He stopped right in front of her and slowly lifted a hand up to her face. First gently touching her cheek with the back of his fingers, he then moved them toward the hairline near her ear.

Reine felt as though she was in a dream. Her pulse raced, and her skin was on fire along the path where his cool fingers had traveled. Unable to move or speak, she kept her eyes fixed on his, but he still hadn't met her gaze in return.

Instead, his hazel eyes followed his fingers entwine in a lock of wavy, auburn hair at her neck. He seemed deep in thought, and among the myriad of things running through her head, Reine wondered - since she herself was unable to find the right words - if perhaps he was also contemplating an appropriate greeting.

"I'm not too keen on the color," he matter-of-factly stated in a deep, masculine voice sending her thoughts into a whirl. "But you do look great for someone your age."

She could feel her brows draw together in disbelief at his lame attempt at humor under the circumstances. These were definitely not the words she would've expected anyone to say, but more importantly, there was something off in their tone.

"Perdonami amore mio." As if sensing her discomfort, he apologetically switched to Italian. Reine couldn't tell whether he was referring to the bad joke or the language in which he made it, but at least she knew what she initially found odd. It was somehow more natural to hear him speak in what seemed to be his native tongue.

Regaining her own voice, she blurted out her unfiltered feelings while concurrently fearing the response. "I feel like I should know you. Or that somehow I already do."

He smiled. "You certainly do, my darling. My name is Massimo Baldovini."

The name sounded familiar. Baldovini. Was it what the woman at the airport mentioned? When she didn't respond, he continued. "Surely you know the name of your husband?"

Reine shook her head. Her husband? She was certain she wasn't married. None of this was making any sense.

Putting one arm around her waist, he led her toward the back of the room. Several other people were already seated at the long table that was now on the platform. Taking their places at the center, she had a clear view of everything and everyone, but Reine was only interested in hearing more of this man's explanation.

"You're . . . you're my husband?" she asked in disbelief, her weak voice barely audible above the crowd's murmur.

"I know that we've been separated for quite a while and memory loss is natural, but I had hoped you'd at least know my name. Although I haven't gone by Massimo for years. You can call me Max."

His introduction was extremely laid-back for the situation, making Reine absent-mindedly stare off into the distance. It was just too much information to process.

"I'm sorry. I realize that you must be quite tired." Max noticed her pause.

She nodded and turned toward him. "Why can't I remember you? You said memory loss is natural? Natural for what?"

He smiled. "You must know it's what happens to our kind, amore mio."

She felt stupid for asking so many questions, but she had to know. "Our kind?"

"You really are tired, aren't you?" He looked at her quizzically. "Yes, those of us who cannot be hurt or die. Not permanently, of course, but when we do, we awaken without our memories. That's why you don't remember that you were born in Florence on January 1, 1475. Or that you took your last mortal breath twenty-three years later. But as you can see, you are still here. Don't worry, darling. Everyone in this room is the same. We all have the ability to live forever." He gestured at the people sitting at the tables below.

It was fortuitous she was sitting, because otherwise Reine was sure she would have collapsed. Quickly doing the math, she realized that if Max was being truthful, she was over five hundred and thirty years old.

Was he serious or was this an elaborate prank? Or perhaps it was something else? Feigning nonchalance, Reine played along to see where it all led.

As if to answer her unasked question, a stream of waiters with champagne laden trays entered. Making their way through the tables, they distributed glasses to everyone. When they finished, Max rose from his seat, and the room went silent.

"I never dared to hope that the woman I'd loved and lost so long ago would one day be returned to me. Thank you all for being here and sharing this wonderful moment with us." He raised his glass in a toast. "Now that we have been reunited, I promise we will not be parted again. To my wife. Welcome home. Salute!"

"Salute!" The guests echoed, lifting their glasses in unison and drinking their contents.

"What was that about? 'We won't be parted again?' I don't even know you," Reine fumed when Max sat back down.

"Can you just humor me for a bit? I promise I'll explain everything later," he whispered, touching her hand before she snatched it away.

Shaking her head, Reine didn't get a chance to object before the guests began to divert his attention. Sometimes one-by-one and at other times in groups, they approached their host for obligatory chit-chat. They greeted her, as well, but the sight of one stranger after another unnerved her and made her feel like an outsider among a group of long-time friends.

The man who called himself her husband was another matter. Technically, he was just as much a stranger to Reine as the others. For some reason, though, he intrigued her. There was an inexplicable familiarity to his mannerisms and even his voice, and she wished he'd spend more time talking with her. There were so many things she wanted to know, but it seemed like he was going out of his way not to have to answer them.

Meanwhile, the ever-present waiters kept bringing more trays - now filled with food, as well as drinks - to their table and to the others spread around the grand room. She had no appetite because the nagging headache had returned. Instead, Reine picked sparingly at the food and ended up mostly just drinking instead. This turned out to be an unwise alternative, seeing as Max's drink of choice was red wine, which was constantly replenished. Other than that, she had no other real option but to people-watch.

"I see you've been tryin' to figure out what to make of our colorful selection of guests." A cheerful voice made her jump in her seat.

The young woman slid into the empty chair next to her, catching Reine off guard. Since arriving at the mansion, no one besides Max had addressed her so directly, and she had already given up hope of the chance for a normal conversation during the party. She was momentarily stumped for an appropriate reply.

"Don't ya worry, most are harmless," the girl continued.

Reine still didn't know how to respond and instead stared at her cat-like green eyes and straight red hair, which reminded her of Catherine of Aragon. Luckily, this didn't seem to bother her companion, and she continued to chat merrily.

"Let's see, there may be a couple of people here who ya'd recognize," the young woman added in her smooth, Irish brogue, already scanning the crowd. "Ah, yes. There's J.S. Bach." She discreetly pointed toward a stylishly dressed man in his mid-sixties with cropped, gray hair, surrounded by a small group who were hanging on his every word.

"He's a music producer in New York City now. And where's that lad-"

"Now, hold on. Do you mean J.S. as in Johann Sebastian?" Reine cut her off, trying to reconcile the figure of the man barely twenty feet away with the genius composer she had presumed history had buried - not figuratively, of course and perhaps not even literally, either - a quarter of a millennium earlier.

"He goes by Joey nowadays, so don't even try to call him Johann or he'll go feckin' nuts." The young woman laughed before darting her eyes around the dark room again. She soon found who she'd been looking for. "Anyway, that young fella over there is Aleksej Romanov. It's quite ironic how for the past century, people have thought it was his sis who survived the family's massacre. All the while, the little runt is the one who's still with us."

The gangly, tousled haired teen was conversing with a woman who looked to be much older. He nervously dabbed a tissue at his bloody nose, while awkwardly nodding at her story.

As her tired brain processed these extraordinary revelations, Reine briefly speculated how different twentieth century history would have been if everyone knew the heir to the Russian empire had lived. With the right support, only a few years of rule by Tsar Alexander IV may have avoided wars and perhaps saved millions of lives.

The red haired girl once again filled the silence; it was apparently her habit. "I think that's all the big names we have here tonight. We're lucky to have two, actually. They don't usually like to mingle."

"Really? Why not?" Starting to entertain the idea that maybe all of this was really possible, she wanted to get as much information out of someone who at least was willing to talk.

"The celebrities usually have a harder time adjusting than the rest of us. Once you've tasted fame and glory, it's quite hard to return to the anonymity necessary to maintain our secret."

Conceptually, Reine could understand the dilemma, but she didn't have much time to dwell on it before her companion continued.

"Anyway, I don't know everyone here either. I can tell you, though, that Mrs. Livingston standing over there by the dessert table is a chronic hypochondriac who blames all of her imaginary ailments on carbs while not-so subtly sneaking 'em anyway." The portly woman wiped her forehead with a silk handkerchief in one hand, while holding a plateful of various sweets in the other. Reine giggled out loud at the sight, which seemed to encourage the narration.

"Jacque Pierpont is that well-dressed Casanova scoping out the room from the edge of the entryway. He calls himself a master illusionist, but he's really just a petty gouger." She paused for a second to find her next target. Eventually, she pointed to a statuesque, dark haired beauty in all black.

"And see that woman over there? That's Syl, and she's a real witch."

"Morgan!" thundered an angry voice next to them.

"No, you misheard me." She backtracked, but the look on Max's face showed his displeasure. He had been engrossed in a discussion with a short, balding man before suddenly turning his attention to them at the mere mention of the woman in question.

"Sorry, Uncle Max." Morgan didn't seem to fear his mood, but to Reine's surprise, he replied with a laugh. The girl's casualness seemed to actually placate him.

"You know I told you not to call me that. It's creepy. You're centuries older than I am."

Morgan winked. "True, but you'll always look older than me."

As Max turned back to resuming his previous conversation, Morgan returned her attention to Reine. "Anyway, welcome to our home."

"You live here, too?"

"Yup. There are a couple of us who've been more or less permanent residents of 'casa de Max' for years now. Besides me, there's Mikey who's trying to woo those two novices over there." She indicated to a teenage boy with long dreadlocks and wearing some sort of odd mask.

"Dodger's the bloke in the Plague Doctor's get-up sulking in the corner on that side, and Kenzi is right over here." She finished, gesturing to the place down the table next to where she was initially sitting.

The young Asian girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen politely waved in their direction. Reine returned the greeting with a smile.

She liked Morgan already. The girl could be a great asset to finding out more about the - so far - elusive Max Baldovini and his merry band of immortals. She smiled, realizing that she was actually starting to believe the absurdity and finished her drink. "It's a pretty big place for just five people."

"There are a few others. Although I'm not sure about what will happen now with . . . ," she said without finishing. Max had turned around again to silently signal an end to their conversation. He was still obviously listening to every word, censoring when necessary.

This time, however, Morgan didn't make any jokes. Instead, she returned to her seat next to Kenzi, leaving Reine to her own thoughts and more glasses of red wine.

She couldn't tell how much time had passed, but the flow of people to their table had now almost ended, so she decided she could no longer wait for the room to stop spinning to take care of some urgent business.

"Where's the ladies' room?" she whispered to Max, trying to keep the fact that she had a hard time focusing her eyes unnoticed.

He looked at her and grinned. "Let me get someone to go with you, okay?"

She avoided looking him in the eyes, knowing her state of inebriation was obviously a badly kept secret. "Sure."

"I'll take 'er." Morgan volunteered after overhearing their brief exchange.

"No, you can stay here." He hadn't forgotten her earlier unwanted slip. Looking past her, he emphatically motioned to Kenzi instead. She immediately walked over.

"Don't be gone too long," Max said, politely pulling Reine's chair out from under her.

Trying to keep her balance, she wondered how this girl knew where she needed to go. She didn't even hear Max say anything to her. Maybe in addition to being really rich, popular and invincible, he was a mind reader, too. She giggled at her own juvenile thinking while they walked toward the restroom.

"Being the rich, telepathic immortal's wife has its perks." Her humor didn't seem to impress Kenzi because the girl didn't respond. It was probably be better if she stopped saying anything else before she said something really stupid.

When she was done, Kenzi was still waiting for her by the door.

"You didn't have to stick around. I would've found my way back." Hopefully she wasn't making first impressions on this nice girl as a bumbling drunk.

Kenzi gestured with her hands in reply, and the blood rushed to Reine's face with embarrassment at not catching on earlier.

"I'm sorry, but I can't read sign language. Do you read lips?" So that's how Max instructed her about where to go. He was signing when she thought he was just waving her over.

The young girl politely nodded and Reine smiled. "Good. We can go."

She followed her companion back to the party, wondering why Max chose a hearing impaired young woman to be her escort. After Morgan's more than willingness to share information about the group, did he not want her to ask any questions which he wasn't ready yet to answer himself? It was possible, because they've been together now for several hours and she still didn't know what his intentions were or how he found her. And she had so many more questions.

Balling her hand into a fist, Reine gradually worked herself up about knowing so little. When they returned to the ballroom, however, Max's chair stood empty.

Scanning the crowded tables, she soon saw his unmistakable figure. Still dressed in his costume from the play, he was sitting next to the woman in black Morgan had pointed out earlier. Not only that, he was also laughing at something she was saying. And worse yet, when Reine focused her attention on the couple, she could also clearly hear the flirtatious words from thirty feet away.

Her breathing accelerated and she forgot her annoyance with Max. Instead, she realigned her anger toward the woman she only knew as Syl. Morgan's obvious disdain for her was nothing compared to what Reine already felt for the woman she hadn't even met.

On the surface, Syl reminded her of the antagonist in a fairy tale. Perhaps of an evil stepmother or a wicked queen. Her straight, black, shoulder length hair glistened even in the dimmed lights, while her dark lipstick accentuated her large mouth. In spite of looking more mature than her companion, her tan skin was still smooth, making her age hard to tell. Although she definitely wasn't a conventional beauty, she was still somehow attractive. Perhaps it came from the confidence with which she carried herself or the fact that with her perfectly shaped, lanky body, she physically complemented Max.

An unexpected jealousy rose inside her and without thinking, Reine stepped up to the couple. Kenzi, who had been following closely behind, remained a few feet away.

She addressed Max at normal volume, but she was sure that even above the dozens of other conversations, anyone in the room who wished to follow their exchange would clearly hear what she was saying.

"I want to go to bed." She used the double entendre deliberately. If, in fact, he was telling the truth about everything, she wasn't about to watch him cavort with another woman. He brought her here, and she deserved more respect and attention.

Luckily, her blunt statement worked.

Max hadn't seen her approach, but after hearing her words, he immediately stepped to her side. Reine felt great pleasure at watching the other woman's face turn red with humiliation - or perhaps anger - as he left her.

"Let's go." He grabbed Reine's elbow and ushered her out of the ballroom. Releasing her as soon as they were out of sight, he silently led the way up the grand staircase. By the time they reached the top, Reine's curiosity was getting the better of her and she had to ask what was on her mind.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"You mean Sylvana?" He didn't look at her, but instead turned left down a lavishly decorated hallway.

Now that she had a whole name to put with the person, Reine hated the woman even more. She asked the next question already guessing the answer, but she did it anyway to gauge Max's reaction.

"Does she live here, too?"

He didn't respond, so she pressed on. "What's her story?"

Max stopped and turned to face her. "She's of no consequence, darling," he said.

But Reine couldn't let it go. "But you were talking with her."

"It's a party. Everybody was talking. I would think you'd be more interested in details that personally affect you. I do promise that I will tell you everything. But that's enough for tonight."

For some reason, Reine was sure that knowing about Sylvana did personally affect her. Max, however, had already resumed leading the way, and he was already several steps ahead of her in the long hallway. She had no choice, but to follow.