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bass, and finally bringing it together. Claudia was mystery. It was not possible to know what she knew or did not

enthralled with the new flood of art and craft and design, could stare at the intricate pattern of the carpets for

know. And to watch her kill was chilling. She would sit alone in the dark square waiting for the kindly gentleman

And all this time I was educating Claudia, whispering in her tiny seashell ear that our eternal life was useless to us if we did not see the beauty around us, the creation of mortals everywhere; I was constantly sounding the depth of her still gaze as she took the books I gave her, whispered the poetry I taught her, and played with a light but confident touch her own strange, coherent songs on the piano. She could fall for hours into the pictures in a book and listen to me read until she sat so still the sight of her jarred me, made me put the book down, and just stare back at her across the lighted room; then she'd move, a doll coming to life, and say in the softest voice that I must read some more.

hours, or watch the gleam of the lamplight change the somber colors of a Dutch painting.

I was aghast at such moments; her mind was unpredictable, unknowable. But then she would sit on my lap and put her fingers in my hair and doze there against my heart, whispering to me softly I should never be as grown up as she until I knew that killing was the more serious thing, not the books, the music. `Always the music . . .' she whispered. `Doll, doll,' I called her. That's what she was. A magic doll. Laughter and infinite intellect and then the round-checked face, the bud mouth. `Let me dress you, let me brush your hair,' I would say to her out of old habit, aware of her smiling and watching me with the thin veil of boredom over her expression. `Do as you like,' she breathed into my ear as I bent down to fasten her pearl buttons. `Only kill with me tonight. You never let me see you kill, Louis'

Her body the boy said.She was never to grow up.

waiting, waiting, as if feasting silently on their terrible kindness.

or woman to find her, her eyes more mindless than I had ever seen Lestat's. Like a child numbed with fright she

cafe where they gave her steaming cups of chocolate or tea to ruddy her pale cheeks, cups she pushed away,

painted Chinese vases. I did not need the luxury anymore than I had needed it before, but I found myself

paradise, canaries singing in great do domed, golden cages, and delicate marble Grecian gods and beautifully

But when that was done, she was my companion, my pupil, her long hours spent with me consuming faster and faster the knowledge I gave her, sharing with me some quiet understanding which could not include Lestat. At dawn she lay with me, her heart beating against my heart, and many times when I looked at her-when she was at her music or painting and didn't know I stood in the room-I thought of that singular experience rd had with her and no other, that I had killed her, taken her life from her, had drunk all of her life's blood in that fatal embrace I'd lavished on so many others, others who lay now moldering in the damp earth. But she lived, she lived to put her arms around my neck and press her tiny cupid's bow to my lips and put her gleaming eye to nay eye until our lashes touched and, laughing, we reeled about the room as if to the wildest waltz. Father and Daughter. Lover and Lover. You can imagine how well it was Lestat did not envy us this, but only smiled on it from afar, waiting until she came to him. Then he would take her out into the street and they would wave to me beneath the window, off to share what they shared: the hunt, the seduction, the kill.

hours, or watch the gleam of the lamplight change the somber colors of a Dutch painting.

bass, and finally bringing it together. Claudia was mystery. It was not possible to know what she knew or did not

paradise, canaries singing in great do domed, golden cages, and delicate marble Grecian gods and beautifully

An endless train of dressmakers and shoemakers and tailors came to our flat to outfit Claudia in the best of children's fashions, so that she was always a vision, not just of child beauty, with her curling lashes and her glorious yellow hair, but of the taste of finely trimmed bonnets and tiny lace gloves, flaring velvet coats and capes, and sheer white puffed-sleeve gowns with gleaming blue sashes. Lestat played with her as if she were a magnificent doll, and I played with her as if she were a magnificent doll; and it was her pleading that forced me to give up my rusty black for dandy jackets and silk ties and soft gray coats and gloves and black capes. Lestat thought the best color at all times for vampires was black, possibly the only aesthetic principle he steadfastly maintained, but he wasn't opposed to anything which smacked of style and excess. He loved the great figure we cut, the three of us in our box at the new French Opera House or the Theatre d'Orleans, to which we went as often as possible, Lestat having a passion for Shakespeare which surprised me, though he often dozed through the operas and woke just in time to invite some lovely lady to midnight supper, where he would use all his skill to make her love him totally, then dispatch her violently to heaven or hell and come home with her diamond ring to give to Claudia.

All this Claudia found wondrous, with the quiet awe of an unspoiled child, and marveled when Lestat hired a painter to make the walls of her room a magical forest of unicorns and golden birds and laden fruit trees over sparkling streams.

hours, or watch the gleam of the lamplight change the somber colors of a Dutch painting.

But when that was done, she was my companion, my pupil, her long hours spent with me consuming faster and faster the knowledge I gave her, sharing with me some quiet understanding which could not include Lestat. At dawn she lay with me, her heart beating against my heart, and many times when I looked at her-when she was at her music or painting and didn't know I stood in the room-I thought of that singular experience rd had with her and no other, that I had killed her, taken her life from her, had drunk all of her life's blood in that fatal embrace I'd lavished on so many others, others who lay now moldering in the damp earth. But she lived, she lived to put her arms around my neck and press her tiny cupid's bow to my lips and put her gleaming eye to nay eye until our lashes touched and, laughing, we reeled about the room as if to the wildest waltz. Father and Daughter. Lover and Lover. You can imagine how well it was Lestat did not envy us this, but only smiled on it from afar, waiting until she came to him. Then he would take her out into the street and they would wave to me beneath the window, off to share what they shared: the hunt, the seduction, the kill.

cafe where they gave her steaming cups of chocolate or tea to ruddy her pale cheeks, cups she pushed away,

or woman to find her, her eyes more mindless than I had ever seen Lestat's. Like a child numbed with fright she

know. And to watch her kill was chilling. She would sit alone in the dark square waiting for the kindly gentleman

bass, and finally bringing it together. Claudia was mystery. It was not possible to know what she knew or did not

hours, or watch the gleam of the lamplight change the somber colors of a Dutch painting.

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