Page 147 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

“You leaned away from this loaf. That’s how I nearly figured out you were a vampire in the first place.”

“I remember the occasion.”

“How did you make it?”

“Badly.”

I laugh harder.

“Nine times,” says the hall.

I stop. “Nine?”

“Bess tasted them.”

“Bess?”

“Mrs. Libby found a church cookbook from 1974 containing a recipe attributed to Ada Harrington. I made it. Bess informed me that it was wrong.”

“How was it wrong?”

“She didn’t know.”

“So you made it again.”

“Yes.”

“Nine times.”

“The ninth was acceptable.”

“Acceptable according to Bess?”

“Yes.”

“That’s basically a Michelin star.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

I tear off a piece and taste it, and for the second time tonight, the room disappears. It’s Gran’s. Not because the recipe is exact. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe memory has moved it around in four years. But the crust is right and the butter is right and the garlic is absolutely unreasonable, and I am seventeen and stealing the end piece before dinner while Gran tells me I’ll spoil my appetite.

I close my eyes. When I open them, Julian is still in the hall.

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Julian.”

“I love you very much and I am not coming into that room until you have removed the bread.”

I laugh so hard I have to put it down. “Fine.”

I wrap it up and carry it into the kitchen, where I put it in a cupboard and shut the door. When I come back, Julian is leaning against the wall beside the stairs with his hands behind his back. I put my arms around him, and he holds me.

“How many people know about this?”

He considers the question. “Define know.”