He dipped his head. A cascade of sparks danced across her skin: he feathered kisses across her cheek before seeking her mouth. Lucie inhaled sharply as he captured her lips, his arms drawing her against him.

Despite everything, she drowned in the delight of it.

I didn’t know. She had not considered the softness of his mouth contrasted with faint roughness, the nip of his teeth, his tongue stroking along hers. She had not realized she would feel his kisses all through her, a delicious tension she had never imagined. His hands were in her hair, cradling the back of her head, his mouth learning hers, leisurely, carefully.…

She whimpered low in her throat, her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself. Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.

A train roared over the viaduct overhead, its lights illuminating the darkness, turning night to sunrise. Jesse let her go, his dark hair unruly, his eyes sleepy and stunned with desire.

“If I must fade,” he said, “I would like to fade remembering this as my last waking dream.”

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Hold on, for me. We are so close.”

He touched her cheek. “Only promise me one thing,” he said. “If I do go, give us a happy ending, will you? In your book?”

“I don’t believe in endings,” she said, but he only smiled at her, and faded slowly from view.

19 THINE OWN PALACE

And seeing the snail which everywhere doth roam,

Carrying his own house still, still is at home,

Follow (for he is easy paced) this snail,

Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail.

—John Donne, “To Sir Henry Wotton”

Thomas had no idea what time it was. There were no windows in the Sanctuary, for the comfort of vampire guests. The tapers in the candelabras burned on, their level never seeming to drop.

Charlotte hadn’t been untruthful when she’d said Thomas and Alastair would have whatever they needed. Warm bedding had been provided, and a stack of books (chosen by Eugenia), not to mention food. Thomas could tell that Bridget felt sorry for him, because she had brought some of his favorite things: besides a platter of cold chicken, there was bread still warm from the oven, a wedge of yellow sheep’s-milk cheese, sliced apples, and a salad with absolutely not one speck of celery. Thomas hated celery.

Bridget had set the tray down without a word, scowled at Alastair, and left.