It seemed a comfort suddenly to hear her speaking of these things, these secret 
Talamasca things, which had once been our stock in trade. Yes, a comfort, as if the warm 
presence of Aaron were actually with us again.
  She stopped for another sip of the rum.
  "I feel you ought to know these things," she said. "We never kept anything from each 
other, you and I. Not that I knew of, but then of course my work was in the study of 
magic, and I did roam far and wide."
  "How much did Aaron know?" I asked. I thought my eyes were tearing. I was humiliated. 
But I wanted her to go on. "I never saw Aaron after the vampiric metamorphosis," I 
confessed dully. "I couldn't bring myself to do it. Can you guess why?" I felt a sharp 
increase in mental pain and confusion. My grief for Aaron would never go away, and I'd 
endured it for years without a word to either of my vampire companions, Louis or Lestat.
  "No," she said. "I can't guess why. I can tell you. . . , " and here she hesitated 
politely so that I might stop her, but I did not. "I can tell you that he was 
disappointed and forgiving to the end."
  I bowed my head. I pressed my forehead into my cold hand.
  "By his own account he prayed each day that you would come to him," she explained 
slowly, "that he'd have a chance for one last conversation with you-about all you'd 
endured together and what had finally occurred to drive you apart."
  I must have winced. I deserved the misery, however, deserved it more than she could 
know. It had been indecent not to have written to him! Lord God, even Jesse, when she'd 
vanished out of the Talamasca, had written to me!
  Merrick went on speaking. If she read my mind at all, she gave no clue.
  "Of course Aaron wrote all about your Faustian Body Switching, as he called it. He 
described you in the young body and made many references to some investigation of the 
body, something you'd engaged in together, asserting that the soul had certainly gone on. 
You experimented, didn't you, you and Aaron, with trying to reach the rightful soul, even 
at the risk of your own death?"
  I nodded, unable to speak, feeling desperate and ashamed.
  "As for the wretched Body Thief, the little devil Raglan James who'd started the whole 
supernatural spectacle, Aaron was convinced his soul was gone into eternity, as he put 
it, quite utterly beyond reach."
  "That's true," I concurred. "The file on him is closed, I'm quite convinced of it, 
whether it's incomplete or not."
  A darkness crept into her sad respectful expression. Some raw feeling had come to the 
surface, and for the moment she broke off.
  "What else did Aaron write?" I asked her.
  "He referred to the Talamasca having unofficially helped 'the new David' reclaim his 
substantial investments and property," she answered. "He felt strongly that no File on 
David's Second Youth must ever be created or committed to the archives in London or in 
Rome."
  "Why didn't he want the switch to be studied?" I asked. "We had done everything we 
could for the other souls."
  "Aaron wrote that the whole question of switching was too dangerous, too enticing; he 
was afraid the material would fall into the wrong hands."
  "Of course," I answered, "though in the old days we never had such doubts."
  "But the file was unfinished," she continued. "Aaron felt certain he would see you 
again. He thought that at times he could sense your presence in New Orleans. He found 
himself searching crowds for your new face."
  "God forgive me," I whispered. I almost turned away. I bowed my head and shielded my 
eyes for a long moment. My old friend, my beloved old friend. How could I have abandoned 
him so coldly? Why does shame and self-loathing become cruelty to the innocent? How is 
that so often the case?
  "Go on, please," I said, recovering. "I want you to tell me all these things."
  "Do you want to read them for yourself?"
  "Soon," I answered.
  She continued, her tongue somewhat loosened by the ram, and her voice more melodic, 
with just a little of the old New Orleans French accent coming back.
  "Aaron had seen the Vampire Lestat in your company once. He described the experience as 
harrowing, a word that Aaron rather loved but seldom used. He said it was the night he 
came to identify the old body of David Talbot and to see that it was properly buried. 
There you were, the young man, and the vampire stood beside you. He'd known you were on 
intimate terms with one another, you and this creature. He had been afraid for you as 
much then as ever in his life."
  "What more?" I asked.
  "Later on," she said, her voice low and respectful, "when you disappeared quite 
completely, Aaron was certain that you'd been forcibly changed by Lestat. Nothing short 
of that could explain your sudden break in communication, coupled with the clear 
intelligence from your banks and agents that you were most definitely still alive. Aaron 
missed you desperately. His life had been consumed with the problems of the white 
Mayfairs, the Mayfair Witches. He needed your advice. He wrote many times in many ways 
that he was certain you never asked for the vampiric blood."
  For a long time I couldn't speak to answer her. I didn't weep because I don't. I looked 
off, eyes roaming the empty cafe until they saw nothing, except perhaps the blur of the 
tourists as they crowded the street outside on their way to Jackson Square. I knew 
perfectly well how to be alone in the midst of a terrible moment, no matter where it 
actually occurred. I was alone now.
  Then I let my mind drift back to him, my friend Aaron, my colleague, my companion. I 
seized on memories far larger than any one incident. I envisioned him, his genial face 
and clever gray eyes. I saw him strolling along the brightly lit Ocean Avenue in Miami 
Beach, looking wonderfully out of place and richly like a splendid ornament to the 
bizarre scenery, in his three-piece cotton pinstripe suit.
  I let the pain have me. Murdered for the secrets of the Mayfair Witches. Murdered by 
renegade beings in the Talamasca. Of course he had not given up to the Order his report 
on me. It had been a time of troubles, hadn't it, and he had ultimately been betrayed by 
the Order; and so my story would, within the fabled archives, remain forever incomplete.
  "Was there more?" I asked Merrick finally.
  "No. Only the same song with different rhythms. That was all." She took another drink. 
"He was terribly happy at the end, you know."
  "Tell me."
  "Beatrice Mayfair, he loved her. He never expected to be happily married, but it had 
happened. She was a beautiful highly social woman, rather like three or four people 
rolled into one. He told me he'd never had so much fun in his life as he had with 
Beatrice, and she wasn't a witch, of course."
  "I'm so very glad to hear it," I said, my voice tremulous. "So Aaron became one of 
them, you might say."
  "Yes," she answered. "In all respects."
  She shrugged, the empty glass in her hand. Why she waited to take more, I wasn't 
certain; perhaps to impress me that she wasn't the famous drunk that I knew her to be.
  "But I don't know anything about those white Mayfairs," she said finally. "Aaron always