their presence. What Mona was doing was entirely predictable.
I lay down on the bed right beside her, and when I lifted her hair back and looked into her eyes, she went utterly silent.
“What the Hell’s the matter with you?” I demanded.
A pause in which her loveliness struck me with all the subtilty of an avalanche.
“Well, nothing,” she said, “if you’re going to put it like that.”
“For the love of God, Lestat,” said Quinn, “don’t be cruel to her. Surely you know what she’s going through.”
“I’m not being cruel,” I said. (Who, me, cruel?) I kept my tight focus on her. “Are you afraid of me?” I asked.
“No,” she said. Her eyebrows puckered. The blood tears stained her cheeks. “It’s only that I know so well that I should have died,” she said.
“Then sing a requiem,” I said. “Let me supply some words: ‘O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven-times salt, burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!’ ”
She laughed.
“Very well, honey bunch, let me hear it. I’m the Maker. Let it go.”
“I knew that for so long, that I ought to die. God, when I think of it, it’s the only thing I really know right now! I was supposed to die.” Her words flowed calmly. “People around me got so used to it, they slipped up. They’d say, ‘You used to be so beautiful, we’ll never forget that.’ Dying, that had become the central obligation of my life. I used to lie there and try to figure how to make it easier for people. I mean they were so miserable. This went on slowly for years—.”
“Keep talking,” I said. I loved her easy trust, her immediate openness.
“There was a period of time where I could still enjoy music and chocolate, you know, special things, like bed jackets with lace too. And I could dream of my child, my lost child. Then I couldn’t really eat anything anymore. And the music only made me jittery. I kept seeing people who weren’t really there. I thought Maybe I never had that child. Morrigan, gone so fast. But then I wouldn’t have been dying if I hadn’t had Morrigan. I saw ghosts. . . .”
“Oncle Julien?” I asked.
She hesitated, then: “No. Oncle Julien only came to me way, way back, when he wanted me to do something, and it was always in a dream. Oncle Julien is in the Light. He doesn’t come to the Earth unless there’s a really important reason.”
(Deep carefully concealed shudder.)
She went on, the vampiric musicality sharpening her soft words: “These ghosts I saw were just really dead people like my father and my mother who were waiting for me—you know, the ones who come to take you across—but they wouldn’t speak to me. It wasn’t time yet, that’s what Fr. Kevin said. Fr. Kevin’s a powerful witch. He never knew until he came home South. He goes into St. Mary’s Assumption Church in the night when it’s completely dark except for the candles, you know, and he lies down on the marble, full-length, you know—.”
(Secret heartache.
I know.
)
“—and with his arms outstretched, he contemplates Christ on the Cross. He imagines himself kissing the bloody wounds of Christ.”
“And you in your pain? Did you pray?”
“Not very much,” she said. “It was like prayer would have required a certain coherence. This last year, I was incapable of that coherence.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” I said. “Go on.”
“And things happened,” she said. “People wanted me to die. Something happened. Someone . . . People wanted me to get it over with. . . .”
“Did you want to get it over with?”
She didn’t answer right away, then she said, “I wanted to escape. But when someone . . . someone. . . . My thoughts became—”
“—became what?”
“Became trivial.”
“No, not so,” I insisted.
“How to get out of the room, how to get all the way down the steps, how to scoot behind the wheel of the limo, how to get the flowers, how to get to Quinn—.”
“I see. Poetic. Specific. Not trivial.”
“A
I lay down on the bed right beside her, and when I lifted her hair back and looked into her eyes, she went utterly silent.
“What the Hell’s the matter with you?” I demanded.
A pause in which her loveliness struck me with all the subtilty of an avalanche.
“Well, nothing,” she said, “if you’re going to put it like that.”
“For the love of God, Lestat,” said Quinn, “don’t be cruel to her. Surely you know what she’s going through.”
“I’m not being cruel,” I said. (Who, me, cruel?) I kept my tight focus on her. “Are you afraid of me?” I asked.
“No,” she said. Her eyebrows puckered. The blood tears stained her cheeks. “It’s only that I know so well that I should have died,” she said.
“Then sing a requiem,” I said. “Let me supply some words: ‘O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven-times salt, burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!’ ”
She laughed.
“Very well, honey bunch, let me hear it. I’m the Maker. Let it go.”
“I knew that for so long, that I ought to die. God, when I think of it, it’s the only thing I really know right now! I was supposed to die.” Her words flowed calmly. “People around me got so used to it, they slipped up. They’d say, ‘You used to be so beautiful, we’ll never forget that.’ Dying, that had become the central obligation of my life. I used to lie there and try to figure how to make it easier for people. I mean they were so miserable. This went on slowly for years—.”
“Keep talking,” I said. I loved her easy trust, her immediate openness.
“There was a period of time where I could still enjoy music and chocolate, you know, special things, like bed jackets with lace too. And I could dream of my child, my lost child. Then I couldn’t really eat anything anymore. And the music only made me jittery. I kept seeing people who weren’t really there. I thought Maybe I never had that child. Morrigan, gone so fast. But then I wouldn’t have been dying if I hadn’t had Morrigan. I saw ghosts. . . .”
“Oncle Julien?” I asked.
She hesitated, then: “No. Oncle Julien only came to me way, way back, when he wanted me to do something, and it was always in a dream. Oncle Julien is in the Light. He doesn’t come to the Earth unless there’s a really important reason.”
(Deep carefully concealed shudder.)
She went on, the vampiric musicality sharpening her soft words: “These ghosts I saw were just really dead people like my father and my mother who were waiting for me—you know, the ones who come to take you across—but they wouldn’t speak to me. It wasn’t time yet, that’s what Fr. Kevin said. Fr. Kevin’s a powerful witch. He never knew until he came home South. He goes into St. Mary’s Assumption Church in the night when it’s completely dark except for the candles, you know, and he lies down on the marble, full-length, you know—.”
(Secret heartache.
I know.
)
“—and with his arms outstretched, he contemplates Christ on the Cross. He imagines himself kissing the bloody wounds of Christ.”
“And you in your pain? Did you pray?”
“Not very much,” she said. “It was like prayer would have required a certain coherence. This last year, I was incapable of that coherence.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” I said. “Go on.”
“And things happened,” she said. “People wanted me to die. Something happened. Someone . . . People wanted me to get it over with. . . .”
“Did you want to get it over with?”
She didn’t answer right away, then she said, “I wanted to escape. But when someone . . . someone. . . . My thoughts became—”
“—became what?”
“Became trivial.”
“No, not so,” I insisted.
“How to get out of the room, how to get all the way down the steps, how to scoot behind the wheel of the limo, how to get the flowers, how to get to Quinn—.”
“I see. Poetic. Specific. Not trivial.”
“A
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