He's as mercurial as ever, Mina thinks, surprised by the rapid switch from near-petulance to seductive. She arches into his hands, shifting gently, the better to allow him unobstructed access. She can't help but feel horribly old fashioned and fusty in her corselet as he runs his hands over it, imagining his modern lover in the brief, primary-coloured scraps of polyester that pass for underwear nowadays.

"What dream is that, my love?"

It's his voice. It's almost always his voice that drives her absolutely wild. Always was his voice that coaxed her into naughty, forbidden sorts of behaviors that she would, of course, enjoy for all that even thinking about them to this day made her blush.