“Now that’s Rebecca at the Well,” she said. “A common scene depicted on cameos, and coming from the Bible, don’t you know, from the book of Genesis, when Abraham sent a messenger to find a wife for his son Isaac, and Rebecca came out to greet this messenger at the village well.”

“Yes, I know the story,” Lestat said quietly. “And it’s an excellent cameo too.”

She looked at him eagerly, as much into his eyes as at his hands, with their lustrous fingernails.

“That was one of the first cameos I ever saw,” she said, taking it back from him, “and it was with Rebecca at the Well that my collection began. I was given ten altogether of that exact same theme, Rebecca at the Well, though all were different in their carvings, and I have them all here. There’s a story to it, to be sure.”

He was obviously curious, and seemed to possess all the time in the world.

“Tell me,” he said simply.

“Oh, but how I have behaved!” she suddenly remarked, “allowing you to stand there as if you were bad boys brought before the principal. Forgive me, you must sit down. Oh, but I am witless to be so remiss in my own boudoir! For shame!”

I was about to object, to declare it unnecessary, but I saw that Lestat wanted to know her, and she was having such a wonderful time.

“Quinn,” she declared, “you bring those two chairs here. We’ll make a cozy circle, Lestat, if I’m to tell a tale.”

I knew there was no arguing. Besides, I was painfully stimulated that these two liked each other. I was crazy again.

As to the chairs, I did as I was told, crossing the room, taking up two of the straight-back chairs from Aunt Queen’s round writing table between the back windows, and setting the chairs down right where we had stood so that we could face her again.

She took the plunge:

“It came about in this very room, my introduction to the passion for the cameo,” she said, her eyes flitting over both of us and then fixing firmly on Lestat. “I was nine years old then and my grandfather was dying in here, a dreadful old man, Manfred Blackwood, the great monster of our history, the man who built this house, a man of whom everybody was afraid. My father, his only living son, William, tried to keep me away from him, but one day when the old beast was alone he saw me peeping in at that door.

“He ordered me to come inside and I was too afraid not to do it, and curious besides. He was sitting here where I am now, only there was no fancy dressing table here. Just his easy chair, and he sat in it, with a blanket over his lap, and both his hands on his silver-knobbed cane. His face was stubbly with his rough beard, and he wore a bib of sorts, and dribbled from the edge of his mouth.