noting against my will the boring regularity of the handwriting, the muted lamps around me reflected in the marble flooring,