“What was that?” “Vathek,” he said again. “By William Beckford. If you found Otranto to your liking”—though, she thought, she had not admitted she did—“I think you will enjoy it.” “Oh,” she said. “Well. Thank you. I will remember that.” He did not answer; he was still standing where she had left him, near the table. He was looking at the ground, his dark hair hiding his face. A little bit of her heart softened, and before she could stop herself, she said, “And good night, Will.” He looked up. “Good night, Tessa.” He sounded wistful again, but not as bleak as he had before.
