It's more difficult for Armand to throw himself carelessly into the mix of the party. The youthful indulgence isn't particularly interesting and the boundaries of the house remain a cage no matter how far he travels. Finding himself awaking, again, in a welter of blood-spotted sheets and aching mortal self-disgust, he abandons his attempts to escape and resigns himself to waiting for an opportunity.

He can, at least, be about in the day, though spending too long in the sunlight drains his reserves and leaves him scalded about the edges. But it has the advantage of making it easier to blend in with the mortals in the manor house. And it allows him to watch Daniel, lounging in doorways and hovering on the stairs, making patient eye contact whenever Daniel happens to glance in his direction.

Armand knows how to wait for what he wants.

In the mornings, just after dawn, when the bite of hunger strikes hardest and the grounds are deserted, he swims, measuring his compressed fraction of time in lengths and turns and breaths between strokes. He becomes aware of Daniel's arrival at one end of the pool, but doesn't let him stop him, allowing his next set of laps to carry him towards the journalist.

Arriving at his end of the pool, he fetches up against the wall and pauses, treading water, clearing his eyes with a swipe of his hand.

"Good morning, Mr Molloy," he says, reaching up to set his hands on the edge of the pool so he can lift himself out, clad in small tight briefs that leave little to the imagination, water streaming off his body. With a singular lack of self consciousness, he crosses to a nearby sun lounger and picks up a towel, rubbing it over his face before he looks at Daniel again.

"Are you here to swim?"