conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about w:LsdException, Locked="false, Priority with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Science Fiction & Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Eternal Ones'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first three paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Eternal Ones
  HE LED HAVEN through the streets, steering her out of the path of killer Vespas and transporting her over more than one mammoth mud puddle. At last they arrived at a clearing, a square so small it was little more than a bulge in the road. Yet it was packed with antique vendors, their stands overflowing and mingling at the edges. Brass clocks and doorknobs and delicate glass ornaments sat side by side, each item a treasure just waiting for the right person to notice it.
  The image showed a young man and woman lying together in a springtime meadow. Tall grass rose all around them, nearly hiding the couple from view. The trees that bordered the field were in full bloom. Birds soared overhead, and brightly colored flowers dotted the landscape. The white columns of a temple could be seen in the distance. Haven's finger traced the rough right edge of the page. Part of the picture had been torn away. A dark blur—a smudge or the tip of a storm cloud—was creeping into the image from the missing half.
  Haven woke up alone for the second morning in a row. By the time she'd showered and dressed, Iain still hadn't returned. She ate her breakfast on the balcony and watched the cafés below begin to open. With a strong, hot coffee in her hands and the sun inching its way up her legs, she looked across the rooftops at the city she might soon call home. This was her reward for a whole decade of difficulty. She'd lived through the cruel jokes, the sneers, and the loneliness. But now that was all in the past, and Snope City was an ocean away. She had found her way back to the fountain in the piazza—and to the person she had loved for two thousand years. This, Haven thought, was where the visions had been leading her. This was what Constance had wanted all along.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At first Iain refused to look at her. "I don't recall saying I wasn't. You knew I was a member. I never hid it from you."
  It was true, she had to admit. "I saw the list of girls in your account. How long have you been hiring prostitutes?"
  Iain turned to face her. With his chin up and arms crossed, he looked ready to withstand all assaults on his character. "I was waiting for you. But I had to keep up appearances, and for that I needed dates for the parties I went to. I didn't want to take anyone who might think I was actually interested. So I hired models as escorts. It worked out rather well until now, I'd say."
  Haven was beginning to feel foolish. She'd never imagined there could be an innocent explanation for what she'd seen. Still, she refused to stop. "What about Marta? What happened to her?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "I don't recall saying I wasn't. You knew I was a member. I never hid it from you."
  It was true, she had to admit. "I saw the list of girls in your account. How long have you been hiring prostitutes?"
  Iain turned to face her. With his chin up and arms crossed, he looked ready to withstand all assaults on his character. "I was waiting for you. But I had to keep up appearances, and for that I needed dates for the parties I went to. I didn't want to take anyone who might think I was actually interested. So I hired models as escorts. It worked out rather well until now, I'd say."
  Haven was beginning to feel foolish. She'd never imagined there could be an innocent explanation for what she'd seen. Still, she refused to stop. "What about Marta? What happened to her?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They hadn't spoken of Constance or Ethan since the day Iain had materialized at Eden Falls. Nor had they discussed any of their other lives. With the past behind them, there was nothing left to haunt their relationship. Everyone believed Iain Morrow was dead—and by all rights he should have been. If he had been two feet to the left when the roof of the mews house collapsed, it would have crushed him rather than providing him with a means of escape.
  Iain couldn't make contact with Haven while she remained in New York. The Society might have been watching, and the police still considered him the lead suspect in the death of Jeremy Johns. So he hid out in Mexico with Marta Vega before helping her get settled in Paris. At last, using funds he'd carefully stashed away some years before, he traveled to Snope City, where the first person to greet him had been an unusual girl with red hair. She told him she'd known he was coming.
  Marta was now living drug-free in an apartment not far from the Louvre. But being clean and sober hadn't brought much cheer to Marta's art. Her housewarming present to Iain had been another dark and twisted work that showed two people surrounded by an angry mob. As always, a tiny figure in black stood watching from a distance. Iain kept the painting in a closet in the hallway.
  Neither Iain nor Haven had uttered the name of the man in black for months. Haven focused on her designs, while Iain played dead. Beau called regularly from Vanderbilt, but there had been next to no news of Adam Rosier or Padma Singh. In the best moments, it felt as if they were both gone for good.
  When Iain stepped inside the apartment, the wind caught the paper he'd left on the balcony. It whipped the pages apart and sent them flying in every direction. Haven gathered as many as she could, crumpling them to her chest. The front page fluttered off the balcony before she could reach it. She watched it drift down to the cobblestones, where it landed at the feet of a figure strolling through the Piazza Navona. Tall, trim, and dressed in black, the man quickly passed below the balcony. Just as he turned down the Via Giustiniani, he stopped in a shadow and smiled up at Haven. It was growing dark, and the young man's features were blurry. But Haven couldn't quite shake the feeling that she'd seen him before.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They hadn't spoken of Constance or Ethan since the day Iain had materialized at Eden Falls. Nor had they discussed any of their other lives. With the past behind them, there was nothing left to haunt their relationship. Everyone believed Iain Morrow was dead—and by all rights he should have been. If he had been two feet to the left when the roof of the mews house collapsed, it would have crushed him rather than providing him with a means of escape.
  Iain couldn't make contact with Haven while she remained in New York. The Society might have been watching, and the police still considered him the lead suspect in the death of Jeremy Johns. So he hid out in Mexico with Marta Vega before helping her get settled in Paris. At last, using funds he'd carefully stashed away some years before, he traveled to Snope City, where the first person to greet him had been an unusual girl with red hair. She told him she'd known he was coming.
  Marta was now living drug-free in an apartment not far from the Louvre. But being clean and sober hadn't brought much cheer to Marta's art. Her housewarming present to Iain had been another dark and twisted work that showed two people surrounded by an angry mob. As always, a tiny figure in black stood watching from a distance. Iain kept the painting in a closet in the hallway.
  Neither Iain nor Haven had uttered the name of the man in black for months. Haven focused on her designs, while Iain played dead. Beau called regularly from Vanderbilt, but there had been next to no news of Adam Rosier or Padma Singh. In the best moments, it felt as if they were both gone for good.
  When Iain stepped inside the apartment, the wind caught the paper he'd left on the balcony. It whipped the pages apart and sent them flying in every direction. Haven gathered as many as she could, crumpling them to her chest. The front page fluttered off the balcony before she could reach it. She watched it drift down to the cobblestones, where it landed at the feet of a figure strolling through the Piazza Navona. Tall, trim, and dressed in black, the man quickly passed below the balcony. Just as he turned down the Via Giustiniani, he stopped in a shadow and smiled up at Haven. It was growing dark, and the young man's features were blurry.