“Great,” he said, then reached in the back for his things.

“Leave them,” I said. “I’ll send a man for them.”

“Okay.” He and I got out of the car at the same time, and I began a symphony for him. The music was a new sense to me, a new ability; I could compose and perform without any more concentration than seeing, walking, and talking at the same time. Jack turned to the empty field, and his eyes roamed over the imaginary mansion I had built there, and he said, “Wow.”

“Come,” I said. “Let us go inside.” And I led him into the field.

I opened for us an ornate wooden door, and guided him through an exquisite foyer. The furnishings were heavy, dark. Massive carved furniture, ancient tapestries, velvet curtains, and huge portraits absorbed the dim light from crystal chandeliers. I wondered at my own imagination, and involved him more deeply into the music so he would never notice that the portraits had no features. The carpeting was plush and blood-red, and we mounted the stairs together, I preceding him, both of us trailing our fingers across the smooth, highly polished banister. Jack was speechless, and when I turned to look at him, his wide-eyed wonder at the opulence filled me with gladness.

Building upon my success, I created my bedroom with even more lavish touches. The bed was small, intimate, covered with deep velvet. Shelves filled with thick tomes lined the walls; antique lamps shed soft light throughout. Burnished red-leather chairs surrounded a marble coffee table, and a bar stocked with liquids in crystal waited conveniently in the corner.

“This is your bedroom?” he asked, and I saw admiration fire up in his eyes, admiration that fueled desire, the desire that the powerful, the wealthy, always draw.

“Yes,” I said, and he pulled me close and took me in his arms. The scent of him sent a dollop of saliva to land in a spot of white foam on the carpeting.

“Come.” I pulled back from him and led him by the hands to the bed, turning off lamps on the way, our eyes never breaking from each other, the moment truly romantic and magic.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “It’s like a dream.”

I dwelt on increasing the music, or decreasing it; worried, suddenly, that I was not experienced enough to sustain such a lavish illusion, and for a moment, the whole structure wavered under my doubt. I felt the bed tremble under my indecision. Then, as my confidence returned, the bed regained solidity and Jack was bending over me, transfixed by my eyes, my power. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight as a smile of passion drew back his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and I knew I had not overly sedated him.