Jason was quiet for a long time, leading the way through recreations of Quaker homes, homes from the Revolutionary War, every major trend in interiors from when white men landed on the shores of what became the United states until the present. Rich brocades and pale damasks filled rooms, making his fingertips itch to sink themselves into the tempting textures. He always had been a hedonist.
He took a moment, gathering his thoughts, the icy chill of his demeanor, around his shoulders like a cloak, a thick shield pulled tightly into place. Pausing in an empty room, he realized he'd force Kurt through the rooms too fast, now they were in the ill-light European decorative arts spaces of the Wrightsman Galleries, dolled up in Louis chairs and elaborately carved and painted furniture, velvet draping things from ceiling to floor.
Standing in a small corner, overlooking opulence like Kurt had undoubtedly never seen. Without drawing his eyes away from the shimmering fake fire in the mantle, he spoke in hushed whispers. "When I was last conscious, I was well over eighty and dying of an insidious disease that had no cure." Sucking his breath silently through his hooked, slender nose, he continued. "I wake up here. Younger. Vital."