I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday.

I made my way through the streets of Auvergne to the Marquis’ castle with a handful of other local merchants and my father, a man whom I truly despised for all he had put me through. Over my shoulder, I carried the red velvet cloak, lined in the fur of the wolves that the Marquis’ son had slaughtered just a few days prior. My mother was the one who had skinned the animals and done all of the tedious work of fastening the furs together to make this garment that was so perfect it was nearly too magnificent for a king. Yet I was to hand it over to the young aristocrat whose face I could scarcely remember from our boyhood adventures. The cold rain pounded down upon us as we walked through our small village, saturating me to the very bone. I would arrive to meet this young hero in a total state of disarray.

My father had insisted that I don my finest clothes for this occasion, the latest in Parisian fashion. I wore the most exquisite Italian silk and lace, covered by a rose and gold brocade coat and matching breeches. He even insisted that I wear the damned slippers with the golden heels. Apparently I had to look my very best to meet the village royalty. Ah, but what did I care, really? Fashion rolls in and out like the tide and I simply float along with it oblivious to it’s ever changing nature. It also kept my father happy, a thing which, for the most part I was always unable to do. Besides, my excitement at seeing the brave young man who killed the wolves was enough to make me forget all else. The tales were spreading quickly of how the fearless Lestat de Lioncourt had singlehandedly saved the village from these marauding creatures. I knew well, how such stories could be embellished as they passed from one set of lips to another and the urge to know what really happened was beginning to conquer my every waking thought.

When the servants welcomed us into the castle I was overwhelmed with the antiquity of it all. Everyone in town knew that this household had stood in this very spot for more than a thousand years but the to see the decor of shining suits of armour on their stands and the flails, battle axes and lances mounted on the high stone walls was to be swept back to an era that I only knew of from fairly tales. My mind instantly swam with childhood stories of knights and fire-breathing dragons. There was little time to take in the historic atmosphere before the beautiful Marquise made her graceful way down the staircase followed by the great wolf killer himself. Disdain radiated form his very being. It was quite clear that our visit was unexpected as well as unwelcomed. His golden hair was loose and dishevelled and he wore clothing that looked as if it had been pulled form the nearest beggar on the streets, yet despite this the radiance he exuded was undeniable. The man simply gleamed with some glorious inner light, a thing which so few in this dismal day and age seemed to possess.

I was so taken with his beauty that when he moved closer and bowed I had to struggle to catch the words I had been told to speak lest they escape me entirely. I was terribly nervous. Lestat was not what I had expected at all. I suppose I had been under the assumption that the son of the Marquis would be a little more... debonair. I was surprised with the young man who greeted me, but not the least bit disappointed. I held the cloak out to him with hands that were almost trembling. “Monsieur, we beg you to accept this,” I was shocked at the unsteadiness of my own voice, after all this was my childhood friend not some saint... even if he did have a virtuous glow about him.

I explained to him that the cloak had been made of the finest fur of the wolves he had slaughtered and that it would serve him well on his winter hunts. My father then presented him with the hunting boots that had also been lined with that same soft fur. I envisioned Lestat, riding out on his mare, armed with a flintlock rifle and a sword in his belt, clad in deerskin clothing and these furs to protect his noble flesh from the harsh French winter. I was consumed by an overwhelming urge to drop all the riches that I would someday inherit and join him on the hunt. It wasn’t as though such a thing could possibly entice my fathers wrath more than I already had when I gave up my studies for love of the violin.

“Now he will really be impossible!” A scornful voice from a shorter blond lurking in the shadows of the staircase. I could only guess that this was one of his brothers. Who was he to say such things? I had yet to see him save the village from impending doom.

Lestat’s face flushed at his brothers uncalled for remark. The rosy hue of his cheeks only served to make him all the more vibrant. “I too am impossible, Monsieur,” I whispered as he leaned in to grace my both my cheeks with the customary parting kiss. It seemed we lingered there for just a moment too long, as though something unsaid had passed between us, before I finally pulled away and continued quietly, “Only the impossible can do the impossible.” I was adamant that I must speak with him again. I wanted him to share every glorious detail of how he killed the wolves. I couldn’t help but smile as he laughed out loud at my remark. The sound of it was like music to my ears. My father cleared his throat from somewhere behind me. I was quite certain that I was in for a tongue lashing when we returned home, if not more than that, but none of it mattered now. The only thing on my mind was Lestat de Lioncourt and when I might see him again.