“No, not to hurt her. But to lay the decision in her hands.”

“Monsieur? May I help you?”

I looked up at the old man standing in front of me, the doctor, with the stained whiskers and the tiny spectacles. No, not this doctor! Where had he come from? I stared at the name tag. This is French Guiana. That’s why he’s speaking French. And there is no child at the end of the ward, sitting in any chair.

“To see Gretchen,” I whispered. “Sister Marguerite.” I had thought she was in this building, that I’d glimpsed her through the windows. I knew she was here.

Dull noises at the far end of the ward. He can’t hear them but I can hear them. She’s coming. I caught her scent suddenly, mingled with the scent of the children, of the old man.

But even with these eyes, I couldn’t see in the intolerable gloom. Where was the light in this place coming from? She had just extinguished the tiny electric lamp at the far door, and she came now down the length of the ward past bed after bed, her steps quick though dogged, her head bowed. The doctor made a little weary gesture, and shuffled past me.

Don’t stare at the stained whiskers; don’t stare at the spectacles, or the rounded hump of his bent back. Why, you saw the plastic name tag on his pocket. He is no ghost!

The screen door thumped softly behind him, as he shambled away.

In the thin darkness, she stood. How beautiful her wavy hair, pulled back from her smooth forehead and her large steady eyes. She saw my shoes before she saw me. Sudden awareness of the stranger, the pale soundless figure—not so much as a breath comes from me—in the absolute stillness of the night, where he does not belong.

The doctor had vanished. It seemed the shadows had swallowed him, but surely he was out there somewhere in the dark.

I stood against the light from the office. Her scent was overpowering me—blood and the clean perfume of a living being. God, to see her with this vision—to see the glistening beauty of her cheeks. But I was blocking the light, wasn’t I, for the door was very small. Could she see the features of my face clearly enough? Could she see the eerie unnatural color of my eyes?

“Who are you?” It was a low, wary whisper. She stood far away from me, stranded in the aisle, looking up at me from beneath her dark knitted brows.

“Gretchen,” I answered. “It’s Lestat. I’ve come as I promised I would come.”

Nothing stirred in the long narrow ward. The beds appeared frozen behind their veils of netting. Yet the light moved in the sparkling sacks of fluid, like so many silvery little lamps glimmering in the dull close dark. I could hear the faint, steady respiration of the small sleeping bodies. And a dull rhythmic sound like a child playfully thumping the leg of chair over and over with the back of her tiny heel.