That night Laurent sent me away without setting his hair or painting his face. I helped him into bed and he held onto me, whispering desperate apologies for deceiving me and calling me a slave. I kissed his cheeks and he clasped his hands behind my back so that I couldn't get away.

"Say that you are not angry," he pressed, kissing my resisting neck, holding fast my stiff body.

"Never."

He had parted his lips then, slightly, for a kiss, but I hadn't kissed him.

"Are you so hurt?" he'd asked, gentle. He had slipped his hands up my shirt and pressed them to the curve of my back. "Your breath gives away your desire," smiling.

"Laurent, go to bed," I'd admonished him. 

"Your brother has been here weeks, hiding from you. Be natural with him. He's ill and won't say why. You know not to press him, don't you?" His face seemed so concerned that I had given him a little kiss then, which pleased him enough to let me go.

I'd gone to bed, putting away the new information about Nicky and locking my bedroom door behind me. It would be no good to get hung up on details, and fighting Laurent had made me tired. Early every morning, I was getting up to visit the scene. The scene then was much the same as now, though the faces have changed. Necessities of documentation and census had made things difficult, but there are always people interested in the unknown, who want to visit what to them is a mysterious darkness. I suppose visiting the unknown comforted them, in that dark time after the war, to feel near spirits. There were young women then, especially, who slipped into dark rooms afterhours to be kissed and whispered to. I knew them not at all beyond the few minutes we spent together, and it wasn't them, of course, that mattered. Laurent is right that one should never kill unless there is something worth taking. On that we agree, but killing is hardly ever necessary, especially as increasingly there is a class of people bored of life, and use those who require them for a little excitement and nothing more.

It was a matter of knowing where to look. While in bed I went over the schedule in my head. 4am, wake up and set out. 5am, return and find the hollow silver needle. 6am, head to the station in order to visit the doctors in the north, who might speak with me about provision of eyes. It was a simpler matter to get them than Laurent thought.

So it was that I rose at 4am, and returned an hour later, but when I went after the silver needle it was gone. I went up the stairs and down them again, searching through Laurent's hidden snuff boxes and jewelry cases. Finally, I lowered the stairs into the attic to search amongst the cobwebs.

And there was Nicky, tucked under a rack of old clothes, curled up asleep. When he heard me, he lifted his head. "You've startled me," he huffed out, quiet voice angry, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm looking for something," I said, going to a squat chest where I knew Laurent had hidden things in the past.

"He's not been up here." Nicky uncurled slowly and gripped the rack to stand up. There was dust in his hair, and he shook it out with his hands. He looked well kept, long brown hair curled and neat, clean, but his little face was drawn.

"Nicky, I'm looking for the needle. You know the small silver needle that we use for drawing blood."

"I know that needle. Why do you need it?" He went to the fan-shaped attic window and looked out. "It's morning."

"Yes it's morning. You know that he won't be up for several hours yet. I will leave a phial behind for him."

Inside the chest there were only clothes and old shoes.

"Only a phial? You've not changed much. Stingy as usual," Nicky said, coming over. He pressed his hands into the skirting of my coat, resting his head at my hip. 

When I looked down, his little face seemed glad of me, my nearness, smiling softly. I brushed his long brown hair away from his forehead in affection. Things have not always been friendly between us, but I was there when he was born, and have been told I named him. In all senses but parentage, he is my brother. I didn't press him. He seemed the same as ever, if tired.

"Help me find it, darling."

"Not necessary."

"Please, no games. I'm running late."

"You ought to trim your nails, Dasius. They poke me," he said, pushing back my coat as if to search my pockets.

When I didn't speak, his finger looped under my belt and he tugged gently so that I would bend to listen better. I did and looked on him closely for the first time. "Kneel at my feet, old master," he said.

"I don't have time for this."

"You shall have a prize, yes. Your search will be ended."

I knelt on my knees on the dusty floor, to examine his face. I took it in both hands and turned his head from side to side. His large eyes widened and his pupils narrowed under my gaze, as the light from the window I had been blocking hit him full on.

"This is unusual," he hissed, piqued by my scrutiny, as I had been warned he would be. "No, it is not unusual. I had only forgotten your utter rudeness."

"Be quiet now. What has happened to you?" I asked.

He did not resist me, but gave up no information, big brown eyes dangerous. "I don't know what you're talking about. Nothing you can tell from my face."

I tipped his chin up and he struggled away. He was wrong that there was nothing to see. His features were set hard. I had hoped to shock him, to see him relax, but he remained tense and unanimated. Nicky has always been soft with moldable features, dynamic and quick. It was almost like looking at another person. Except that when he spoke he was the same as ever, brash and imperious, invulnerable. "You seem to be wearing a hard mask," I said, softly.

"You will win nothing this way, Dasius. I can't take you. I won't be examined. Your eyes cut through me as ever."

"Has someone hurt you?"

"Take your needle and get away." He produced it and held it out. "I had only hoped to speak with you, in taking it."

I did, but on the way out of the attic, he followed me, giving me his hand to hold as he came down the ladder steps.

"Hold me," he said, pretending at playfulness, and I lifted him up into my arms. "I shan't walk." 

"Delicate little bird," I whispered, "of changeable moods. Fractious."

He pressed his head to the side of my neck and I carried him to my study, where the phials were. When I tried to get him down so I could tie off my arm, he dug his fingers into my skin and held on.

"Tie these ends then," I said.

He pushed up my white shirt sleeve, took the ends of the tourniquet from me, and tightly tied it around my upper arm. He watched while I blew through the needle and attached a short flexible tube.

"Suck on it, won't you?" I asked.

He did and turned his face back to my neck when the blood began to flow. He was quiet while the phial filled, untying my tourniquet without bidding and placed a finger over the pinprick when I drew the needle out. He drew his finger away from the small blossom of blood, smearing it over my white skin. "This is nonsense," he said.

I didn't respond.

"Put yourself in Laurent's bed. The monster will find you. Save the trouble."

"He won't allow it. You know how things are between us."

"Your problem is that you're embarrassed by what you are. It's irritating. He doesn't like it and neither do I. You're too old to be so buttoned up. I know where you go to get the blood. Could you be any worse? If he won't have you, take a lover. Jealousy will make him mad for you again. Believe it."

I let him down so that I could put my coat back on, refusing to rise to the bait. He followed me through the house in his stockinged feet, fingers in his mouth, as if we were attached together by a short cord. Beside Laurent's door, on the ground floor, there was a small silver tray, and I placed the phial on it.

"If you let me come to the doctor with you, I'll be nice," Nicky said, a plaintive quality in his voice betraying his loneliness.

I said yes because it would give me more time to study him. I had not seen him in fifty years.