“Do you understand where you are?” he asked. That was a stupid question. Maybe he was used to being cowered at. I did not cower. Why should I? I’d already met death three times now. So far, the fourth was a bit of a disappointment.

“Nothing,” I said, even though my sister knew me well enough to know when nothing meant everything.

That hand still rested there, right on my thigh. Was he waiting for me to say something? Had I missed a cue that I should know? I did that often. I looked down at that hand. “What—” “May I write to you?” he asked. My mouth closed. I blinked at him. “May I write?” He sounded vaguely irritated, and I wasn’t sure why. “Yes,” I said, at last. “Of cours

“Does nothing bother you?” he said. “You seem totally unmoved that you almost died.” I didn’t tell him that I was always almost dying.

He always wanted more than I could or wanted to give him. It is, after all, a waste to love a thing that will soon be gone.

“It must be hard,” he murmured. “To bear the weight of so much affection in a life so short.”

“After so long, you realize that knowing things doesn’t especially matter very much. Knowledge with no context is meaningless. That’s not the real treasure.”

And when the days passed, and my exhaustion and my enthusiasm led me to loosen my typically-closely-held control over my socially unacceptable attitudes, my raw enthusiasm leaking through as I talked excitedly to Vale about some theory or another, I turned to see him staring at me, brows drawn. His expression made me freeze, my face flushing—becaus

“You know, I did wonder at first,” I said, “why you didn’t kill me when I came into your house. Now I understand it’s because you’re a bored, lonely man, desperate for any kind of company.”