Myrnin’s shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. For the first time, as he turned his head away, she saw that he’d secured his ponytail with a big black bow. It fit what he was wearing, and it was weird that it didn’t look out of place on him. He looks like Mozart, she thought – or at least, how Mozart had been dressed in the paintings she’d seen.

‘It must have been easier when people dressed like that,’ she said. ‘Being a vampire. People made their faces white with powder, didn’t they? So you didn’t stand out so much.’

‘Not just their faces,’ he said. ‘They powdered their wigs, too. One could choke on the arsenic and talcum. I can’t imagine it was good for the lungs of living, but one does what one must for fashion. At least the women weren’t tottering around on five-inch heels, constantly in peril of breaking bones.’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘What made it easier for vampires was that we lived by candlelight, lamplight – it makes everyone look healthier, even the sick. These harsh lights you favour now … well. Difficult. I heard that a few vampires have taken to those spray-tanning salons, to get the proper skin tones.’

She almost laughed at that, at the image of a badass vampire like Oliver – ferocious and fearless – standing around in a Speedo to get himself painted. But Oliver had left Morganville, too … banished, now, from Amelie’s side, where he’d been ever since Claire had first come to town. That was probably the right thing to do, but Claire felt bad for him, a little. He’d betrayed the Founder, but he hadn’t meant it – and he hadn’t had a choice.

If any vampire could survive in the human world, though, it would be Oliver. He was clever, ruthless, and mostly without a conscience. Mostly.

‘You can still change your mind,’ Myrnin said. He stood perfectly still, except for the wind ruffling his clothes and the bow on his ponytail; he didn’t try to meet her eyes. ‘You know you don’t have to leave. No one wants you to go, truly.’

‘I know.’ That was all she’d been thinking about, for hours. She hadn’t slept, and her whole body ached with nervous tension. ‘You’re not the only one to tell me so.’ Shane, for instance. Though he’d been quiet about it, and gentle. It wasn’t that she was angry with him – God, no – but she needed, desperately, to make sure that he trusted her as much as she trusted him. She loved him, that was what made it so, so hard to do this. She needed him. But he’d screwed up, big time, in believing a big lie about her told by one of their enemies. He’d actually believed that she’d been sneaking around behind his back, with his best friend, Michael.