Eric’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

“But,” I added, “she was pregnant, that’s the thing, and the baby was my brother’s.”

“Pregnant women were worth twice as much if they were killed in my time,” Eric said.

He’d never volunteered much information about his life before he’d been turned. “What do you mean, worth?” I asked.

“In war, or with foreigners, we could kill whom we pleased,” he said. “But in disputes between our own people, we had to pay silver when we killed one of our own.” He looked like he was dredging up the memory with an effort. “If the person killed was a woman with child, the price was double.”

“How old were you when you got married? Did you have children?” I knew Eric had been married, but I didn’t know anything else about his life.

“I was counted a man at twelve,” he said. “I married at sixteen. My wife’s name was Aude. Aude had . . . we had . . . six children.”

I held my breath. I could tell he was looking down the immense swell of time that had passed between his present—a bar in Shreveport, Louisiana—and his past—a woman dead for a thousand years.

“Did they live?” I asked very quietly.

“Three lived,” he said, and he smiled. “Two boys and a girl. Two died at birth. And with the sixth child, Aude died, too.”

“Of what?”

He shrugged. “She and the baby caught a fever. I suppose it was from some sort of an infection. Then, if people got sick, they mostly died. Aude and the baby perished within hours of each other. I buried them in a beautiful tomb,” he said proudly. “My wife had her best broach on her dress, and I laid the baby on her breast.”

He had never sounded less like a modern man. “How old were you?”

He considered. “I was in my early twenties,” he said. “Perhaps twenty-three. Aude was older. She had been my elder brother’s wife, and when he was killed in battle, it fell to me to marry her so our families would still be bonded. But I’d always liked her, and she was willing. She wasn’t a silly girl; she’d lost two babies of my brother’s, and she was glad to have more that lived.”