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And yet, he seemed to. And then he confirmed it, by taking the cover off of a plate of pig’s knuckles in sauerkraut, so pungent that they made my mouth instantly water; and then another of some type of soup served with crusty bread and butter; and a third of what smelled like plum dumplings.

“The merchant who owns this house is German, I believe,” he said, surveying the lavish meal. “I am told his cook’s Galuste cu Prune are very fine. I am just afraid they may become cold if we stand here much longer.”

I stared up at him, and for a moment, I believed. “Are we married?” I asked, my voice strangely tenuous.

“I have already said so.”

“And you don’t lie.”

“I have been told by an authority on the subject that I am very bad at it.”

“Terrible. Truly.”

For some reason, he smiled and it lit his whole face. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant as one.”

“I will take it nonetheless.”

“A vampire should know how to lie better than you,” I told him, suddenly angry, although I wasn’t sure why.

“I have never felt the need.”

“That may change someday!”

“I do not think so.”

“And why is that?”

He smiled again, opening a door at the top of the stairs when I hadn’t even realized we’d resumed climbing. “I have someone to do it for me.”

And then we were through the opening, and into an expansive room that wasn’t a true terrace, but gave the impression of one. It was enclosed by a series of large open windows on two sides overlooking a square below, with a long series of shutters that could be latched against the wind. And rain, and snow, and sleet, because that was Târgoviste down there, completely familiar despite my never having been there.

Only I had. The pain suddenly lancing through my abused head told me that much. It was worse than usual, almost blinding, possibly because I wasn’t just thinking about my past; I was in it.

There was a different touch on my forehead after a moment, sliding down to my cheek. I vaguely realized that I’d gone down to one knee and struggled to get back up. And before I could rise, the pain was gone.

One type of it, anyway.

I looked up into liquid dark eyes and wished for it back. It had been a distraction, and there was none now. “You did that,” I said to Mircea. “You took my memories.”

“Yes.”

I searched his face, looking for signs of . . . something. I didn’t know. But found only the usual spare perfection.

And suddenly, all of the things I had thought to say at this moment, the hundreds of conversations I’d played out in my mind when I was younger in case he ever came back, the anger, the questions, the pain—

Didn’t matter.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said, turned around and walked out.

* * *

I didn’t remember starting to run, or much of anything else until I collapsed under a tree in a wood somewhere, panting and covered in sweat, with my heart pounding in my ears. Hugging the trunk, I tried to catch a breath, but found that I could not. I thought about being sick, but couldn’t seem to do that, either.

I stared around, panicked and very unused to this. Rarely did I become so overwhelmed, having more than a century of experience dealing with all sorts of dangers to call on. But when I did, my usual response was to black out—or to red out, since my consciousness usually washed away on a tide of fury.

But not today. Today I just felt bereft. It turned out that having an absent father that my imagination could dream up all sorts of stories about, and make endless excuses for, was very different than . . . this.