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reflected image. He heard the sound of running water and then rummaging in a purse. He assumed Frieda was in cosmetic repair. When she spoke, it was in disjointed phrases, as though she was distracted by the effort of applying lipstick or mascara. Her tone now had the acidic edge of someone beginning to view herself as a discarded sex object. “Didn’t someone say the real reason men pay prostitutes is not to fuck them, but so they’ll go away afterwards?” Frieda emerged from the bathroom with her trophy status fully restored. “I’d kiss you good-bye, but I’ve just done my makeup.”
    Renquist nodded. “I understand.”
    “I’ll let myself out.”
    “Yes.”
    The door of the suite closed behind her, and she was gone. Renquist sighed and sat down on the bed, profoundly glad he wasn’t human, and hadn’t been for close to a thousand years. As a species, humans were so childishly complicated, with their lack of emotional logic and their erratic mood swings, especially where the ecstatic, erotic, and economic were concerned. Even though he’d fed, he hardly felt energized. The partial feeding had taken almost as much effort as it had generated, and he was more than ready to sleep away the dangerous daylight hours. At that precise instant, as though to confirm his original reserve that this solitary and impulsive journey to England had perhaps not been such a good idea, the telephone rang.
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Renquist?”
    “Yes.”
    The Savoy operator’s voice was unmistakable. Renquist had insisted his incoming calls be screened. “A Ms. Dashwood wishes to be put through.”
    Renquist smiled. Ahhh.
    “Would you please give the lady my apologies? I can’t speak to her right now, but take her number and
tell her I will contact her. And ask for all the appropriate codes one needs to dial. The English telephone system has changed greatly since I was last here.”
    “I’ll convey your message, sir.”
    “Thank you.”
    Columbine Dashwood—the dear girl was as impulsive as she had ever been. He would make her wait a little longer. Dawn was close, and he wanted nothing better than to retire. Columbine would wait until after sunset. Perhaps well after sunset. She could look on it as the penalty for making importunate telephone calls.
    Renquist went to one of his trunks, extracted the large fur rug, and spread it over the hotel bed with a bullring flourish. He took the fur on all his travels; his one concession to a sense of continuity in the places that he slept. He drank another long draft of water and arranged himself to dream through the deadly sunlit day.
    Columbine Dashwood surfaced from the dreamstate, but only by a major effort of will. Despite her protestations to Marieko and later to Destry, she had, in fact, slept. Indeed, she had slept deeply, but as she surfaced in the waking world, she knew sunset was still hours away. It wasn’t her mixed emotions at being reunited after all this time with Victor Renquist forcing her to wake so frustratingly early, as her feline-uncharitable companions might have suggested. The dream had returned, vivid, intense, at greater length, and as disturbing as ever. For a while, after communication had been established with Renquist, the incessant nightmares had abated, but now the visions had returned with a vengeance. She sat up slowly on the circular bed of satin and velvet draperies, wafting gauze, and scattered Arabian cushions that was the central focus of the exotically cluttered room, but amid all the romantic and alien finery, her mood was as bleak as the dream. “Fuck. I swear I can’t tolerate much more of this.”
    Anger forced bleakness aside. Columbine wanted to
scream out loud but knew that to do so would wake the entire house. She didn’t need the attention. Instead she hugged her fury to herself, clasping her knees to her chest with encircling arms as if to physically contain it.
    “Did the dream have to come back today of all days?”
    She was