Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [167]
Yes, he knew me to be a blood drinker. Indeed, he had some name for me: vampire. And he had been watching me for several years! He had in fact glimpsed me in grand salons and ballrooms, so I might indeed write this off to my carelessness. And on the night that I had first opened my house to the citizens of Venice, he had come.
All this his mind gave me rather easily without the young man realizing it, obviously, and then using the Mind Gift I sent a very direct message to him.
This is folly. Interfere with me and you will surely die. I won’t give you a second warning. Move away from my household. Leave Venice. Is it worth your life to know what you want to know of me?
I saw him visibly startled by the message. And then to my pure shock I received a distinct mind message from him:
We mean you no harm. We are scholars. We offer understanding. We offer shelter. We watch and we are always here.
Then he gave way to utter fear and fled the roof.
With little difficulty I heard him make his way down the staircases through the palazzo and then I saw him come out into the canal and hail a gondola which took him away. I had caught a good look at him as he stepped into the boat. He was a tall man, lean and fair of skin, an Englishman, and he was dressed in severe clothes of black. He was very frightened. He did not even look up as the boat took him away.
I stood on the roof for a long time, feeling the blessed wind, and wondering in its silence, what I should do about this strange discovery. I thought over his distinct message and the power of mind with which he’d sent it to me.
Scholars? What sort of scholars? And the other words. How very remarkable indeed.
I cannot exaggerate how odd this was.
It struck me with full force that there had been moments in my long life when I would have found his message irresistible, so great had been my loneliness, so great had been my longing to be understood.
But now, with all of Venice receiving me into its finest company, I did not feel such a thing. I had Bianca when I wanted to ramble on about the work of Bellini or my beloved Botticelli. I had Amadeo with whom to share my golden tomb.
Indeed, I was enjoying a Perfect Time. I wondered if for every immortal there was a Perfect Time. I wondered if it corresponded to the prime of life in mortals—those years when you are strongest and can see with the greatest clarity, those years when you can give your trust most truly to others, and seek to bring about a perfect happiness for yourself.
Botticelli, Bianca, Amadeo—these were the loves of my Perfect Time.
Nevertheless, it was a stunning promise, that which the young Englishman had made. “We offer understanding. We offer shelter. We watch and we are always here.”
I resolved to ignore this, to see what came of it, not to allow it to impede me in the slightest as I enjoyed my life.
Yet in the weeks that followed I listened for this strange creature, this English scholar, and indeed, I kept a sharp lookout for him as we made our way through the usual lavish and dizzying social events.
I also went so far as to question Bianca about such a person, and to warn Vincenzo that such a man might attempt to engage him in conversation and that he must be very wise on that account.
Vincenzo shocked me.
The very fellow—a tall lean Englishman, young, but with pale gray hair—had already come calling. He had questioned Vincenzo, Would his Master wish to purchase certain unusual books?
“They were books of magic,” said Vincenzo, frightened that I would be angry. “I told him that he must bring the books if he meant to offer them to you, and leave them here for you to see.”
“Think back on it. What more was said between you?”
“I told him you had many, many books already, that you visited the booksellers. He . . . he saw the paintings in the portego. He asked if these had been