When Bill stands to leave, she cautions him three times: "Nonsense. Sookie's not in any trouble, you would know it." He whines. "Spend the day, and leave tomorrow night." He whines, and she finally cuts him dead: "I insist?" His clueless ass sits down, finally, and she asks him to compliment her new dayroom -- shells and waves and water, just like the rest of her house, but with sunlight and the sound of the ocean as well -- and so he does.
"It's lovely," he says, and wonders how she can so blatantly yearn for something he'd be laughed out of Fangtasia! for even admitting he remembers. But she's the Queen. Why trade the sun for the moon, when you could have them both? She answers Godric's question, and in doing so takes his place in the story. She answers his asceticism with her own brand of bricolage, swanning about in a Gibson Girl maillot and supping on their technology as she bemoans their industry and loss of purity, using fashion as a weapon and time as a color where he just saw it in shades of grim, sad grey. She's not tired yet, she likes the game too much.
If Marie Antoinette were savvier -- and if it weren't for that damned necklace -- she'd have been dancing in Keds to Joy Division by the end of things. She did for industry what wars usually do; she built little worlds like this one. And how about Bill, shuttling between these two women, the shock of the old and the shock of the new, and not a gentleman in sight? He's smothered by it. Everything she says is meant to calm him, and to make him feel small. And so it does, because he has no idea what Vampyre really means.
Tara's still pacing madly, obsessing on Eggs, while Sookie tells her to chill. It's not good enough for Tara that Bill might return with news, because she knows his track record and she's not blinded by love. That's not what she's blinded by.
Lafayette hangs upon the doorknob, big as he can be, but Tara's not cowed. "How many times have you put yourself in danger for the man you love? How come you get that option and I don't?" It's worse for being true. There are howls outside, and laughter, and Tara can't hear them comforting her. While Lafayette gathers guns against the zombies, Tara delivers a treatise that has nothing to do with things, beyond the fact that Maryann's seduction was so tied up in her real attraction to and love for Eggs that they are indivisible. This is what it means to be a familiar:
"I finally found a strong, beautiful, good man who loves me! And y'all want to keep me from rescuing him, because you're afraid I might get hurt? How hurt do you think I'm gonna be if we wait and something happens to him?" It doesn't matter. This is addiction, plain and simple. In Bon Temps codependence looks like this, just like it does in your town: the brightness of love and the darkness of the thing it slumbers with. Lafayette shocks the hysterical -- if that's not redundant -- Lettie Mae by mentioning the ass-beatings they've been administering to each other, but Tara's stalwart: "It wasn't him. It was Maryann. Her influence!"