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the eyes seemed dead.
    â€˜Even now,’ he said, ‘I could almost wish you hadn’t come.’
    Rebecca stared at him in surprise. ‘The bookseller said . . .’
    â€˜The bookseller. Forget the bookseller.’
    â€˜But . . .’
    â€˜I have told you - forget him.’
    Rebecca swallowed. ‘He said that you had been waiting for me.’
    â€˜Yes. But what does that mean? It is the torture we desire which is the cruellest of all.’
    â€˜And the bookseller knew this?’
    Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘Of course. Why else would he have sent you to me?’
    His lassitude seemed suddenly terrible. He closed his eyes, as though to avoid the sight of Rebecca’s life. The dog stirred and licked at his hand, but Lord Byron stayed motionless, a mockery of his own seeming loveliness and youth.
    â€˜What were you hoping for tonight?’
    â€˜Hoping for?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Rebecca paused. ‘By the tomb, tonight. You had been waiting for me. What had you been hoping for?’
    A look of terrible pain crossed Lord Byron’s face. He paused, as though waiting for the murmur of some answer from the dark. He was staring beyond her, Rebecca realised, into the blackness from which the dog had come. But there was no movement from there now, nothing but stillness, and Lord Byron suddenly frowned and shook his head. ‘Whatever I hope for,’ he said, ‘seems not quite ready to happen yet.’ He laughed, and of all the sounds she had listened to that night, Rebecca had heard nothing that did more to strike cold into her blood. ‘I have existed for over two centuries,’ Lord Byron said, staring at Rebecca, but again, it seemed, still speaking to the darkness beyond.
    â€˜Never have I felt further from the life I once possessed. Each year, each day, has forged a link in the chain - the weight of my own immortality. That burden, now, I find insupportable.’
    He paused, and reached for his wine. He took a sip, very delicately, and closed his eyes, as though in mourning for its forgotten taste. His eyes still shut, he drained the glass, and then slowly, without a trace of passion, dropped it so that it shattered on the floor. The dog stirred and growled; from the far corner of the room, several birds rose and fluttered in the air. Rebecca had not seen them before - she wondered what other creatures lurked, waiting in the darkness behind her chair. The birds settled; silence returned; once again, Lord Byron opened his eyes.
    â€˜It is singular,’ he said, ‘how soon we lose our memories, how soon their lustre fades. And yet, seeing you here now, I remember how existence was once fresh.’
    â€˜And is that so great a torture?’
    â€˜A torture and delight. Both the greater for their intermingling.’
    â€˜But they are rekindled now, aren’t they - these lights of your memory?’
    Lord Byron inclined his head gently. There was a flicker of movement from his lips.
    â€˜Can you bear to extinguish them again?’ Rebecca asked. ‘Or is it not better now to tend their flame?’
    Lord Byron smiled.
    Rebecca watched him. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
    â€˜Tell you?’
    â€˜You have no choice.’
    The vampire laughed suddenly. ‘But I do. I could kill you. That might allow me to forget for a while.’ There was a silence. Rebecca knew that Lord Byron was staring at her throat. But still she waited, strangely distanced from her fear. ‘Tell me,’ she repeated softly. ‘Tell me how it happened. I want to know.’ She paused, thinking of her mother. She sat frozen. ‘I deserve to know.’
    Lord Byron raised his eyes. Slowly, he began to smile again. ‘Yes, you do,’ he said, ‘I suppose you do.’ He paused, and again stared past Rebecca into the darkness beyond. This time, she thought, there was a faint sound, and Lord Byron smiled again, as though he had heard it too.