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n for the night's cheerful gatherings； mysterious mistress of her own house。
Indeed； I saw another great drawing room adjacent to this one； and beyond it a marvelously decorated bedroom with a bed made of golden swans and gold…threaded silk。
Why this display if not to tell everyone that in that bed； this woman slept alone？ No one was ever to presume to cross that threshold； but all might see where the maiden retired of her own accord。
〃Why do you stare at me？〃 she asked me。 〃Why do you look about yourself as if this is a strange place to you when surely it's not？ 〃
〃All of Venice is lovely to me；〃 I answered； making my voice soft and confidential so that it would not be for the whole room。
〃Yes； isn't it？〃 she said； smiling exquisitely。 〃I too love it。 I'll never return to Florence。 But will you paint a picture of me？〃
〃Perhaps I will；〃 I answered。 〃I don't know your name。〃
〃You're not serious；〃 she said； smiling again。 I realized suddenly how very worldly she was。 〃You didn't e here not knowing my name。 How could you want me to believe such a thing？〃
〃Oh； but I don't know it；〃 I said； because I had never asked her name； and had learnt of her through vague images and impressions and fragments of conversation overheard by me as a blood drinker； and I stood at a loss because I wouldn't read her mind。
〃Bianca；〃 she said。 〃And my rooms are always open to you。 And if you paint my picture； I'll be in your debt。〃
There were more guests ing。 I knew that she meant to receive them。 I backed away from her and took a station； so to speak； in the shadows well away from the candles； and from there I watched her； watched her infallibly graceful movements and heard her clever； ringing voice。
Over the years； I had beheld a thousand mortals who meant nothing to me； and now； gazing at this one creature I felt my heart tripping as it had when I had entered Botticelli's workshop； when I had seen his paintings and seen him； Botticelli； the man。 Oh； yes； the man。
I stayed in her rooms only for a short time that night。
But I returned within the week with a portrait of her。 I had painted it on a small panel and had it framed with gold and jewels。
I saw her shock when she received it。 She had not expected something so exact。 But then I feared she might see something wrong。
When she looked at me； I felt her gratitude and her affection and something greater collecting inside her； an emotion she denied in dealing with others。
〃Who are you 。。。 really？〃 she asked me in a soft； lilting whisper。
〃Who are you 。。。 really？〃 I repeated； and I smiled。
She looked at me gravely。 Then she smiled too but she didn't answer； and all her secrets folded inside her…the sordid things； things to do with blood and gold。
For a moment； I thought my powerful self…control would be lost。 I would embrace her； whether or not she would have it； and take her rapidly by force from the very middle of her warm and safe rooms to the cold and fatal domain of my soul。
I saw her； positively saw her as if the Christian Satan were giving me visions once more…I saw her transformed by the Dark Blood。 I saw her as if she were mine； and all her youth burnt out in sacrifice to immortality； and the only warmth or riches known to her those which came from me。
I left her rooms。 I couldn't remain there。 For nights； no； months I did not return。 In that time a letter came to me from her。 I was quite astonished to receive it and I read it over and over and then put it in a pocket inside my tunic next to my heart。
My dear Marius；
Why leave me with only a brilliant painting when I would have your panionship as well？ We are always seeking for amusement here； and there is much kind talk of you。 Do e back to me。 Your painting occupies a position of honor on the wall of my salon so that I might share the pleasure of it with all who e。
How had this happened； this craving to make a mortal my panion？
After so many centuries； what had I done to bring it on？
I had thought that； with Botticelli； it had to do with his remarkable talent； and that I； with eyes so sharp and heart so hungry； had wanted to mingle the Blood with his inexplicable gift。
But this child； Bianca； was no such seeming miracle； no matter how precious I found her to be。 Oh； yes； she was to my taste as if I'd made her…the daughter of Pandora…it was as if Botticelli had created her； even to the somewhat dreamy expression of her face。 And she did have a seemingly impossible mingling of fire and poise。
But I had in my long miserable years seen many beautiful humans； rich and poor； younger and older； and I had not felt this sharp； near uncontrollable desire to bring her to me； to take her to the shrine with me； to spill out to her whatever wisdom I possessed。
What was I to do with this pain？ How should I be rid of it？ How long would it torment me right here in the city of Venice where I had chosen to seek fort from mortals and give back to the world in secret payment my blessed and well…educated boys？
On rising； I found myself shaking loose light dreams of Bianca； dreams in which she and I were sitting in my bedroom and talking together as I told her of all the long lonely paths I'd trod； talking together as she told me of how she had drawn from mon and filthy pain her immeasurable strength。
Even as I attended the feast with my students I couldn't shake off these dreams。 They broke in on me as if I were falling asleep over the wine and meats。 The boys vied for my attention。 They thought they had failed the Master。
When I went to my rooms to paint； I was equally confused。 I painted a large picture of Bianca as the Virgin Mary with a chubby Infant Jesus。 I laid down the brushes。 I wasn't content。 I couldn't be content。
I went out of Venice into the countryside。 I searched for the Evil Doer。 I drank blood until I was glutted。 And then I returned to my rooms； and I lay down on my bed and I dreamt of Bianca again。
At last before dawn I wrote my admonitions down in my diary：
This desire to make an immortal panion is no more justified here than it was in Florence。 You have survived all your long life without ever taking this evil step； though you know well how to do it…the Druid priest taught you how to do it…and not doing it； you will continue to survive。 You cannot bring over this child to you； no matter how you envision it。 Imagine her to be a statue。 Imagine your evil to be a force that would shatter that statue。 See her then in fragments。 Know that that is what you would do。
I went back to her rooms。
It was as if I'd never seen her before； so great was her impression upon me； so soft and pelling her voice； so radiant her face and her worldly eyes。 It was an agony and also an immeasurable consolation to be near her。
For months I came to her rooms； pretending to listen to the poems recited； sometimes forced to answer in the gentle discussions regarding the theories of aesthetics or philosophy； but all the while simply wanting to be near her； studying the minutia of her beauty； closing my eyes now and then as I listened to the song of her voice。
Visitors came