Molloy's handwriting is a jagged, but not as bad as it was; he's able to keep things on an even line. Standard pleasantries, and where his snipe at previous editors is crossed out, Armand is written. This copy is for him and him alone.

The rest— fragments of a poem by Rumi, all of which are on the rambling, stream-of-consciousness side of lyrical. It's about transformation, it's about the point of it all, it's about pointlessness. In the end (that Daniel doesn't transcribe, it's a long poem and he doesn't have the whole thing committed to memory so preciasely), it turns sexual. But it's a Rumi poem. They all do.

—In my head?

A funny half-startle for the last person in line to get a book signed. It takes him a second to realize Armand is doing something and not speaking to him telepathically. Daniel gets through everything graciously, though there are bare minutes left. He doesn't know what his maker (!) has done, exactly, but he puzzles it out while he says thanks and shakes some hands and talks to his assistant about anything they need to pack up.

"Maybe."

Just a word. Trying it out. Vampire tricks, throwing voices, finding one person in a crowd from a distance, even if it's just the awareness of them and not their mind.