He broke off, too shaken obviously to go on. I’d hated the pain in his voice, the faint tremour undermining its deep firmness. How could I ever forgive myself? I stood still, staring past him into the darkness. The lovely pounding of the surf and the faint clacking of the coconut palms were the only sounds. How vast were the heavens; how lovely and deep and calm these hours just before dawn.

I saw Gretchen’s face. I heard her voice.

There was a moment this morning when I thought I could throw up everything—just to be with you … I could feel it sweeping me away, the way the music once did. And if you were to say “Come with me,” even now, I might go … The meaning of chastity is not to fall in love … I could fall in love with you. I know I could.

And then beyond this burning image, faint yet undeniable, I saw the face of Louis, and I heard words spoken in his voice that I wanted to forget.

Where was David? Let me wake from these memories. I don’t want them. I looked up and I saw him again, and in him the old familiar dignity, the restraint, the imperturbable strength. But I saw the pain too.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. His voice was still unsteady, as he struggled to preserve the beautiful and elegant facade. “You drank from the fountain of youth when you drank the blood of Magnus. Really you did. You’ll never know what it means to be the old man that I am now. God help me, I loathe the word, but it’s true. I’m old.”

“I understand,” I said. “Don’t worry.” I leant forward and kissed him again. “I’ll leave you alone. Come on, we should sleep. I promise. I’ll leave you alone.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GOOD Lord, look at it, David.” I had just stepped out of the taxi onto the crowded quai. The great blue and white Queen Elizabeth 2 was far too big to come into the little harbour. She rested at anchor a mile or two out—I could not gauge—so monstrously large that she seemed the ship out of a nightmare, frozen upon the motionless bay. Only her row upon row of myriad tiny windows prevented her from seeming the ship of a giant.

The quaint little island with its green hills and curved shore reached out towards her, as if trying to shrink her and draw her nearer, all in vain.

I felt a spasm of excitement as I looked at her. I had never been aboard a modern vessel. This part was going to be fun.

A small wooden launch, bearing her name in bold painted letters, and obviously laden with but one load of her many passengers, made its way to the concrete dock as we watched.

“There’s Jake in the prow of the launch,” said David. “Come on, let’s go into the café.”

We walked slowly under the hot sun, comfortable in our short-sleeve shirts and dungarees—a couple of tourists—past the dark-skinned vendors with their seashells for sale, and rag dolls, and tiny steel drums, and other souvenirs. How pretty the island appeared. Its forested hills were dotted with tiny dwellings, and the more solid buildings of the town of St. George’s were massed together on the steep cliff to the far left beyond the turn of the quai. The whole prospect had almost an Italian hue to it, what with so many dark and stained reddish walls and the rusted roofs of corrugated tin which in the burning sun looked deceptively like roofs of baked tile. It seemed a lovely place to go exploring—at some other time.