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simultaneously, you are given an injection.  The substance consists of a blend of long-chain molecules which function in some ways like a hemotoxin.”
    “That doesn’t sound good,” I said.  Toxin?  That was probably the understatement of the year.
    He set the fork down.  “The hemotoxic effect is necessary to prepare the cells for a fundamental and irrevocable reordering the metabolism of every cell in the body.  If your metabolism can change quickly enough in the wake of the hemotoxin, they are converted to a new state, and you live.  If not, you die.”
    I set the spanakopita down untasted.  “Haven’t you tried to separate the components?  So that the reordering happens without the hemotoxin?”
    “Tried and failed,” he said curtly.  “For longer than you have been alive.  The hemotoxic effect is a necessary precursor to the metabolic changes, and nothing we have tried has been able to speed up the metabolic reordering.  This current variation of our screening is the most successful breakthrough thus far.”
    “But one in a hundred,” I objected.
    His expression was severe.  “One in one hundred who would otherwise die.”
    “So these metabolic changes....” I trailed off.
    He raised an eyebrow.  “They will revert your cancerous cells, all of them, swiftly and permanently.  The extraneous cells should undergo an accelerated senescence and healthy function should return to the remaining ones immediately.”
    I thought about that for a moment, turning it over in my mind.  “It is a cure, then,” I said slowly.  “A real cure.  Not a remission.  Like you said before, the cancer can’t come back.”
    As I was trying to absorb that, another server appeared, bearing two platters, one with steaming meat, the other with various artful embellishments.  “The entrée,” she said, setting it between us.  “Spit-roasted young goat.  Use your fingers to pull off pieces to eat on the oil-drizzled pita, and scoop on the additions of your choice.”
    Mr. Thorne gave her a wave of thanks as she discreetly retired.  I ignored the entrée.
    “Not a remission,” he agreed.  “It is a cure for your present condition and as good as an immunization against any future cancer.”
    “How is that possible?” I asked.
    His smile was rueful.  I could hardly tear my gaze from his lips.  “We don’t know that, either.  The mechanism is, of yet, very poorly understood.”
    One in one hundred.  Well, I seemed to be good with long odds—my chance of developing the type of leukemia I had was one in tens of thousands, my chance for the alemtuzumab proving ineffective one in ten of that.  Put that way, as illogical as it was, one in one hundred seemed like almost a sure thing.
    “I want it,” I said, almost before I knew I had made the decision.  “I want to live.  If it’s my only chance—”
    “I will not take your answer now.”  Mr. Thorne cut me off.  “You must think about it.  Call in two weeks.”
    “Why?” I demanded.  “I don’t want to wait.  I’ve made my decision.  I’m ready to roll the dice now.”
    His hooded eyes burned with intensity.  His eyes and cheeks were even more hollow now, I noticed, but they simply put a hard edge on his handsomeness.  “Because I want you to say yes too badly.  And sitting across from me, you will refuse me nothing that I want.”
    His words went through me even as I denied them.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Do you not believe me?” 
    The force of his attention had me pinned in my seat.  My breath caught.  I opened my mouth to disagree, but nothing came out.  Still, I managed to shake my head.
    “Put your hand in the candle, Ms. Shaw.”

Chapter Seven
     
    W hat?   My lips formed the word, but he had stolen the breath from my lungs.  His gaze grew sharper, and I felt him, somehow, felt him through the shiver of my body, hot and cold.  My hand rose.  I tried to stop it, to tell it no, but I wanted this.  I wanted