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When you helped me rebuild the Paris coven with your visionary conceit of a vampire theatre whilst sharing your body and blood, I artlessly assumed companionship, which was, upon reflexion, wish-fulfilling delusion rooted in childhood conflict. Your exit from Paris and beyond generous endowment you left us with was graceful and sensitive… And I shamefully blamed your mother. When I had the opportunity to speak truth to Louis concerning my involvement in the matineé production of--

Not a production, an actual trial with definitive sentences of death.

I retreated to cowardice and was dumbfounded by your silence in the ruined tower of your former maker. I walked thge rest of the century on a carpet of egg shells, knowing at any moment you could reach out to Louis and make him the wiser. At first, I felt it was you torturing me.

It was.

Now I know it was richness of character.

No. It was torture. I knew it would eat you alive and, tangentially make Louis miserable. And that is how I chose to spend the latter half of the 20th century.

If you were the last vampire on Earth it would be enough. You and me. Me and you.