The Portrait

Evelyn Chartres

(Nom de Plume)

Copyright 2017

Calgary, Alberta

Victoria, British Columbia

Kingston, Ontario

Halifax, Nova Scotia

ABOUT

The Portrait is a Gothic fantasy about Victoria Frost, an author who develops an unhealthy obsession for her character. As events unfold, her infatuation sours, forcing Victoria to question her sanity. Is she simply slipping into madness, or is there something else at play?

The Portrait features a mixture of contemporary and historical scenes brought forward as Victoria explores the world of her muse. Using both prose and art, every scene yields a new piece of the puzzle, providing insights on the origins of her character’s portrait and its featured model.

Discover how a vision from the past becomes a writer’s deadly obsession.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE PORTRAIT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE - THE MUSE

PART I – INNOCENCE

CHAPTER 1 - PAST EVENTS

CHAPTER 2 - BOOKWORM

CHAPTER 3 - TYPEWRITER

CHAPTER 4 - COMMISSION

CHAPTER 5 - BLACK AND WHITE

CHAPTER 6 - SUPPLIES

CHAPTER 7 - STUDIO

CHAPTER 8 - BRUSH AND PAINT

CHAPTER 9 - CHILDISH

CHAPTER 10 - FASHION

CHAPTER 11 - MUSIC

PART II – DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 12 - TEAR

CHAPTER 13 - KEY

CHAPTER 14 - NOTEBOOK

CHAPTER 15 - SLUMBER

CHAPTER 16 - LETTER

CHAPTER 17 - BARISTA

CHAPTER 18 - DREAM

CHAPTER 19 - CLAY

CHAPTER 20 - QUILL

CHAPTER 21 - CORRESPONDENCE

CHAPTER 22 - MALL

CHAPTER 23 - STONE TO FLESH

CHAPTER 24 - SAFARI

CHAPTER 25 - COMMUTE

CHAPTER 26 - INVESTIGATION

CHAPTER 27 - HEART OF DARKNESS

CHAPTER 28 - CONTINUANCE

CHAPTER 29 - SAMPLES

CHAPTER 30 - REDEMPTION

PART III – LOSS

CHAPTER 31 - NOIRE

CHAPTER 32 - DATE

CHAPTER 33 - DELAYED REACTION

CHAPTER 34 - SANCTUM

CHAPTER 35 - WORLDS COLLIDE

CHAPTER 36 - COLD

CHAPTER 37 - MURMURS

CHAPTER 38 - DESPAIR

CHAPTER 39 - RECOVERY

CHAPTER 40 - LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 41 - CREAK

CHAPTER 42 - TAXI

PART IV – REVELATION

CHAPTER 43 - GALLERY

CHAPTER 44 - LABYRINTH

CHAPTER 45 - PERVERSION

CHAPTER 46 - OMEGA

CHAPTER 47 - MASQUERADE

CODA - FRIENDS

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank everyone who saw me through this book: all those who provided support, talked things over, offered comments, and assisted in editing, proofreading, or design. The Portrait has been a long time in the making, existing in various forms throughout the years and involving a myriad of people. Those named below I consider to be integral to the final release.

I would like to thank R.E. Moran for the key role she played in the cover’s design by using her artistic style and flair. Without your input, the cover would probably still feature a stick figure.

Thank you, Tina Williams, my personal mercenary who painstakingly scoured the manuscript to bring about a bit of sanity in its formatting and style. Her diligence also provided me with a moment of clarity since it permitted me to gauge the effectiveness of my editing process.

Lastly, I wish to thank Peggy MacPhie and Veronica Keddy, two brave souls who took on the task of reading through the novel while in development. These two were the shining beacons in the night, proof that I was not alone in the dark.

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de Plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

http://evelynchartres.com

PROLOGUE

THE MUSE

A painting loomed in the distance. From this vantage point, an observer could see how the dry and cracked canvas robbed the work of its artistic splendour. Nonetheless, the work still possessed details of the model who posed for this commissioned piece so long ago. Nothing could have possibly marred this woman’s intense beauty, nor concealed that most intriguing smile which seemed to haunt anyone who looked upon the canvas.

The poser had obviously been young during its commission, in the early ages of womanhood, as the glow of innocence still shone through in her eyes. The most striking detail of the work was the dress she wore, one that women of her station could never afford. With such a slender build and sunburned skin, she revealed traits common to the lower classes of French society. No, this dress would normally have been tailored for the plump and full-figured women who frequented Louis’ court.

The strokes of the brush used to produce this centuries-old painting still echoed with the artist’s fervour. Even from this distance, those who gazed upon this canvas would still be able to recognise the wild and untamed nature of the artist’s style. At first glance, the strokes appeared to be chaotic but were actually meticulously placed, which became obvious when viewed from the proper perspective. This passion was reflected not only in the painting before the observer, but also in how this man had lived.

His life held many a mystery. How could a man who ill afforded the materials for such a masterpiece obtain a gown that would be the envy of the court? The dress fit her like a glove, but this was not a courtesan’s dress, which the subject most likely was, but a dress befitting a countess. The detailed silk and lace, the quality of the corset, and the way her body naturally moulded itself to the restrictive clothing prompted the onlooker to shed a tear.

The onlooker cried for what had been lost, remembering her innocence when she lived on the streets. A courtesan of high stature—well, nothing more than a whore, really—and one who would forever be tortured by such memo…

* * * *

Victoria tore the sheet of paper from her typewriter, crumpling the soft white material, then attempted to toss it into the wastebasket. She watched it bounce off the contents of the already overflowing container, rolling onto the floor before it eventually came to a halt at her feet.

The author reached down to fetch the paper, then remembered how much she had poured into this story. Over the past several months, she became so immersed that the imagery of her character was etched into her mind. Not a waking moment was spent without thinking of this dark-haired woman who haunted her very soul, demonstrating traits she wished to mirror in her own life. It was odd to be so physically and mentally worn and yet yearn to live as this fictional woman had done.

Perhaps she just had an overactive imagination? How was Victoria certain to this end? The only certainty was that she would eventually succeed in the task. The author wondered how her writing would carry forth the account of her character’s fictional life into what she hoped would be a literary masterpiece.

While her character was imaginary, the images that flashed through her mind and the emotions she felt were so vivid. Evelyn seemed as corporeal to Victoria now as anyone walking upon this world. Certainly, she appeared more credible than actors or characters of popular television to which people were tuned to every waking moment. Was the fascination for her character any healthier than people addicted to reality television, wrestling, or those who followed the carefully crafted plots shown in a daily soap opera?

Her hand idled over the paper, unsure of its actions, waiting for its master to complete the task. Victoria slipped into deep thought, only to jerk up when she came to.

“Only time will tell,” Victoria told herself as another page was inserted into the antique typewriter.

She left the ball of paper on the floor. It would complete its journey another time.

PART I – INNOCENCE

CHAPTER 1

PAST EVENTS

Victoria moved away from the family home, a place filled with the ghosts of her parents. It was now a mausoleum where the shadows of their life haunted every nook and cranny. Instead of facing such horrors, she settled into her own apartment and was thankful for it even though her tears had barely dried from her reddened cheeks. This new home would serve as her refuge away from those lingering memories which haunted her now as her parents had done in life.

It had been a thoroughly exhausting month for an only child, especially one raised under the protective wings of her parents. This period proved to be especially taxing on her. Events flowed at a dizzying pace from one to another until it formed into a maelstrom that overwhelmed everything in its way. Victoria felt detached from her body, helpless to fight the destruction this storm wreaked and forced to submit to the fact that she was nothing more than a hapless spectator. Throughout her ordeal, a small part of her realised she would eventually need to face what had transpired.

The events which took place were nothing short of tragic. Her parents, the two people on this earth who moulded her into the woman she was now, had chosen to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary overseas. The choice had been obvious, considering that was where they had first met and fallen in love so long ago. Their plan was to relive that precious moment in time which ultimately proved to be their downfall.

If there was a God, would such an omnipotent being allow such a passionate couple to perish in the depths of the murky ocean while they were trapped within the cockpit of their small plane? Victoria pictured the water flowing in through various consoles, pressure building up in the cabin as the sun grew faint, as light ceded to the depths and night eternal. Did such acts possess anything less than a macabre sense of humour? Was there no truth and beauty left in this world?

Perhaps there were limits placed upon happiness, a proverbial quota on the joy one experienced? Conceivably, such an entity decided their limit had been met, ending their lives accordingly. What about her happiness? Was she not entitled to it as well? Would she ever understand the reason behind their deaths or come to terms with what happened? No longer able to bear the weight of all her questions, Victoria sighed deeply and plopped onto her couch, which was still wrapped in plastic. She was too exhausted to continue dredging up the past.

Despite her best efforts, Victoria’s thoughts shifted back to moments of the funeral, the darkest day in memory. The clouds were so dark on that day that the sun seemed absent from the sky, so much so that the priest urged her to postpone the event. Victoria shivered from the memory of rain pouring over the crowd. The downpour soaked them to the bone and forced the priest to recite from memory or forever destroy the pages of his bible. It was as though the heavens themselves wept for her and for the wrongful death of those represented by the empty coffins before her.

She remembered little else of the ceremony, nothing more than images of the men carrying her parents’ empty caskets over the open tears of Mother Nature. If only she could find the strength to say something, anything at all. Closure would be needed, that much Victoria knew, even as their caskets were lowered into the cold ground.

If closure was to be the intent of a funeral, the effect seemed to have been lost on her that day. She had stayed in place, standing in the rain, listening to the howling winds and echoing thunder while they covered the wooden capsules with mud. Victoria found she was unable to leave. Only once the priest pulled her away did she manage to break free. It was at that moment she realised the funeral was over and everyone else was gone. She felt as empty inside as the caskets. Would she ever feel whole again?

Thinking back, Victoria tried to imagine their deaths as similar to the ones occurring during endless films noire. Although such stories were nothing more than farcical re-creations of reality and, as such, provided little comfort. They were gone, no matter how or why it happened. Or how romantic it may have seemed. Her parents had been robbed of their lives, and she would miss them dearly.

Perhaps this rationalisation was her attempt at breaking away, and suddenly warmth filled her heart as though a bird were released from its cage. Her parents, after all, were very stern and controlling in all matters related to her upbringing, insisting she got nothing but the best, always. Her thoughts were to be focused on what they desired or wished for her, not what she personally wanted nor yearned for.

Yet, Victoria also felt guilty for thinking her parents wished nothing less than the finest things in life for her, even at the expense of her own wants, cravings, and desires. Everything had been provided for her. Or had it? For her, this was a choice between the warmth of the light or cold darkness looming in the distance. At that moment, both seemed capable of enveloping her completely. Which one would prove to be the eventual victor in the battle for her very being? It was far too soon to tell.

Once back in the present, Victoria’s thoughts moved to those of various professions, from apiculture to zoology, then to the cutthroat lawyer role she had been moulded for. The possibilities open to her were boundless, even if her heart still ached from her journey. Despite the glimmer of hope within, the young woman never managed to quite finish her thoughts. Instead, she gave into her desire for rest and escaped into a deep, dark slumber.

* * * *

At first, the dream reminded her of the funeral, mirroring her emotional turmoil. Dark and foreboding, Victoria saw herself as a child fighting against the fury of Mother Nature, refusing to be consumed by it. She discovered she was her own master, making the promise that there would be no quarter given to the darkness surrounding her.

This was her symbol for strength, hidden deep within her, never before allowed to bloom or assert itself until this very moment.

Looking about in her dream, her gaze sharpened—then she screamed.

The light of her newly found strength poured out into the surrounding darkness, withering it away, and gave definition to the world surrounding her. When her avatar looked around, all she saw was the ocean and the dull-grey sand of the beach. The moon hung over the waters that set the scene from one of her most cherished memories, a location frequented more often than not during her youth.

It was night, beautiful and calm, with the roar of the ocean sounding like music to her ears. The aroma of the salty air filled her lungs, energising her with every breath. Victoria’s attention moved to the moon’s reflection, shining over the water, creating a breathtaking, silvery path. From her vantage point, the moonglade invited her to walk out into the ocean and join the man in the moon for a cup of tea.

Victoria examined her surroundings, and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach when she saw a little girl in a pretty white dress glistening in the light. The blonde, curly hair. The most innocent eyes turned about, looking unknowingly into the eyes of her elder self. How could this feel so real? Was this an actual memory of her childhood? Something deep inside told her this scene was more than just familiar. Victoria began to realise the reasons this moment returned to the forefront of her thoughts.

Moments later, another woman approached from the shadowy distance as though she materialised out of the ether. This lady, who for years remained buried in the dark recesses of her mind, began to take on a near angelic form. There even seemed to be a hue of soft, silvery light surrounding this apparition, creating an aura rivalling that of an angel’s.

As this angel approached, there was no fear or apprehension. Instead, they both understood this was a simple matter of fate and what happened next would forge the very nature of their souls. The apparition knelt before young Victoria, touching the little girl’s forehead, making the familiar sign of a cross, reciting a little prayer that reminded her more of a lullaby. She did not know the language, though it sounded like Latin. She only wished she could remember what was said in its entirety.

“Je vous salue,” her voice chimed out in musical perfection.

As these words flooded into her mind, it tossed her from the familiarity of the memory to the maelstrom’s chaos. This journey differed from the first. As she passed through the eye of the storm, she became filled with a strong sense of comfort. It was as though she were enveloped in a warm cocoon, one which protected Victoria through to her destination. With her journey ended, Victoria opened her eyes and saw a painting illuminated by spotlights that brought out details in the canvas.

It was only a soft patch of colours at this distance, so she stepped forward in hopes of getting a better look. Little by little, she approached while curiosity rose above any remaining emotion. Unfortunately, Victoria blinked and was greeted once more by the darkness of her own apartment.

Victoria examined the room, wondering what time it was, knowing only that it was night, though it felt like she had been in the realm of dreams for no more than a few moments. Had this dream been a message from the deepest parts of her subconscious? Or a random series of memories colliding all at once to provide her with such imagery?

When she sat up from the couch, Victoria still heard the faint sounds of the ocean and the voice of her visitor that fateful night. She shivered at the musically evocative tones, finding it so realistic that it made her skin turn to gooseflesh. So real was her impression of this voice that she swore the person was uttering it from the next room.

That moment marked the point when Evelyn made her way back into Victoria’s mind. Memories of having been there as a child, always there and ever faithful. She would prove to be once again. Now that these dreams were back after a pause, would the ultimate intent of that pact, made long ago, be accomplished?

“A writer…” Victoria said out loud and was nearly startled by the reverberations, given how her voice was normally muted.

Victoria knew now what path she would take, and from this point forward, she would write out the life of a woman she was connected to. To tell the world of this character and the life she led would perhaps be her salvation. At the very least, it would prove to be a useful distraction from the wreckage she called a life. For now, she did not care where the path led. Content with being set upon the journey itself, it filled her mind with thousands of words and images. Given time, the author would get a better idea as to the direction she would travel. Until then, there was much to be done.

CHAPTER 2

BOOKWORM

A bookworm with fangs,” the man said, thinking of that line every time he saw her.

It would just pop into his mind as if it were stamped upon her forehead. He chuckled, wondering where he had heard that expression beforehand and managed to think back to the time when one of her professors had used it during an informal screening.

It proved an apt description and seemed to be the only way the professor could explain this particular student. Her grades had to be seen to be believed, and she adopted a personality in court that swayed the hearts and minds of judges and their juries. In all aspects, she portrayed traits sought after for the Supreme Court, skills generally associated with people of a shrewd nature who dominated the courtroom to further their careers.

Victoria proved to be a sharp contrast to such preconceptions. She was a predator in the courtroom and a complete wreck once she returned to the office. This individual had no sense of style, no grace when it came to day-to-day life, reminding him perhaps more of a cat lady with a law degree. Soft spoken, always nervous, kindhearted, generous with her clients to the detriment of the firm—these were traits he had personally observed. Not that he minded generosity, but her billing always favoured the client and that hurt the bottom line.

In all honesty, he was surprised to see her heading his way. From the view of his office window, he saw her wearing the most conservative piece of clothing she owned. It was some dark-blue business attire with a long skirt that would not even show an ankle let alone any serious sensuality. Rather a shame, really, considering she would likely drop a few jaws, including his own, if she bothered to try. As she approached, her employer saw Victoria clutching an attaché case tightly with both hands. It was as though she were afraid a storm would whisk it away along with the contents within.

“She’s not working any cases at the moment,” he thought aloud, knowing the events surrounding her life.

Her parents were imperative to the success of this firm, considering their seemingly endless funds and retainer for the bulk of the firm’s resources. Their interactions with the firm had most assuredly brought about prosperity and smiles to the senior partners’ faces. How could he say no once they pointed out the fact their daughter passed the bar and would soon be seeking employment?

“Shirley, let Vicky right in,” he said after pressing the intercom button.

The familiar tinny voice of his secretary’s reply came through as he released the button. Pushing himself into the depths of his chair, he forced it to lean back while waiting for Victoria’s arrival. It would take her a while to get here. That much was certain, given how unsure she was in her steps. Victoria seemed to hesitate on what she wanted, or perhaps how to go about getting it done, a trait he was very familiar with.

It was classic behaviour for this woman, he knew, having observed Victoria since her first interview. Her résumé was rather impressive for a young woman starting out in the world. She had the opportunity to study at the most prestigious universities in this country but chose to remain in the city. He doubted the choice was entirely her own, given how her grades and money were certainly not the issue. Her parents constantly poked into her affairs, a fact which provided him with insight as to why she was not pursuing her full potential elsewhere.

Victoria interviewed well enough, considering her awkward social behaviours. The soft tones of her voice and her choice of clothing were perhaps better suited to the position of an undertaker than a lawyer. Nevertheless, her knowledge of law was impeccable, which included courses on international law. When he considered that she also had intimate knowledge of the patent system, it only sweetened the deal for a position with this firm. With her skills and the backing of her parents, her fate had been sealed well before she walked through the door, even if she was oblivious to the fact.

“Just a few more steps,” he said, watching.

The woman continued her advance, thinking that the battle for Stalingrad probably took less time and resources to accomplish. Nonetheless, he looked ahead, amused by this spectacle, wondering if she would somehow trip or simply turn around as she had done before. This time, however, Victoria managed to surprise him by passing right by the receptionist without uttering so much as a word.

“There is a first for everything,” he said, then quickly changed the subject as the door opened. “Frost, good morning, good morning! Please, come in.”

“Good…good morning, sir,” Victoria said.

For a brief second, it seemed as though his greeting caught her off guard. She likely expected to catch flak for taking so much time off from work after the funeral. This posed a minor inconvenience in his eyes, leaving him to ponder what he would do with her once she returned. She sat without being prompted, which surprised him yet again with her newly found liberties, and he watched intently while she opened the case placed neatly upon her lap.

From the depths of her case came a single piece of plain white paper. She looked upon it and gave it a final run through before handing it over. There was one attribute he loved about her. Her eye for detail was invaluable when research was needed to make or break a case. As Victoria held out the paper, he lingered a few moments, seeing if her resolve would somehow weaken. He wondered what she was thinking at this very moment. Perhaps she believed him cruel for letting her hold out the paper for so long? He would even hazard a guess that she was biting her tongue to prevent showing any emotion at all.

He took the letter from her outstretched hand, once satisfied she had waited long enough. He held it out at a sufficient distance to dispense with the reading glasses, or so he thought. The font proved to be too small for casual reading; the man reluctantly pulled out his spectacles. He balanced them neatly on the tip of his nose to see both the letter and author, then he quickly scanned the letter. At first, the words were filled with the normal ingredients required in all letters: header, addressee, and date. It was once he got to the main body that he realised what was being implied.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

He did not move an inch in his chair, a giveaway that this had not been much of a surprise to him. Nor would it turn into a financial loss to him, since the foundation running her parents’ affairs retained their services. Instead, he looked directly into her eyes, waiting for her response, which surprisingly came quickly.

“I am,” Victoria responded.

She watched him shift his weight forward so his legs comfortably reached the floor. He stood up. He circled around the desk, thinking over what to say while forcing the most genuine smile upon his lips.

“We shall mark this as a very dark day in the history of our firm,” he said.

He then grew conscious that his glasses were still on his nose and picked them off, tossing them casually onto the desk.

“However, before you go, would you do me a favour? Would you answer a question for me?”

His smile changed mischievously as Victoria’s eyes widened, befuddled by his request, wondering what exactly would be asked of her. Now he had the opportunity to seek an answer for a question that plagued him since the beginning.

“There are two of you trapped in that body, Vicky. On one side, there is the woman I see in the courtroom with a platinum-covered tongue and an edge on law that easily puts any judge to shame…” the man said.

He wondered how to describe the alternate persona without sounding overtly offensive. That proved to be difficult, so he considered shifting his strategy to portray her in fair light on what he personally perceived as weaknesses. Nonetheless, the opportunity was at hand, and the window was about to close, so he opted for an off-the-cuff remark.

“You remind me more of a bleeding-heart public defender. Soft-hearted, kind, defending the weak and helpless…”

As judged by the look on Victoria’s face, he realised she was rather surprised by what he had said. Not for his choice of words, but for the fact that he provided her insight on something she had not discovered on her own. She was, for the most part, an open book to him, though you did not manipulate the law for thirty years without gaining such insight into people.

For a few moments, he waited, allowing her inner struggle to continue. He added, “Well, Miss Frost? How is it there appears to be a chimaera under that dress?”

Victoria shrugged, then replied in a shockingly simple way, “I was told to be this way.”

With a brief nod, she stood and began to make her leave. She nearly reached the door before realising she had forgotten her attaché case. She paused for a moment, turned about, leaned forward, and picked up the case with acrobatic grace. Only then did she leave the office, not saying another word, given that her mission was accomplished.

Once back at his desk, he pressed the button while he manoeuvred back to the chair. “Shirley, make sure Vicky’s things get back to her if she does not pick them up herself.”

Not even waiting for a reply, he flicked off the intercom and regained his seat.

“So she does have fangs,” he added with a chuckle.

At that moment, he looked down at the paperwork on his desk and saw that, with this distraction dealt with, there was little reason to avoid it any further.

CHAPTER 3

TYPEWRITER

During the following months, the days flowed from one to the other with very little opportunity for mishap. It was, for the most part, nothing more than a continuation of Victoria’s previous life. One isolated from the world, sheltered from hardships, this was the only true legacy her parents had left her.

Victoria pondered the irony of it all when one considered that her parents, acting as her defenders against the injustices of life, had fallen prey to its hardships themselves. The budding young writer sighed, closing her eyes as the memory of her parents resurfaced in her thoughts. The memory dredged up images of that rain-drenched funeral. She was once more faced with the fact that, even with time, her pain would not go softly into the night.

Victoria opened her eyes, looking up through a haze of tears. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust, but once they had, she realised her surroundings had been transformed into a place she could truly call home. This was her haven away from the bustling traffic and frenetic city life. Indeed, what started out as nothing more than a collection of walls and adjoined flooring had now become her home.

Many a wall was filled with row upon row of books, mostly acquired in her former life to meet the needs of her law studies. Certainly, there would be little to find in terms of a leisurely read by anyone’s standards. In contrast, the more artistic look of the living room was left barren except for select art pieces seemingly placed at random. Victoria personally picked every single item from a local gallery. Silently, she wondered if guests would notice the correlation, only to discount it as false hope, since Victoria doubted she would ever entertain another soul within these walls.

She knew little or nothing of paintings, pottery, carvings, or any other form of modern art. Not once had her parents sought to show her the finer points of life. Instead, they focused their attention on the power gained from the pursuit of knowledge, responsibility, and blind loyalty. Was this another reason for such a sterile childhood?

Nonetheless, Victoria knew Evelyn would likely appreciate the full beauty of the selected pieces. Evelyn was a form of art, with the soft contours of her body so shapely and glowing. It was conceivable her true purpose was to fuse with the sinewed imprint of a man’s body. She had a face which beckoned, a mouth formed only for kissing, and with her piercing green eyes, the most entrancing stare Victoria ever saw. It seemed as though her figure were moulded from clay and given form by the hands of a master artist.

This was an aspect of her past she did not mind bringing into focus. With the memory of that day on the beach returning like a torrential flood, it tore away all inhibitions and left the young woman pure of spirit. Victoria felt like an entirely different being as she knew her goals and what she sought to become—a first in her young life.

The author came to realise that every so often she became enthralled in the thoughts of her character, recalling events surrounding this person as easily as her own. With her world so bleak in comparison to that envisioned for Evelyn, it was nearly enough to become jealous over this fiction.

There were hardships, of course, applying equally to each of the kindred souls. One lived a life which very few wished for themselves, and yet far surpassed what was expected for a woman of her epoch. While Victoria led a much more privileged life than that of her character, she imagined herself as a prisoner in a beautiful, gilded cage, one surrounded by the luxuries of life yet doomed to be nothing more than a witness. Had she truly lived? Had she experienced the full splendour of life, and would this little feathered creature ever fly on her own?

Gold, now that was something her character had yet to experiment with. She wondered how long it would take for an artist of that calibre to experiment with metals. Perhaps she would choose bronze or gold to capture the beauty life so openly provided?

“A beauty these eyes have never seen,” Victoria said with a sigh.

Perhaps now was the time to do something about all these thoughts. After all, she said she would enter her new vocation with determination—something she found to be more difficult to accomplish than originally anticipated.

Victoria’s thoughts returned to reality, and she turned to look at the bare surface on her desk located within the confines of her living room. The author placed it strategically near a crackling fire, with a wastebasket at its side to dispose of any failed attempts at writing. The basket, however, was empty, for there was no paper, ink, or even a lone pencil for her to set her words to page.

“Perhaps now is the time,” she thought aloud, comforted by the sound of her own voice.

It was enough motivation for her to grab her coat and escape her cage through a newly discovered opening, flying out into the world she had been evading.

* * * *

Victoria had left the confines of her home before, but it never felt like this. The author felt as though great weights were lifted from her shoulders. She even managed to walk with a spring in her step accompanied by the occasional splash as her feet landed in a puddle.

Apparently it had been raining most of the day, a fact unbeknownst to her until now. Victoria felt the misty rain spray against her cheeks. Though unprepared for the weather, it seemed inconsequential to her during that moment. Soon her hair darkened, becoming heavy with rain that formed into rivulets which flowed down her strands of hair until they ended in droplets. In turn, these precious pearls of water broke free and were sent crashing onto the ground below, joining the others that suffered the same fate just moments before.

Despite the rain and cold, Victoria seemed at ease with herself and was completely within her element. This experience opened her eyes, enabling her to see a new aspect to the world. Gone were the days of youth when rain was an excuse to go out and play in the puddles while wearing her tiny red rubber boots. Rain had recently brought forth a much more sombre memory, one which clawed away at her lightheartedness and dragged her to the edge of the abyss. In contrast, this moment was freeing, cleansing her after a long and perilous journey.

Today, Victoria walked in a random direction, unsure of her destination. This infused her with strength, borrowed from her new role model, the same individual whom she no longer perceived to be a figment of her imagination. This character was taking life in her novel and someday would be unleashed onto the unsuspecting world.

Victoria honestly never recalled such a moment in her life. She had always been told what to do, how to behave, and even how to live out the rest of her life. The sheer thought of indulging in her desires by delving deeper into her imagination frightened her. Evelyn would surely serve as a guide, one who would lead her without faltering on her chosen path.

For hours, such thoughts rolled through her mind, continuing for as long as she walked the streets. This evening, she followed a path she had never travelled before, exploring the city with its ever-extending spires reaching out into the sky. With every step, she plunged deeper into the unknown, and this made her feel alive.

With excitement overtaking her fears, Victoria stopped for a moment to establish her bearings. In that moment, her eyes fell upon a building that instantly caught her attention. It was not the grime-covered windows or its poorly maintained structure that intrigued her the most, nor was it the sign, worn and weathered from exposure to the elements. Even though the building was in such a state of disrepair, what she saw inside was far more important. Through all that filth, she made out the object centred at the heart of her desires.

“I believe that more of the same waits for me inside,” Victoria said.

She pushed the door open, finding that it gave way without a sound. Immediately, the author was presented with a world of things many discounted as relics of our past.

While the shop’s purpose was unclear from the storefront, it turned out to be an antique store. By looking at the objects surrounding her, she could see how these were serviceable and yet neither cherished heirlooms nor items protected behind crystal glass displays. Instead, these wares showcased chairs worn by contact from countless bottoms, cupboards torn from their homes, and furniture left to weather in the rain.

These objects had seen better days, and there was plenty of evidence to shed light on their previous owners. Some of these owners had obviously been kinder, as judged by the patches, than others. These items did have a quaint charm rarely found in stores today. Of course, she knew turn-of-the-century furniture, fixtures, and cookery were not the reasons for her visit. Victoria instead ventured deeper into the shop looking for the item she glimpsed through all of that dust on the windows.

After a few steps, Victoria sensed that what she sought was near. Excited, she picked up the pace. The author pushed her slender frame through rows of antiques that were no longer familiar to her in function. Perhaps Evelyn would know of their uses? In fact, she was fairly certain her character would have intimate knowledge of these forgotten staples of human existence. Perhaps this knowledge would even rival the most learned of historians?

Moments later, she stumbled across the item and instantly became enthralled by it. It was old, to be sure, but unlike many of the items here, the pristine condition of this object proved quite surprising. It was as though the previous owner cherished it above all other worldly possessions.

She lifted it from its dusty seat, taking a closer look, finding that it was much heavier than anticipated. Little did this dissuade her from looking upon this item and discovering that its cast-iron construction made up the bulk of its weight. With its simplistic design composed of gears, straps, and dozens of tiny arms that seemed primitive by today’s standards, this device would perform a vital function in her quest. Victoria even found that none of the keys were missing, nor were they illegible after decades of use.

Thinking back to her days in elementary school, Victoria vividly recalled learning to type on a descendant of this model, mastering its use by pressing the familiar keys individually. Victoria saw how the pressure of her fingers unleashed a flurry of activity that eventually led a singular rod to strike against the back cylinder.

The item was returned to the desktop, and she placed her fingers over the keys, aligning them to each letter, pressing down in sequence. The well-oiled keys did little to resist her touch, and with each press came a familiar sound echoing throughout the room. This was exactly what she sought—a singular device that would grant her the freedom to express herself.

With a gentle voice, she summoned the store’s owner, who emerged from a cramped back office. It was funny to see how taken aback he was by the sight of this soaked-to-the-bone woman in his shop. Victoria thought it fitting that this man seemed as old as the items he peddled. In her opinion, the owner was likely able to describe how items in his stock had been used during his youth.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the man asked while looking about to see if there were items that would attract her type and seeming surprised by her answer.

“I…I want this typewriter,” Victoria replied in a nice clear voice, trying to hide her enthusiasm for the item found. “How much is it?”

The man threw in a price, expecting her to bargain it down as many antique hunters did, fighting tooth and nail for even the loss of a single red cent. Victoria thought over the price while she glimpsed longingly at the machine. It was as though she were growing more anxious with every moment parted.

Finally, with some hesitation in her voice, Victoria said, “That seems reasonable. I’ll take it.”

Her tone led him to believe that she was not entirely convinced of the purchase, so he added, “What an excellent choice! It is believed to have been used by the Pulitzer Prize-winning author M.”

Victoria reached for her purse to pay, asking, “Will this do?”

The owner smiled, having discovered her desire far outweighed the need for idle conversation, let alone haggling. Within moments, the item was boxed and ready for her to carry.

“There you go, and have a good evening,” he said, thanking God for ridding him of another item of questionable value and origin.

“Thank you,” Victoria replied as she picked up the package from the counter, exiting the store.

This time, Victoria hailed a cab to hasten her return home, since she found it difficult to think of anything else. Already she saw herself typing away on this antique writing device, producing page after page of glorious literary art. Soon, she would discover that writing out a few pages would hardly quench her thirst, a revelation made after she realised there was no paper at home.

CHAPTER 4

COMMISSION

The room was dimly lit except for a few rays of light that escaped from the thickly draped windows. This light filtered through in filaments, cutting a path through the shadows while interacting with the billowing smoke. Any witness to this scene would have described the mood as nothing less than sombre.

The aroma of various paints, oils, and solvents created a unique bouquet as it mingled with the burning paraffin. In turn, it invaded Evelyn’s senses, awakening parts of her mind long left numbed. Not once had she peered inside a studio, nor was she ever selected for a commissioned work.

Others in her circle had been given such opportunities. For some, it even became a habit that permitted a lucky few to move away from the profession. Their appearance sharply contrasted her own as these women possessed a voluptuous build, overflowing breasts, and round faces that imbued them with a more regal appearance. These same women would quickly fall out of their dresses for the opportunity to become a painter’s one true inspiration. Was permitting such men to take them, invade the portions of them that were dark and warm and deep, a small price to pay for a chance at immortality?

“Confortable, ma chère?” asked the voice of a young man, smooth and practised, as he looked over his subject standing before him.

Silently, he pondered how to best portray this woman who, in his eyes, bore no special beauty. He had to admit, her smile entranced him, but he was reminded that such traits were easily faked through years of practise. He reasoned that such a smile was best served to lure prospective clients and draw attention from her less desirable traits.

Still, how could there be so little to work with in a model? She was thin, lacking any real substance to her body. With the gentle curves of her hips and small breasts that provided her with a subtle hourglass shape, she was unable to fill the spaces within the corset. This reminded him more of common street trash, or more appropriately, of a little girl.

Evelyn’s green eyes, other than her bewitching smile, were by far her most outstanding feature. They reflected the woman’s experiences but remained bright and defiant as though life itself would never be able to beat her down. Too bad her rose-coloured cheeks, sunburned skin, well-defined jawline, and prominent cheekbones did little to enhance her beauty. At least his regular models carried the beautifully rounded faces of those who could afford a regular meal. Just how he would produce a miracle with such meagre pickings was beyond him.

“Oui,” Evelyn said with a nod.

She looked at the man with the same smile she arrived with. Her generous lips pressed gently together, and she tilted her head ever so slightly to create a most alluring look mixed with a hint of intent. The smile was more genuine today, even if she was able to forge authenticity through years of practise. Perhaps if the painter had known of this fact, he may have been tempted to boast about his masterful insight, yet his instincts would warn against such outbursts.

Her words were nothing more than a lie, considering these clothes were far more rigid than she was accustomed to. The constraints of the quality corset pushing against her chest was noticeably more pronounced, particularly since the artist tightened it with all of his strength in some vain attempt to force her form to yield to his will. She almost missed her courtesan’s gown, considering the ease required to slip into it when compared to the countless unbearably warm layers of this dress, one that constantly reminded her of the weather outside, which even Lucifer would bemoan.

“Perhaps…if I sit like this?” Evelyn asked while her body slid into a more comfortable position.

She put her legs together at the knees, curved her back inwards, then pushed her shoulders back. This brought her chest to the forefront of his vision in hopes of giving him the image he sought to achieve. While she looked upon him, her eyes began to tear up as emotions stirred from within and coalesced into a visage of pure innocence.

“That…that is perfect!” he exclaimed while hiding a sigh.

The painter was painfully aware of the shadowy figure standing behind him. He felt as though the figure were burning a hole through the very back of his skull, displeased over the entire event.

“Please remember to remain as still as possible. It will only make this easier for the both of us,” he added.

He picked up a stick of charcoal, choosing to apply it directly onto the canvas, and drafted the overall look of his commissioned model. In moments, he would have it covered with vivid colours set upon his palette.

The movements of his hands with the charcoal were quick and practised, first concentrating on the fragile locks of hair sitting atop her forehead, the same hair he had spent hours working on while preparing his subject. First, he washed her hair until it became more malleable. The next step was freeing the strands from the oils and dirt of the streets. Finally, he carefully cut away at its wild nature. What remained now of her black hair was nothing short of a work of art, a point of pride for this miracle.

Evelyn continued to stare at the artist, constantly reminded of the fact she needed to remain still. Even her breathing was controlled and shallow, though not difficult to master considering her corset made deep breaths painful. Still, she was determined to do so correctly, keeping her mind and thoughts under constant control.

Art was completely new to this model and, in truth, she did not think she was overly attractive, something that may have been related to the fact that the Madame mentioned her many faults on a daily basis. Why would anyone wish to capture the essence of a woman at such an advanced age or with such a poorly developed body? Surely, there must have been a great number of younger beauties who would make much more appropriate candidates.

Evelyn swallowed hard as she decided to stop mulling over such things, believing it would end up being reflected in the painting. Instead, she concentrated on the artist, young and strong, just released from his apprenticeship. She enjoyed his confidence with a passionate demeanour that came through as he worked feverishly with whatever implement he got a hold of.

“What is that?” Evelyn asked lightly.

She failed to complete her question when she saw the man’s eyes. His eyes were normally a dark brown, nearly black, yielding no emotion to those who looked into them. Now they seemed ablaze with passion as though staring at a god’s pure essence. A shame, as his normal eyes complemented his day’s old beard and long wild hair that required him to occasionally push it aside to gain a clear sight of his surroundings.

She found him attractive, a handsome man, in fact, and one she would gladly wish to please if he had the nerve to visit her boudoir. Evelyn knew that thoughts for such a man were better reserved for her daydreams, given that she had observed him staring at her building from a distance. He would shuffle his feet shyly, only to have them grow cold, and then he would return to the safety of his domain. This man would probably never be able to afford the Madame’s gratuity, what with the ill-fitting clothes and the location of his studio.

A creak in the floorboards brought her back to her surroundings, prompting Evelyn to shift her eyes ever so slightly, only to be greeted by shadows. It was odd, but she did believe someone was there, watching and studying her every move. She found it comforting, in a way, that anyone would care to know that much about her. However, one question still lingered at the back of her mind…

* * * *

“Why?” Victoria asked.

The author typed the additional letters onto the piece of paper held firmly within the grips of her typewriter. She tore the page from the drum, her eyes lingering over the words and paragraphs that formed the base of this scene prior to placing it on the pile. The act left her with one final question to answer.

“Who was this man? Or was it a man?” Victoria asked.

Of course it was—no woman had the sway to commission such a work or provide such an expensive gown. Could it have been a woman of royal lineage who commissioned the work? No, it had to be a man, yet why would he have kept himself secret from Victoria’s character?

Victoria sighed in response to the new questions forming in her mind, and how that was sure to slow the evening’s progress. Her accomplishments of late were nothing to be laughed at. She was beyond the initial stages of character development and now delved into a key point of her character’s life. Was it so hard then for this author to accept a minor impasse as a fair trade in the completion of her goal? Perhaps in time, she would get to know the name of this individual, the one who would forever change Evelyn’s life.

CHAPTER 5

BLACK AND WHITE

Books had always been Victoria’s friends. Literature provided the ability to escape into new worlds while deviously expanding her knowledge. Her tomes of knowledge were tools to be employed with the finesse of a trained master or used as a bludgeon when on the battlefield of court.

She vividly recalled training to become a lawyer and how proud her parents had been of her accomplishments in their chosen path. It brought a small tear to her eye when she remembered graduation, the pride felt at having been able to overcome so many obstacles put before her.

Yet this was only a memory, one of many related to her parents. No new memories would be made, leaving her to wonder if they would fade with time. Would she eventually mend the emotional scars created by their deaths and learn to move on? Or would she instead carry this burden forward like a dead weight that would forever hold her back? Ultimately, would it prevent her from being her true self?

“Who am I really?” A question to which Victoria could provide no tangible answer.

Did she know what lay hidden within her being? What of her character? Yet again, her questions yielded more questions that never offered any insight. Better still, who was Evelyn exactly?

Victoria was worried her inability to fit Evelyn into a mould would imply she did not understand her archetype. On the rare occasions she was permitted to indulge in something like a novel, Victoria would often come across characters which fit clear and precise roles. The hero, the macho, and the waif, all possessed defined parameters, reminding her of the stringent rules and concepts demonstrated by those playing Dungeons & Dragons in high school.

In addition, books dealing with sciences often worked on a principle. They belonged to a world that was black and white or good and evil, with no room for interpretation. Was this to be expected for the essence of a man or woman? When it came to her soul, could such a level of precision be considered reasonable? Perhaps there were shades of grey and blotches of bright colour on the pages taken from the book of Evelyn?

None of her books, no matter how recent or verbose, would be able to help her find the answer. Perhaps a few shed light on her character’s habits or her way of life. History was a subject that often covered past lives, their personalities, their flaws, and the impact they had on the world. Yet all of these were tainted in one form or another, as it was the victor who wrote history. It often proved difficult to cast your prejudices aside when investigating the life of a known tyrant, one whose deeds wrought many wrongs to people with whom you could relate.

Victoria remained unsure of the ability of a book to provide her with answers. Questions continued to plague her, but the truth remained that books imbued her with the knowledge of appropriate people, events, cities, and nations. From their tomb of words, she set these worlds free within her mind. Imagination, after all, required information with which to sow the seeds of creativity.

Should she even bother to look at this material? Her instincts told her to abandon all hope and proceed down another path. Yet a small part of her seemed optimistic that there were treasures to be found within this collection of books. Victoria paused for a moment, then shrugged. After all, it was not like her calendar was overburdened with activity, so this would likely be a good way to pass the time.

* * * *

Hours flew by as she studied the contents of her books, leaving Victoria in awe of the flow of information. Yet her goals were no nearer to completion than before she began. Queries involving superfluous details of a world forgotten by all but perhaps Methuselah were not necessarily the most effective way to get her answers. Yet something was amiss within this world, even though she had been building it meticulously, brick by brick. The picture taking form within the depths of her mind was not genuine.

How were such details missing from such great bodies of work? Victoria was able recite secrets that existed within the depths of Versailles Palace and could even carry on a conversation about court intrigues. She could visualise the engineering that went into the aqueduct system under the palace grounds, yet Evelyn was as elusive now as ever. These details, while enlightening, did little to explain the duress endured by her character during that era.

Again she was reminded that books tended to be tainted by the view of their authors. For that reason, it dawned on her that such women would be inconsequential to historians. In fact, the life of courtesans in brothels was a story many would sooner wish to forget. Perhaps they preferred to turn a blind eye and close that dark chapter in human history.

That explained the fear tucked away in the corner of her character’s mind. Victoria imagined Evelyn so consumed by the need to create these masterpieces as a motivation fed by her desire to escape her dark past. Art was her character’s legacy, one that would stand the test of time and influence individuals in a manner books did not. Were most people not visual learners? Did people not tend to prefer the visual stimulation of a movie over the written variant?

Victoria came to understand that the key to her character’s being was not to be found within the pages of these great tomes. These pages, and the stories within, had been sanitised and had no space for what was a best a footnote in the history of humankind. Her fate was condemned to be nothing more than a multi-coloured splotch of ink accidentally spilled on the corner page of some manuscript.

No, Victoria decided, books would be of no use. Events such as wars and the succession of kings were not why this woman embraced the arts, nor were they the reason she pursued this way of life. So what had been the catalyst to all of this?

“Only through the creation of art will you truly be able to understand me,” Victoria said, while pondering how that statement came to mind.

The statement did ring true within her heart, though it was not necessarily easy for her to comprehend the finer nuances of art.

This was no simple matter of visiting a local supermarket, loading her cart full of supplies, and finding a suitable studio. She could not create works of sheer beauty out of the ether! An image was conjured of Evelyn moving about some gigantic store with a cart. Her character paused to look over something of interest, then giggled when she saw that canvases were on sale. That image put a smile on this daydreamer’s face, despite the fact that this scene was a farce. She laughed while envisioning her character pushing her cart alongside the till. The stunning beauty would slip a few coupons for some handcrafted brushes and get rain checks on out-of-stock items.

“Evelyn would wear some high-fashion gown from the latest Parisian fashion houses, too,” Victoria added with a sigh of relief.

It seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. For now, it provided Victoria with a direction, which was more than she had before. Now she knew the starting point and a waypoint to the long, winding path leading to her eventual omega.

While she moved away from the hazardous piles of books stacked upon her desk, Victoria fixated on her typewriter. Intent on her new task, she placed a virgin sheet of paper within the grips of the machine, looked ahead, and paused a moment. Victoria was sure that sooner or later inspiration would flow.

CHAPTER 6

SUPPLIES

Streets in this city were normally as familiar to Victoria as the word of God was for clergymen. Names and numbers appeared clearly in her mind, rendering the complex network of streets and avenues into mere child’s play.

Yet, this afternoon, Victoria’s sixth sense on such matters faltered as it had when she found the typewriter. She found herself walking aimlessly down the streets, looking for their names, wondering why she ventured so far out of her way. It seemed odd that she was well past the point she would normally venture out on foot. The author recalled having left her apartment to fetch some tea, a task that normally took no more than a few moments to complete.

“Now, why would I come here?” Victoria asked.

She looked about for anyone who may have overheard her speak. Would they assume she had a lapse in judgement? Perhaps it was the fact that she was crazy and oblivious to her quirks? A distraction was needed. Victoria thought about placing her character within the confines of this city, then wondered how Evelyn would react to such sights and sounds.

Even in this fortress of modern society, there were places few would dare trespass. While Victoria was inching uncomfortably close to one such place, the author was assured that Evelyn would see this as entertainment. Such a situation would be her opportunity to test her social blade against those who least expected it.

As Victoria breached that invisible line with one step, she sensed her character giggle at this ritual of hers. Imbued with the imagined strength of her creation, that one footstep became a dozen, followed by a thousand. Only now did she sense the pull of something within this forbidden realm, awakening her dulled senses.

As she arrived at what seemed to be the focal point of this attraction, Victoria looked upon a storefront selling Japanese merchandise. The stock ranged from animated movies, to that iconic white cat, to body pillows modelled after celebrities. The author seemed bewildered by the inundation of lights poisoning the sky and wondered why such a store would ever manage to draw her attention.

From the corner of her eye, the etchings of another door became apparent, hidden away from the blitz of its neighbour. Victoria saw a simple wooden sign above the door, worn and tattered but matching the building’s appearance to which it was affixed. As an elementary school student, she had learned of this being an affluent neighbourhood half a century ago. Yet, a change in fortune brought about social decline resulting in the area’s downward spiral into poverty. Victoria remembered a getting good grade when she wrote a paper on the subject.

At this point, such realisations should have made her more aware of where she was. Yet, this time, when she looked at the building, she noticed that what had fallen from grace now appeared to be freshly constructed. Gone were the scars of time, the filth on the streets, and the tacky glitter of neon signs. Instead, she was left with the sight of an exclusive art-supply store.

The windows were no longer boarded with cardboard and the sign gleamed with freshly painted golden letters. Victoria moved forward to peek inside and saw supplies that appealed to artists from all walks of life. There were frames, brushes, paints, and canvases of quality that appealed to both the casual and the master painter. There was even an ample supply of chisels, rifflers, and mallets for those who were looking to breathe life into stone. She even saw clays, exotic woods, and a few items for which she could not even think of a use.

When Victoria pulled back from the window, she noticed her sleeves were soiled from the years of filth upon the glass. Had she been looking at another structure? It was as though her vision was obscured, permitting her to gaze upon the structure as it stood years ago. Or was it just her imagination playing a trick on her? Be it truth or fiction, the draw on her persisted, so she went inside for a better look.

* * * *

The shop fit in perfectly with Victoria’s expectations of a place catering to many generations of artists. The smells of paints, oils, woods, and clays instantly overwhelmed her and gave her the oddest feeling of being home. Why exactly would such an association come to mind?

As she ventured deeper into the store, the sense of familiarity grew exponentially. The various materials used in the moulding of clay did little to sway her emotions. It served as a unique novelty to be glanced over and brought her back to an iconic scene of a movie. In time, she would come to regret passing up such materials, but for now, it provided nothing more than an amusing diversion.

Her eyes widened when she spotted brushes and other painting supplies in a corner of the shop. She skipped a few steps, acting gleefully like a child who was set loose in a toy store. Victoria clapped her hands together, wondering just what kind of toys she would be allowed to bring back home today.

For hours, Victoria moved from item to item, examining them with the eye of a most experienced painter, while she selected wares that were suitable for her needs. Every time she picked up an item, vivid imagery would pop into her mind. Be it a stunningly beautiful nude model waiting to be immortalised on canvas, or works at various stages of development, ideas conceived during such visions seemed more tangible than Victoria ever thought possible.

To be a blessed artist was to be given the ability to tap into one’s vision of the world. In turn, they were imparted with the ability to communicate these visions to others through their works. Victoria did not yet grasp the implications, but she knew these items were somehow vital to the process of understanding her character. Evelyn’s life as an artist and her ability to tap into her soul to create stunning works of beauty forged key aspects of her personality.

Items quickly stacked upon one another, growing into quite a pile. This complex structure bore a comedic vibe, as every item needed to be placed strategically to prevent a disastrous fall. One pictured how a feather or even a light breeze could cause the items to scatter onto the floor in one fell swoop. This evoked an image of arms flailing about in some vain attempt to regain her Zen-like equilibrium.

And the canned laughter, Victoria thought while walking slowly through a new part of the store where she sensed the till might be.

Surprisingly enough, it was precisely where she envisioned it would be. How did she know that? How did Victoria know the owner had been a sculptor who surrounded himself with the tools of his trade?

“Bonjour, Joseph,” Victoria said to the old man behind the till. How do I know his name?

The same man quirked his brow at the sight of such a spectacle. His eyes were of a piercing steel blue, and if they were truly the windows to the soul, then the light that poured from them was the essence of life. One saw how age served its cruel judgement: how it left the mind intact while he could no longer sculpt as judged by his shaking hands.

Somehow this budding young painter envisioned the man during his youth. Joseph had emigrated from France during the war, though his heart still longed for the home of his youth. He would have remained if not for the invasion and associated conflicts of faith. He had arrived here by smuggling himself to England, then stowed away on some lonely tramp steamer. At that time, those who crossed the Black Pit were always fearful of the threat lurking beneath the waves. This store was his way of thanking the inhabitants of this great nation for their collective sacrifice by delivering French artistry to the masses.

The wooden sign and its letters may have dimmed over the years, just as the body of the man before her, but he carried himself with pride that few equalled. This brought about a conversation that would carry on for hours. Topics ranged from painting styles and sculpting materials to the unique origins of the supplies she was purchasing.

The owner was very much curious about the woman before him, seemingly new to the world of painting, yet immensely knowledgeable based on the quality of her purchases. Never before was he witness to such a soft-spoken individual. It was true that artists were always a bit eccentric, but she seemed absorbed in her thoughts and was immensely shy. Joseph kept to small talk, hoping it would permit her to lead, but he discovered she would trail off unless he actively contributed to a topic.

As a result, the most interesting parts of the conversations were centred on his life, his family, and his adventures. They comforted her, and oddly enough, led her to wonder if this had all been said and done before. Was this a situation encountered in another life, perhaps?

Of course, how did she know that he preferred to work with woods instead of stone before he spoke of it? Moreover, how was it that she seemed to be able to communicate in his native tongue without even having to think about it? She recalled some vain attempt at learning the language in school. She was surprised to find that her tongue twisted unnaturally with their vowels. Oh how she dreaded rolling the letter R! So why am I able to speak it so fluently now?

Was this a dream? Was this a sign that something greater was at hand? Would she know the answer even if it were under her nose? Or would it be ignored as being too obvious or mundane? None of these questions were to be answered, but perhaps the thousand dollars spent in art supplies would yield results.

* * * *

When Victoria stepped into the waiting cab, she saw the old man turn the sign from Open to Closed. Victoria looked out the passenger window of her cab to notice that shadows were growing long and buildings were taking on hues of pink and purple. The night would soon be upon her, even as dawn was rising within.

CHAPTER 7

STUDIO

Secrets lay beyond this doorway, in a room hidden deep within the entrails of her home. She stood by the archway, staring into the permeating shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was inside while she awaited the arrival of her liege. Only then could she venture within, knowing such a man would have tediously prepared for her arrival and be disappointed in seeing the fruits of his labour spoiled. It did not take much for her to realise that disappointment would be the least of her worries if she spoiled the moment.

In truth, she did not know the precise purpose of this room. Certain clues in the form of odours teased her senses, flooding her mind with the memory of a time and place that marked a change in her life. She recalled the discomfort of sitting in place for hours and the kink in her back that made itself known with such intensity that she could barely stand. Yet the memory dissipated once she laid eyes upon the painting.

Evelyn remembered vividly how the artist had led her with shaking hands to the painting, then nervously pulled away the white sheet covering the work. By revealing her, his masterpiece, it marked the first time Evelyn saw herself portrayed in such a manner. Given the fine lace and haute couture, she nearly forgot she had posed for this work. Instead, she believed the woman before her was a wealthy countess of respected lineage who held sway over the pawns of the court.

One aspect of the artist’s studio that she would not soon forget was the various scents within. Paints and oils used to create his works carried a very potent bouquet that embodied his artistry. She remembered how strong the scent had been within the confines of the studio, and it brought a tear to her eye. The smell grew more pronounced when the painter approached her for the first time. With his paint-stained hands, he manipulated her body into the desired form. He even took a precious moment to brush off a droplet of paint he found on her reddened cheek.

Such an aroma now clung to this room, giving this former courtesan a hint of what would be revealed. Was it odd that it paled in comparison to her memory? Perhaps it was simply related to the fact that such an aroma was recently introduced? Would there be a time when she would forget such fragrances even existed, much like Parisians learned to live with the smell of animal waste, sewage, and rotting trash that covered the streets?

Evelyn heard the familiar and precisely paced steps of her captain as he began to climb the winding staircase. With every metronome-like step, her anticipation quickly swelled into excitement and her breath grew shallow as he approached. She knew the man made the choice to arrive this way. He treated this event as he would a child’s birthday gift. This approach permitted her to pick up the carefully wrapped gift like an immature little girl did to guess the contents. All the while, he would wait patiently for her to pick up and hold the package, allowing her own emotions to overtake her before being unveiled. Clever, really, as it made the entire event more memorable, permitting himself this one time to show humanity in front of his charge.

While awaiting his arrival, Evelyn closed her eyes and pictured what she would see in this room. She already knew acrylics and oils would be there from the tell-tale signs of their distinctive aroma. Nonetheless, the images of brushes, paints, wooden frames, and canvases all came to mind while she envisioned them stacked within the confines of her own studio!

As the footsteps of her liege echoed through the hall, Evelyn’s imagination grew more vivid and detailed. She pictured brushes of exquisite craftsmanship made from the finest horsehair and canvases of the highest quality over which a brush would simply glide. Oh what delectable art could she produce with these resources at hand?

Evelyn opened her eyes once she perceived the soft red light diffused through her eyelids from the lantern her liege was holding. Reality deviated much from what she imagined. She squealed in delight as the myriad of shelves, tables, and artist’s tools filled the room in a predictably ordered fashion. There was not a hint of chaos to be found in the room. This alone made it obvious a great deal of attention had gone into its organisation.

Without so much as a word, he left the room, glancing at her a moment to confirm she understood the great responsibility bestowed onto her. Evelyn responded by bobbing a curtsy to him, knowing that actions spoke louder than words when dealing with such men. She was sure that deep inside, this man was pleased. He had to be, given he found a way to satisfy the lady he selected above all others, though she knew full well payment would have to be made in time, whenever he saw the need for it.

With no care or desire to see where her captain retreated to, Evelyn turned her attention to the contents of the room. Careful her steps were as she walked deeper inside while studying its inventory. She found that the meticulous nature of her liege shone through once more. At its centre, she saw a single wooden stool of sturdy workmanship and a sheet of paper adorning the top.

Once she took the paper in hand, Evelyn discovered he had inventoried every item. Based on the list, she deduced that she was not limited exclusively to painting. Instead, this fell far more in league with a workshop befitting Michelangelo, a man who created works in various media, someone who eventually ventured beyond art into architecture and engineering.

* * * *

Victoria paused as she finished writing the second page of this story. It seemed important to her that Evelyn grow as an artist before readers would take her character seriously. How did one relate to a character who had everything given to them in their lives? Or spent their days moving from one success to another without any kind of friction? There was probably a link between these questions and the fact that readers rarely relished being reminded of the mundane aspects of their own lives.

Victoria smiled, leaning back in her chair, initially surprised by the creak. It was interesting to see how her growth as a writer paralleled her character’s actions. She closed her eyes, imagining how long it would take her character to sort out the affairs in her studio. Then she wondered why she chose to portray her character’s lord as being someone so cold and formal. She would need to consider this point in more depth prior to future writings.

Evelyn would surely not bother dealing with the list, using it instead to light a warm fire. No, she would choose to devote her time to personally go through every shelf, cabinet drawer, and wooden crate in order to touch every item. This woman made an adventure out of even the most monotonous task. So why should this be any different?

This must be one of the defining elements of an artist—the ability to escape the stifling confines of logic to create works that expressed their most intimate feelings. Many would choose to call that behaviour eccentricity or even lunacy. There were certainly plenty of madmen who created masterpieces shown throughout the ages. Victoria saw this as being one of the more desired traits of those straying from the mistress of logic: binding themselves to romance, passion, and creativity.

“Ah to be a bit more like her,” Victoria said with a soft sigh.

Dreamy eyed, Victoria thought of which items her character would first choose to look at. She imagined that the paints and paintbrushes would be her first target, quickly opening the jars and playing with the colours as would a child. Experimentation with different types of brushes and compositions on any available surface would be sure to annoy her liege. Yet, it would make Evelyn giggle with glee if she came out of the room naked and covered from head to toe in the carefully inventoried vivid colours.

Victoria stared into the fire for a moment, comforted by its fluid movements and the fact it would remain her kindest critic. Flames consumed any discarded page without care or prejudice as to the quality of the work provided. For that, she was grateful both as an author worried about the quality of her work, as well as a woman who always found the room to be a bit too cool.

“Back to work, Victoria. There will be time for play later,” she said.

Those words seemed to come from another world, one that would have been constant in her life had she not chosen to become a writer. She brought the chair back to its normal position and added more to the story at hand. Evelyn’s story was far from complete, of that Victoria was certain. Somehow, she was compelled to move forward and learn more about her character.

“Evelyn looked about for a moment with the list in hand, wondering why this seemed all so boring and dry. An impish smile came upon her face, replacing her normally soft and muted features. Her eyes came upon the ornate fireplace against the wall. Within moments, a budding flame was crackling happily as it burned through the list and engulfed the surrounding logs,” Victoria recited.

The sound of those words spoken aloud set a small smile on Victoria’s face. She liked where this story was going, and in the end, that was all that truly mattered.

“Now let’s put this to paper, shall we?” Victoria placed her fingers carefully over the appropriate keys.

This author then typed the first few words that formed the continuation of her tale.

CHAPTER 8

BRUSH AND PAINT

The light of the fire created an eerie display of shadows against the walls. Victoria sensed that this was right or at least appeared to be. The author sought to replicate this scene as much as possible before she began to play the part of her character. It was as though all of these preparations had been dictated through in whispers, telling her that even a tiny filament of untamed light could kill the mood.

Even from a distance, she felt the warmth of the fire and watched as the flames consumed the logs. She knew that given time, they would be reduced to a fine ash, the fire feasting until there was nothing left. Did it come as a surprise that such power garnered respect from millions, including her character?

“Was Evelyn afraid? No. Afraid was too harsh a word,” Victoria said.

She knew her character would never openly fear such things. Such a twist may have provided the author with story arcs to explore, yet this seemed wrong. She sensed that Evelyn, a woman she looked up to, would not fear such trivial matters.

Instead, Victoria turned to the empty canvas before her, wondering what to do for her experiment with brush and paint. Never before had she attempted to create using such a medium, other than perhaps fingerpainting as a child, and yet, it all seemed familiar. She knew the thickness, texture, and precise mix of colours were as prescribed.

She did not comprehend how this knowledge came to be, nor could she fathom how it seamlessly flowed through her. It was as though she were born to it, an instinct that required no prior learning and needed only to react. How had this author accomplished so much without being able to explain the process of stretching the fabric then nailing canvas onto a wooden frame?

The creation of a lifetime.

This statement echoed back to her and filled her with a sense of comfort. That would soon fade away, as doubt settled back into her mind like a vulture waiting for her to fail and end up as his evening meal.

“What am I to create? Is there something missing or wrong?” Victoria pondered.

Something was wrong. There was an element missing in the equation to duplicate the working efforts of her character. This apprentice simply pushed it out of her mind. Years of social training taught her that such things were improper and, if anything, lacked the attributes of a true lady.

“Hah!” Victoria heard her character exclaim.

She realised none of this had anything to do with social norms. Of course not, this was far more a case of creature comforts.

She paced around the canvas, wondering what was amiss, and never realised that a finger circled around the top button of her blouse. These actions were a reflection of her deep-seated realisation. It was as though the truth were hidden within the recesses of her mind, a part of her that understood what evaded her conscious thoughts. To emulate her character, she would need to go beyond accustomed norms and step into the world of eccentricity.

In reality, there was no real desire to become her character. Instead, she wished for nothing more than to experience the act of creation in a similar fashion. Method actors must undergo a similar process? Perhaps it was this lack of true aspiration that hindered her ability to continue? Or was it a case of limited life experience?

Once again, her gaze turned away from the canvas to watch the dancing flames. Lost in thought, it took moments for this missing ingredient to surface to the forefront of her mind.

“No!” Victoria exclaimed in objection.

Despite her resistance, her subconscious had done what her mind would not. When she looked down, Victoria discovered the bulk of her clothing was now in a puddle on the ground.

Unlike her character, Victoria chose to remain covered where it seemed appropriate, not that any other soul would know of such an indiscretion. This small concession did set her mind at ease, allowing her to move beyond this minor impasse. Now, with the board set and all her pieces ready for play, the mood was right. There would be nothing left to worry about, other than creating a work of art on this canvas before her.

Victoria closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This permitted the sounds from the fire and even the faint creaking of the floor beneath her bare feet to invade her senses. Never before had she felt so alive or connected to this world. She was a master of her chosen art. Elements before her in the form of canvas, brushes, and a palette of fine paints were no more daunting to her than a pen awaiting her signature.

* * * *

The rest of the evening became nothing more than a blur, as though she were entranced by the magic of the moment. Victoria recollected brief flashes of consciousness during the whole of her creative process. At first, she created with wild, untamed strokes, only to observe details appearing over time as the image took on its final form.

A fly on the wall would have seen a blank canvas being slashed wildly with brushstrokes of vibrant colours. These colours gave way to finer, more precise strokes, using more sombre tones that took subdued base but brought details to the surface, complementing the whole.

When Victoria regained her senses, she found herself seated in a chair near the draped easel. Warm and comfortable underneath a blanket, she wondered when she had fetched it last night. Did she know for sure if night had given way to a new day? Memories began to trickle in, filling her with visions of a creation that she was unable to fathom.

Victoria yelped in shock when she rose from the chair and noticed her body was now completely devoid of clothing—that is, if one did not account for the occasional splotch of paint covering her skin. So she grabbed the blanket, slipped the warm material around her, and fashioned it into a robe before venturing toward the covered canvas.

“Let’s see how well I succeeded at making a smiley,” Victoria said.

When she pulled the plain, white sheet away from the canvas, again wondering from whence it came, Victoria’s eyes opened wide in surprise. No one would believe that she fashioned this work with her own hands. She would even step into line with the rest of the naysayers as she scarcely believed it herself! Yet it must have been her strokes that put life into this work, unless she was willing to accept it was created from the ether? After all, no one else would have entered her inner sanctum to leave a disrobed lady unscathed for the sole reason of replacing her childish work with this masterpiece.

“My God,” Victoria cried out.

Victoria knew full well that no god or divine presence in this world had anything to do with this. Here was a woman who had never before touched a canvas and yet managed to recreate a masterpiece from an artist laid to rest long ago.

She was looking at a model who would have been considered young today but was nearly a woman beyond marrying age when commissioned. A woman dressed in the finest court gown, full lips, sunburned skin, the most entrancing smile, and green eyes which seemingly peered through space and time. Eyes that shone through with a worldly experience, these were not the eyes of an innocent but those of a woman wise beyond her years.

The length of her hair and the gown’s style were perfectly suited for a countess of the French court. People seldom knew or cared about such details nowadays, nor would they be interested in knowing how the length of hair was related to one’s position in the court. A countess would have been required to wear her hair at shoulder length, very much as the woman before her was.

It was a well-planned charade, given that this woman had been a courtesan working the streets of Paris and had never held such a station in life. Not even the Sun King, who forced the Church to allow him the privilege of mistresses, would gift such a gown to Evelyn.

“Especially to one so thin, frail looking, lacking the plump bosoms of a baroque beauty,” Victoria mused.

She knew this woman as well as the image before her. It had been carved into her mind since she was a child, but why the re-creation? Why would she need a physical representation when these details were so vivid in her mind? Was this painting real in the waking world? A work found in a local museum? Or was this nothing more than a figment of her imagination?

She knew all of these answers, but her mind was simply not willing to accept them for what they were. Victoria did not comprehend what was happening, nor could she explain how she found an art store in the middle of a metropolis. Could she account for the sudden mastery of a new language only to forget it as soon as she left the store? There was still an aura of innocence about her, one that may have to be discarded in order to peer through the veil surrounding her.

As exhaustion struck Victoria, she looked at the clock and noted that the world had not gone idle. Instead, the sands of time slipped through the hourglass, leaving little remaining to the evening. Once she took this to heart, she headed for her bedroom with much to consider. In the morning, she would discover just how hard it was to rid her skin of red paint.

CHAPTER 9

CHILDISH

After the creation—or more precisely, regeneration—of a masterpiece, Victoria’s dreams were devoid of content. Was her muse lost, leaving her with nothing more than pale, ashen dreams in her stead?

Weeks passed by without satisfaction, until one day a dream involving her character surfaced. This was a dream so vivid that it provided a complete picture of the world surrounding her character. Imagery filled this young author’s mind with ideas that could feed her typewriter and, by extension, her fire for weeks on end. It was a shame that, as with most dreams, it would quickly fade away when her mind struggled back to a conscious state.

As with all dreams, certain strands were left behind, though as mere copies of the original, they lacked the vibrant details experienced just moments prior. What easily could have been months of continuous creativity, slowly slipped through her grasp until one filament remained. Like a seed sown in the field, would this inspiration grow into something the author could cultivate for the fall harvest?

Over the past few months, mornings had gained a certain charm. This period was transformed from a moment of mass hysteria defined by the societal norms of an eight-hour workday to a time of serenity. Victoria often sat back and enjoyed the outdoor scenery, watching as the sun rose from behind the buildings to claim its dominion over the lands. With a cup of hot coffee in her hands, Victoria would witness the birth of a new day.

This morning her goals changed considerably. With the exponential loss of her dream pending, Victoria opted to skip the normally cherished morning ceremonies and simply threw her tired body into the shower. The author washed quickly and mechanically. She gasped for air as the icy water poured over her. With a distant gaze, she struggled to keep the dream alive in her mind. The challenge to remember was intensified by the effects of cold water! All the while, she prayed the remnant of her dream would remain for a few moments longer.

Dreams were very much like sandcastles touched by rising tides. While Victoria knew how the castle looked, certain details would soon fade from her memory, forcing her to fill in the blanks to complete the picture. This proved to be the bane of the author’s existence and began with her looking at a page that had yet to be touched by ink. Yet, somehow, she saw shadows of the page’s final form. These apparitions would taunt her, since—while they provided her with an outline—there was no clue as to their true content. To the author, this reminded her of a masquerade ball where no guest knew the other.

She started by rolling a fresh sheet of paper onto the drum. Victoria moved her fingers over the keys and relaxed for a moment. With her hair still soaked, and wearing nothing more than her bath towel, the author began to visualise that point where this filament belonged. When the image in her mind’s eye became clearer, she laughed and began writing out her chapter.

* * * *

Evelyn rose up from the floor of her studio, finding the room to be in chaos. In the midst of it all, she noted the need to sweep the floor before her captain caught wind of it. With every breath, the smell of fresh paint filled her lungs and brought her back to her experience as a model. Somehow, it no longer conjured that foreign scent as it had yesterday. Instead, it evoked a sense of being home.

As she looked about, she saw the pandemonium she had unleashed. Paint covered the floor in a myriad of colours. Some splotches had dried, while others were so thick they remained slick. They even rippled in unison with the vibration from her steps.

Tables, stools, stands, and even the walls now bore Evelyn’s playful touch. Droplets of paint flung through the air, splattered against all surfaces, covering the once-pristine whitewashed walls with specks of colour ranging from Prussian blue to cadmium red. It gave the room life, taking away from the once-sterile environment and becoming a cocoon in which this butterfly could create.

* * * *

Evelyn having an immature streak was something expected of a woman who lived amongst the dredges of society for the better part of her life. Surely, she would seek to take back what was lost during that chapter in her life. Evelyn’s regression was her way of rediscovering the good that lingered in the world, and what better way to discover that than through the eyes of a child?

Victoria saw this as a refreshing change from day-to-day life, where people were forced to grow up too quickly. This required them to leave behind their innocence, with no time to contemplate the impact of their loss. What with gangs, crime, drugs, teen pregnancy, global pandemics, and the very real pressures of having to become a valid cog in the machinery of society, it was a wonder people managed to function as well as they did.

By today’s standards, Evelyn would perhaps make the headlines as some sort of teen prostitute, assuming they were out of devil-worshipping transsexuals with an Oedipus complex. The fact that she managed to rekindle that lost innocence transformed her character into a heroine. How many stories portrayed a courtesan as someone to look up to in life? Perhaps this author was simply being too optimistic in her perception of Evelyn? Why not?

“Come on, Vicky… On with the story,” Victoria said, sensing her thoughts had swayed from her goal.

She would have to refocus and gain the initiative. Only once she fleshed out the bulk of this story could she explore alternatives.

* * * *

Evelyn turned her attention back to the canvas, taking the time to look over this first attempt. The colours were vivid, complemented by the quick and subtle brushstrokes. The process gave this creation a well-defined border with a sharp contrast that focused attention where she desired.

The artiste moved forward, inching closer to her creation. On her way, she picked up bits and pieces of her gown that had been removed in haste. As her zeal to create reached its apex, she removed them with the intent to save her clothes from the paints. Alas, this mishap would serve as a reminder to arrive dressed more suitably the next time. Nevertheless, the finely tailored dress suffered the same fate as the room, except for her corset, which remained intact by hiding behind the paint-covered door.

Fortunately for this young lady, being nude was as natural to her as the moon belonging to the night. Perchance, the practise of prancing around au naturel while painting would have been considered the craft of witches and demons if she were to be observed. Yet, she was at home with a man that, for all his lack of emotion, seemed to encourage her to experience the world to its fullest.

Her hands slid across her hips, her stomach, and the soft flesh of her breasts. It was an act that may have seemed peculiar to those who knew her from her previous life, seeing that she never before considered exploring her own body. Tonight was an exception to the norm as she chose to run her fingers over the gooseflesh and the smooth bumps that were tell-tale signs of dried paint.

Evelyn laughed, enjoying every moment of this evening. Even as her hands continued to find new specks of paint on her breasts, thighs, stomach, and underarms, she began to consider the work that absorbed most of the evening. The truth of the matter was, she recalled little of the actual creation. Instead, memories came through in flashes: scenes where clothing flew through the air, colours and violent brushstrokes overwhelmed the canvas, strokes that were exaggerated and yet directed and focused.

* * * *

The author re-read her last few paragraphs, wondering if she were headed in the right direction. This morning’s work was beginning to take shape, with certain aspects hidden from the reader to keep them hanging on her every word. Yet, she feared that the brief mention of Evelyn’s nudity would be seen as blasphemous or even out of place for the character.

As an author, Victoria was entitled to write her character as she saw fit. Yet, if she intended to have this manuscript published, certain concessions would have to be made in the future to suit the intended audience. Was the audience considered when writing these chapters? Was it too late, considering the groundwork already set to page?

For now, this singular memory of her character’s life was still in the forefront of her mind. If Victoria was able to come up with a valid reason for her character’s nudity, she was sure the audience would arrive at the same conclusions as she. Logic and reason were weird like that as they allowed one to explain anything away, as long as someone provided a semblance of common sense and a pinch of logic thrown in for good measure.

The reason was simple when one considered that Evelyn enjoyed the freedoms provided by the absence of clothing. Designed for show more than comfort, these dresses often restricted breathing and motion, sapping the energy of those who wore them with every breath. How could one truly create under such conditions? Was it possible for her to fashion works of great beauty while unhindered and save the expense of ruining a perfectly good gown? It would possibly come across as eccentric to some. Perhaps it was even a bit childish to others, but it seemed authentic for her character.

As Victoria pondered such details, she found that her hands continued the work ahead of her. It was as though body and mind were disconnected from one another, allowing her to consider tedious details while her fingers glided along the keys and brought forth detailed prose.

* * * *

Evelyn stared at the painting for what seemed to be an hour, looking over every detail of her work. It was at that moment the budding young artist took the time to explore her own work to appreciate the artistry. The use of colour was truly spectacular, especially for such a novice.

Conversely, the design was perhaps a bit too simplistic. The sky-blue background with clouds and birds gliding through the air was a nice touch. Yet the facial expression lacked the oomph that one would expect from the greats.

Evelyn giggled as she looked upon the large yellow smiley face. The eyes were dark as night, the smile was precise, and the face was bathed in a sea of yellow. Simplistic, elegant, and a good start for someone who should consider cleaning up the studio and getting dressed before it was too late.

* * * *

Victoria pushed against the desk and her chair rolled away from her past. Once the wheels slowed to a stop, the author quickly stood and experienced a mild case of vertigo. She enjoyed the end of this little chapter as it gave the overall work a bit of humour. Besides, it proved to be memorable and lent a bit of credibility to the story, despite the historical inaccuracy of using a smiley face in her prose. Who would believe a young courtesan created a work more memorable than the works of Borduas or van Gogh on her first attempt?

Her gaze turned to the crackling fire, only to be reminded of the passage of time when she heard the clock’s hourly chime. It was now mid-afternoon, a fact that, until now, had completely evaded her. She ran a hand through her hair and discovered that it was now dry. Victoria cursed, seeing that she would be spending the next few hours brushing out the knots.

“Oh well! Breakfast will be an afternoon delight for this girl,” Victoria said, while moving past the fire on her way to the kitchen.

It was now time to lay this dream to rest and re-join the waking world. Today, breakfast would be well deserved.

CHAPTER 10

FASHION

Victoria’s senses were on overload with the mass of people, the relentless traffic, and emergency vehicles screaming by. All of these elements somehow coalesced and created a great cacophony. In addition, there were smells and visual stimuli that complemented this symphony of chaos, which conspired to invade her senses simultaneously. Victoria was certain such continued onslaughts would be enough to drive the introverted into hiding, leaving them to pray for a merciful end.

Unfortunately, it was the norm for this time of day. After the clock struck four, people were no longer the peasants of their corporate fiefdoms; their chains of time were loosened until the cycle began anew in the morrow. People were out and about, tasting their renewed freedom. Those who lived near their workplaces were fortunate enough to be out shopping, eating at a restaurant, or catching up on their daily dose of reality television. Those less fortunate were still in their automobiles or wedged together like sardines in some form of public transit edging through the never-ending stream of traffic.

This structured chaos might have given her a headache if it were not for the fact that she was a cog in her earlier life. Her parents had required a great deal from her, including the privilege of deciding her choice of education and career. Victoria wondered if their decision to bear a child was solely based on economic reasons. Was it not a sound way to save money on a good corporate lawyer? That would be true once the initial investment bore fruit, of course.

Victoria brushed away this notion and thought it better to dwell on something else. What would be better suited to soothe her mind? Images and interactions with Evelyn were welcome, considering how her colourful character contrasted her own life. Was this not a constant when tapping into one’s imagination?

The author continued her walk, navigating around the constantly changing flow, and cut against the established grain. Victoria looked up at the myriad of storefronts, wondering what wares were being peddled behind their glass enclosures. She came across a chocolatier and thought of Evelyn tasting the sweet substance for the first time. The author pictured her girlish features and large smile as she licked off the last remnants of chocolate from her lips and giggled.

This brightened her mood, then the world seemed to phase out, distancing her from the pandemonium outside. Now the author came across a bookstore. Her eyes lingered momentarily over the book titles. She pondered going inside to have a look, but in the end, she imagined how her character would have laughed at the mass-produced pulp fiction within.

Still, she trekked through the raging torrent of people, continuing on her course even if she knew not why. Such events would have never occurred before she took up writing, since her parents would have never supported her during their reign. Would such brazen original thinking lead to being shunned? Would the fires of her rebellion be extinguished or chance the spoiling of their investment?

Victoria sighed as these thoughts once again invaded her conscious mind. Sooner or later, her parents would become a pale memory, like the statue of a long-dead general adorning a park. These were all elements of life that were left behind as a corporeal reminder of our forgotten past.

This time, Victoria passed by a clothing store with its clean display windows and inviting interior. Though this did little to impress her, the dress in the display window caught her eye. It was a breathtaking piece, elegantly tailored with rich fabrics and a stunning design that stopped her dead in her tracks. She was nearly run down by a man from behind who barely noticed she was there.

Without saying so much as a word, Victoria entered the store, her gaze low as she was still unsure of her actions. She had not taken the opportunity to shop for clothing, or more precisely, she had not gotten around to it. Normally, such excursions were a family affair, and the critical eye of her mother had prevailed over any perceived fashions at the time.

“You will thank me later, Vicky, when that fashion craze ends,” her mother would always say. “They will turn to you and think how smart you were to be above it all!”

That was a bold-faced lie, given that teenagers found themselves in their own personal purgatory if they failed to tap into the right fashion. At least, that was how she remembered the unwritten rules at her school.

“Quit that!” Victoria snapped.

All the while she thought about how badly she needed to stop mulling over the actions of her parents. Three times was well beyond the tolerable limit for a single day.

“Excuse me?” asked a woman from behind.

This left Victoria feeling like she just jumped out of her skin.

“May I help you?” the clerk added immediately.

That left Victoria with no opportunity to calm down and she wondered if there was a hint of amusement in the clerk’s voice.

“Er…yes…” She paused for a moment, gathering the strength of will to pursue this new course of action. “I was looking at the dress in the window…” she trailed off as her conviction failed, replaced by shame at even having considered wasting the shopkeeper’s time.

If the clerk was surprised by the request, she certainly hid it well. The woman eyed Victoria, looking over the customer’s body as though she were a calf brought down to the auction floor.

“Ah yes! A spectacular choice, though I recommend something by this designer…” the clerk said.

The assistant began to walk away from Victoria to lead her deeper into the store. Something within the writer just boiled over.

Before the clerk could finish, Victoria blurted out, “No! That dress. Thank you…”

The clerk stopped dead in her tracks; she turned, which permitted Victoria to see her lips were pressed white in frustration. All the while, Victoria could not believe she dared to speak out in such a manner, and it was taking all she had not to apologise. After all, was this woman not just doing her job?

Once again, the clerk looked at Victoria, eyeing every detail, every flaw, measuring, sizing up, and judging her suitability. Victoria was by no means a model. She did have some attributes of worth, if she ever planned to use them. The author smiled when she imagined how it would surprise her family and friends.

“Very well then… If you will follow me to the fitting rooms, we shall see if the tailor needs to make any adjustments,” the clerk said.

This time Victoria did not resist. Led through the rows of dresses, fine fabrics, and designer hats, she ignored them all. Only once she entered the changing room did the author’s thoughts sway to her character.

* * * *

Evelyn once wore a dress that fell well outside of her means. She fondly remembered that moment with the painter, the stillness of her pose, how she was so nervous she thought it possible to shake apart. Despite it all, the dress had not been hers to keep. She was back in her work clothes moments after the piece had been completed, a dress that was designed for the ease of removal or to take in a man with little pause, if in a hurry.

The young woman sighed. Her thoughts moved to memories of her youth spent looking at the latest haute couture dresses in storefronts. She felt like a young girl at a candy store salivating over the chocolates fashioned before her eyes. She did not salivate at the sight of dresses but received the same treatment from store owners. Evelyn would be chased off for soiling the pristine storefront and turning off any potential customers. No one liked to have street trash loitering around their place of business.

* * * *

Victoria’s thoughts focused on the clerk, who had just returned with the dress. At the mere sight of it, Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. She smiled, slightly trembling, taking the dress into her hands and feeling the beautiful soft fabric between her fingers. In the back of her mind, the writer thought it was made from rose petals.

“Thank you,” Victoria said, closing the privacy door and beginning to undress.

Piece by piece, bit by bit, the remnants of Victoria’s old life slipped to the floor.

* * * *

Ever since she moved to the home of her liege, Evelyn wondered why little had changed in her life. At first, the thought of having to provide her body as payment made her nervous. How could such an act repay this great gift bestowed upon her? Yet, this man showed no such interests. Instead, he gave her free rein of the manor to take in the ambiance.

During the evenings, she would dream of sneaking away to those stores, viewing the pretty dresses while imagining him at her side buying every one she pointed to. Such a fantasy never did materialise, and she began to wonder if her dreams would ever come to be. The dresses of her profession had been laundered. Nonetheless, Evelyn felt soiled when wearing them. How could she not, when the memories of all that sweat, grime, and semen covering the material made her skin crawl?

* * * *

Victoria sensed a draught and shivered as she had nothing on but a pair of panties. Perhaps it was the airy room or her sympathy for her character’s predicament? Should such a matter surprise her? The author did choose a whore as her main character, so why did it bother her?

Victoria removed the dress from the hanger and let it unfold before her eyes. For a moment, she was left to ponder how she would slip it on. Eventually, she found the zipper and slipped the luxurious fabric over her gooseflesh-covered body.

* * * *

Evelyn never did leave the manor. While a nice dream, the mischief of such an act was daunting and the repercussions potentially severe. She was, after all, quickly approaching the age at which no respectable gentleman would consider her for marriage. An old maid. Not much of a surprise, considering how slight her figure and bosom were.

She was lucky enough to end up in a brothel, and while not anyone’s favourite—since that honour was bestowed upon the plump and voluptuous—it provided shelter. Perhaps it was her childlike appearance that drew a particular clientele? It seemed odd to be sought out for resembling a child while having had no opportunity in life to be one.

Then, one night, as Evelyn slipped into a deep slumber filled with dreams of gowns, beautiful women, and court intrigue, her reality changed. A presence entered her chambers without making a sound and left behind a surprise for the sleeping lady.

“In with the new,” the spectre said as it set the item at her bedside. “Out with the old,” it said again as it left with an item befitting a bonfire.

* * * *

“Need any help, miss?” the question snapped Victoria back to reality.

Victoria noticed she was halfway into the dress. So far, it fit perfectly, and she was rather surprised by the discovery.

“Er… Yes. I will need help with the zipper, actually,” Victoria said.

She wondered how she would ever manage to zip this dress alone. Not even with all the skills and flexibility of a Kama Sutra portrait model could she imagine such a feat possible.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the clerk opened the door, turned her around, and zipped up the dress. That was the easy part. Soon, Victoria would need to face the most dreaded trial of all—looking into the mirror.

* * * *

Once Evelyn awoke, she turned about to find the dress worn last night was missing. In its place was the most beautiful of gowns, though it did seem familiar. Her suspicions were proved correct once the odours of the artist’s studio filled her senses. Memories of that glorious day flooded her mind, seeming to originate from her distant past.

She giggled with glee, and as though by magic, the door to her chambers opened. At first entered her captain, impeccable in his dress and deportment, though oblivious to Evelyn’s nudity. It was hard to even imagine the social taboo of being so ill prepared to entertain while in the presence of a gentleman.

Behind him was an older woman who wore far simpler clothing. Evelyn looked a bit puzzled at this woman’s presence since the concept was alien.

Before she could ask, the man spoke, “She will tend to your needs, including getting into that dress this evening.”

Before his charge had the opportunity to thank him, he was gone.

* * * *

“This nearly fits you like a glove,” the clerk said.

This tone of excitement was new to Victoria. Why would another woman find it exciting to look at someone else in the mirror? In truth, the clerk was surprised this dress fit so well and besides boosting a customer’s confidence, it did wonders for her sales figures.

“A few minor alterations here and there, and then it will fit…perfectly,” the clerk said before pausing.

This was done for a pre-calculated amount of time to allow Victoria to interject before moving on with the ritual.

“That is, of course, if you are interested?” the clerk asked.

“Of course. Let me fetch my purse,” she said, beaming with pride.

Within moments, Victoria was marked with chalk, poked and prodded with pins, while another clerk processed the payment. It was a sight to see. Such a beautiful dress, and for once, it was not on some overpaid runway model and her tapeworm sidekick. Only a few hours after she entered, Victoria departed with a bag in hand. A smile was upon her face, and now that the circus outside was done for the night, Victoria could enjoy the stroll home.

On the way back, she did not think of her parents or even of Evelyn. Instead, she thought about the little things she had been neglecting.

“Perhaps a bit of music would do wonders for the soul?” Victoria said.

CHAPTER 11

MUSIC

Victoria looked over her balcony and down at the commotion below. She observed the distinctive human packs as they casually huddled together, blocking the aisles as they reminisced. Meanwhile, others attempted to navigate through the ever-growing labyrinth while staff scurried about in vain to render assistance. In the background, musicians ran around feverishly trying to ready their instruments and music sheets to regain composure prior to the show.

It was always fascinating to observe the amount of chaos that occurred at this level of society. People here tended not to be nose-ringed adolescents who squeegeed random car windows or vagrants who dumpster-dived for their next meal. No, these were individuals born into this environment. This gifted them with the lifestyle necessary to enjoy the subtleties of the ritual. Nevertheless, they kept going as adults because they had since childhood.

The state of chaos created in this hall paralleled what the working class would manage at a movie theatre or some mega sale at a local department store. This cynical notion filled her with a great sense of pleasure, as high society existed on certain principles. There were many complex layers to society, built similarly to freshly baked pastry. This was a structure filled with ingredients forming a base to support the upper levels, or upper crusts, as it were. It was believed the uppermost would be the lightest, fluffiest, and most succulent of all.

Oddly enough, even the most tarnished of spoons would tear through this confection, cutting to the tasty ingredients within. It mattered little to the consumer if the topmost layers were sweeter than others when consumed in one bite. In some twisted way, the death of her parents was evidence of this concept. She saw how no amount of power or position in the social strata would have aided their escape from the cold hands of death.

Her amusement lessened when the audience settled in their seats as the conductor walked on the stage. People busied themselves with idle chatter related to business, finance, politics, and the latest juicy gossip, talk that normally revolved around which employer was indulging in the carnal pleasures of their staff. These were tired topics exposed ad nauseam, employed not only to pass the time, but to revel in the superiority that came with exposing the tribulations of others.

Her focus on the crowd waned, so she looked upon the architecture of the grand hall. Her eyes gazed over the structure and, for the first time, Victoria was left wondering how it was missed before. In that moment of clarity, it became obvious an artist or an exceptionally gifted architect had poured a great deal of time into the design. Perhaps it was her own societal chains that blinded her from such splendour?

The high, vaulted ceiling was supported by slender, inwardly curved pillars that gave Victoria the distinct impression that these beams were part of a hand holding back the sky. As judged from the way these fingers were formed, it seemed as though she were looking at a feminine hand. The fingers terminated near the stage, permitting a clear view of the orchestra which was about to perform. Additionally, these fingers merged near the back of the hall, forming a palm with its details concealed within an intricately designed fresco.

The fresco also held details that she never noticed before. From afar lay a scene one expected to find within the finest European cathedrals. The artist’s style, iconic for the baroque era, portrayed a religious scene that seemed disconcerting. What was it about this piece that brought up such an emotion? Was it related to the darker vibe this work seemed to give off?

No matter her feelings toward the work, it was clear every tile from the mosaic had been meticulously placed and served to distract the casual onlooker from its true purpose. A shame, as this deception averted the casual gaze from the intense beauty of the architecture itself.

What existed between the lady’s fingers was equally impressive. These digits seemed to hold back the sky as though preventing the stars from falling onto the crowd below, truly an artistic feat that made her smile while wondering just how gifted this artist was. How else to describe an individual who evoked such emotions when one looked beyond the ordinary to witness such grandeur? Then, with a familiar three taps of the conductor’s baton, Victoria’s analysis was cut short.

* * * *

Ambient noise emanating from the crowd subsided and permitted Victoria to hear her neighbours breathing. Victoria knew full well that many of them would never submit to such restrictions within their own realms. Egos and tempers would be sure to flare if the president of a large corporation was told to simmer down prior to a board meeting.

Even so, this singular man standing in front of them dominated the entire scene with a natural aura of command. Without question or conflict, this was someone who effectively controlled the legion before him and transformed it into a finely tuned instrument.

One had to admire anyone who accomplished so much with such a small weapon in hand. Certainly, it was rather hard to imagine him dealing with a group of malcontents insistent on wreaking havoc. She assumed he would be as effective in such a circumstance as a pack of wolves tasked in guarding the hen house.

Irrelevant. Really. She was not here to contemplate implausible scenarios but to listen to music. In anticipation, she straightened out her back and gave her spine a good stretch before slumping back down into the seat. Subtly, she leaned her head forward to brace for a sound wave that would soon sweep her away.

In reality, to be moved by the sound of an orchestra was impossible, though to this listener, it was a proven fact. As the first note reached her awaiting ears, Victoria closed her eyes, spread her softly coloured lips apart, and let out a soft gasp. The sweet sounds of the symphony had begun, with her entirely at its mercy.

In Victoria’s mind, music created vivid images that held sway on both her thoughts and mood. When the music was light, composed primarily of the combined works of string and wind instruments, she would often see vivid colours. She could also conceive forms and shapes that varied based on the prevailing instrument.

When the orchestra reached its climax, with all instruments joined into an ever-increasing crescendo, the images in her mind changed, permitting her imagination to run wild. If the melody was celebratory in nature, the colours grew brighter, creating stunning imagery that appeared to her inner eye.

If the climax represented the core of the composer’s torment, her mood would consequently change. The first time she experienced these emotions was during a childhood attendance. With her parents at her side, the sheer depth and power of these emotions had left her weak in the knees. Yet, she was equally invigorated by the notion of any creation moving her so.

From that point on, Victoria educated herself on upcoming pieces. This empowered her to truly partake in the performance and permitted her to relish every note with an anticipation that grew until the final note was played out, punctuated by the crowd’s practised applause.

* * * *

The musicians took a brief pause, providing the crowd a much-needed reprieve from having to remain silent. Almost instantly, they came to life, opening up with the same tired dialogue, but with more enthusiasm, as though it were bottled up for months.

The author grinned, knowing one individual who would quickly form a crowd around her. This was the natural setting for such a lady as those from the upper crust were the sweetest prey of all. For someone growing up in squalor, she knew their natures and used it against them. In the back of her mind, the image of the youthful beauty walking amongst the sheep was conjured before her in full detail.

Victoria’s grin widened, thinking how this woman’s beauty would radiate like an aura. She imagined that men and women alike would turn about to observe this wonder of God’s creation. The musical tones of her voice would entrance them, fill them with desire, and lead them to forget what they were talking about.

The image of Evelyn formed into her mind as she imagined her character mingling below. She would sail across these shark-infested waters like a master mariner. The art of conversation was as important for Evelyn as any other artistic skill conquered over the years. In this case, she knew her body would be the first attribute many noticed, her voice, second, with her thoughts and persona a distant third and fourth. Yet it was the latter that would eventually enthral them and subjugate them to suit her will. These men and women would become her pawns to be used as she saw fit. Because of their inherent power within society itself, the effectiveness of these people as tools was greatly enhanced.

Evelyn also knew how far these sheep could be led. This was a game played many times before, a game with known rules and measured variables that required a certain scientific zeal. It was also a form of art, since it took more than crunching numbers to be effective and required a natural penchant to master the craft. Despite the natural skill and knowledge she possessed, there remained the need to rely on the ageless task of practise to gain that masterful edge.

It was a shame that there was always someone ready to take advantage of such circumstances in the world. Were politicians and used-car salesmen not proof?

* * * *

The show ended in a spectacular finale, moving the entire crowd. With the last note, everyone arose from their seats with wild applause. The crowd’s love and adoration was centred on the one man who, through sheer willpower, created such a spectacular performance.

The applause stretched on and the conductor bathed in the crowd’s adoration. Victoria then realised that this performance was his art, his gift to the audience. This led Victoria to wonder exactly why her character never really embraced music. Now that was an interesting question, considering Evelyn sought to master as many fields of art as possible. Yet, she took a marginal interest in the creation of musical works.

This realisation permitted Victoria to peer more deeply into the very soul of her character. Here was a woman, the embodiment of art, who never took interest in the graces of music. Instead, she concentrated on other avenues of creativity, those revolving around creations that were timeless. These works would be admired for millennia, even if their creators turned to dust long ago.

Perhaps this was a case of control in which Evelyn wished to create a work and have others see it as she envisioned. Music, even played by the greatest musicians in the world, would never be played exactly as the composer intended.

This seemed far too perfect an answer to fit her character. This woman was indeed a puzzle, with pieces that changed at random. It was as though the pieces were fractal in origin and just as infinitely beautiful. No, there was something else hidden in the shadows, concealing the true reasons for her choice of paths.

Victoria stood up and noticed that most of the hall was vacant with Heaven’s hand protecting nothing more than empty seats below. She shrugged while looking behind her to find the exit. No matter how many times she visited, Victoria still needed to orient herself at every attendance. This was an oddity, considering her normal sense of direction. Was this a case of how diabolically clever the architect was in creating this structure? Had he or she opted to make the passageways emulate a maze over the function of a city grid?

* * * *

After stumbling into the front foyer, Victoria picked out her coat from the cloakroom and walked out into the cool night. It was raining this evening, with the streets glistening from lights above while shimmering intermittently from the falling droplets. This produced a most breathtaking scene and was always an inspiration to witness.

Rain, to Evelyn, was nearly a religious experience. Rain held immense power in the eyes of her character, almost godlike. This singular phenomenon soothed the broken earth and grew bountiful crops. Rain also cleansed the streets of all the filth and made entire settlements disappear overnight with its rage.

It was humbling, to say the least, especially as Victoria walked in a soft and gentle rain. It was difficult to imagine such a thing being so destructive, even after having read of such occurrences in the news dozens of times in her life. The author disassociated the two types of rain and was left with a twinge of guilt at her nonchalance.

Evelyn experienced no guilt over such matters—of that, Victoria was certain. While highly human in morale, she did not see death as an end, but more of a beginning. Rain provided a way for those living under the harshest conditions to escape from their social shackles, and this phenomenon applied to her character. Surely this was possible for others in similar circumstances?

Victoria did not answer, at least not immediately, since it required more insight on her character. The image fractured by the puzzle was slowly beginning to take shape. Yet there were gaps in the overall portrait Victoria envisioned.

It was odd how she chose a work of fiction to guide her in life. She supposed there were far worse things to look upon. She thought of the youth with their pictures of overpaid athletes, musicians, and even the popular actors of the silver screen. At the very least, her character, an aspect of her wants, needs, and deepest desires, was more wholesome than an icon of this popular materialistic world.

She arrived at an intersection and waited for the lights to change before she crossed. The rain continued to trickle down from the sky, and she smiled while looking at the halos forming around the streetlights. It was great to be alive, to enjoy the little things of this world. Greater still was the ability to relish in these moments as though they were her last, leaving her to feel blessed.

Perhaps it was just her light mood, one triggered by the vivid music played this evening. She cared not for the reasons, only that it was invigorating. When all was clear, she inched closer to her home. Victoria looked forward to arriving, slipping off her coat, kicking off her shoes randomly, and finally plopping her body onto a soft, comfortable chair.

Like one of Pavlov’s experiments, she instinctively reached into her coat pocket to find her keys. The soft metallic keychain and all the familiar jagged edges were comforting between her fingers.

In spite of this, there was something else in her pocket that seemed unfamiliar to her. At first, the alien presence triggered a sense of worry but was overruled in short order by Victoria’s curious nature. The writer wondered what it was, so she grabbed the object with her hand. Was it something long forgotten? Perhaps it was nothing more than a store receipt that had gone through the wash?

“Likely it is a receipt for the cloakroom,” Victoria pondered.

Victoria headed toward a streetlight to get a better view. The light chased away the shadows surrounding her, leaving her with a clear picture of what she had in her hand. At first, it seemed as though it was an egg, judging by its shape. Somehow the weight seemed wrong, denser than something she would get from a market.

Details at the centre line revealed a string wrapped around the object. Her fingers ran over the knot, finding that it gave way, which caused the outer shell to peel apart. What was originally one item broke into two distinct pieces.

The shell appeared to be made of plain brown paper. She saw some writing, determined it to be French, and somehow managed to decipher the words Je Me Souviens into the English phrase ‘I remember.’

“I remember what?” wondered the puzzled Victoria.

She turned her attention to the core of the object. The object was far more spectacular than originally thought. The crystal surface was smooth to the touch with no visible imperfections. Within, lay a small statue made entirely of what she believed to be jade.

Victoria could not precisely identify the material used due to the poor lighting. She would be sure to examine the object in more detail once she got home. Somehow, she already knew what it was—she sensed it. This would be the image of a woman sitting in a court gown with a youth and beauty that were not to be surpassed.

From the limited light, she saw her suspicions were correct. How was it that this item existed at all? Furthermore, how did it find its way into her pocket? No one knew about her book, nor about the painting created a few months back. Storekeepers, perhaps, could guess her intent, but how would they fathom the end goal with such clarity?

As she continued to peer into the crystal, she saw the uncomfortable pose this lady assumed in an effort to appear more striking to the artist. Truly spectacular to see such an object reinforce every detail envisioned beforehand. Had she come across this object before?

* * * *

Victoria passed by the doorman, giving him a polite smile and little else. She was in a hurry to reach her desk and could not be bothered with pleasantries. She ran up the stairs and darted through the door. Once within, it was a flurry of activity culminating in the plopping of her slender frame onto the rigid desk chair.

Turning on her banker’s light, one that complemented her antique typewriter, Victoria looked for missed details. She saw the sharp outlines of the carving’s face and the smile that still haunted her dreams.

Other details regarding the hands and the dress were visible. Obviously, this artist had dedicated far more time to creating this piece than, say, a mere souvenir. This alone left her with the impression that it was probably worth a small fortune to a private collector.

“To capture one’s beauty…” Victoria said.

It was true the size would make it harder to master, yet that was not a motivating factor in all of this. This was an attempt to create a work of art from something that already existed in nature, capturing the beauty of a woman at one singular point in time.

“Like a photograph,” Victoria said.

She realised this was in fact the reason her character never took it upon herself to create musical works. Evelyn needed a model from which to draw her inspiration. Her creations were not sourced from a flowing spring of creativity.

“So very different,” Victoria said about making this realisation.

Or was it? Could this writer honestly say any of her works were created without any ideas previously absorbed from day-to-day life? Though Victoria sensed her imagination flowed more easily than it did for her character.

Suddenly a twinge of fatigue from the evening’s event washed over her and led her to wonder if this was becoming habitual. The author stood, stretched, then headed into the bedroom. After changing into her nightgown, Victoria decided that tonight she would rest and add to the ever-growing tome in the morning. Moreover, when curiosity was once again piqued, she would attempt to learn more about that message left for her.

“What will I dream of tonight?” Victoria said as she slipped into the welcoming covers of her bed.

PART II – DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 12

TEAR

Victoria’s mind could not get over her find! There was something peculiar about it, other than the fact it should not exist, and though sluggish from fatigue, her mind kept running through every minute detail. A multitude of questions floated around her mind, leaving her to toss and turn. It was as though the Sandman refused her an audience. No matter how comfortable she got, nor the sleeping aids employed, sleep would not come.

With a full night of battling against her mind, Victoria slipped out of her bed, defeated. The object haunted her. Even as she showered or nibbled on breakfast, she thought of nothing else. It became obvious these questions would need an answer before she could rest; it seemed like her luck had run out. This time, the answers would require her to get her hands dirty.

Eyes heavy with their desire for sleep, Victoria considered turning to her book collection for help. These tomes had been at her side throughout her schooling and contained mountains of information on statutes, criminal codes, and past precedents dating back to the birth of a nation. Yet, for all their combined knowledge, they covered little on the subjects of art, glasswork, or carvings.

If she sought a solution to this puzzle, it was not to be found within the comforts of her own home. A world full of information did exist out there, so grand in scale it was impossible to collect at a central point. Now, one switched on an app or typed a few well-chosen words on some keyboard and was connected to limitless knowledge. Times change, so why were these tools absent from her home?

Victoria rummaged through the clutter in her mind, searching for someone to help, and eventually stumbled on the memory of a jeweller from her distant past. Was he still around? Was he still alive? She was unsure of his whereabouts but was too absentminded to consider picking up the phonebook.

The author took the object in hand and was about to walk out before she paused. Had she considered the value of this object? Either way, the commercial value was irrelevant, but would she sleep soundly again if it were lost?

So Victoria dug out an exquisite velvet bag normally used for choice jewellery. With its contents cast away as seemingly nothing more than junk, she placed the object within and left the home. Now with nothing more on her mind other than the statuette, there would be no deviations.

Normally, the author would have walked to her destination, taking the opportunity to enjoy the pleasant city life, a city that was nothing shy of a metropolis, one of the first, with skyscrapers of pure architectural genius piercing the sky. This urban environment was nonetheless a dynamic maze of streets and avenues, reason enough to take a cab when haste was required.

* * * *

The ride was surprisingly short, considering her fatigue-induced impatience. She paid the cabby, slipped out, then hurried into the store. Victoria was instantly brought back to a time when her parents were browsing displays with their young child in tow. They were determined to find the perfect piece of jewellery, one which symbolised their love for one another. It was during this interlude that she learned of the challenges in materialising concepts like love.

What they found earlier on their search had proven to be too common, seeing as price was no concern. She remembered being dragged along despite her protests, tantalised by the expensive jewellery, and yet they never found their prize.

Therefore, the couple began to consider other alternatives, evolving their search from an item to someone to fulfil their vision. In this case, it turned out to be the jeweller standing before her. A feat, as she had considered him old as a child and that would only worsen over time.

The end product was nothing short of a miracle. How this man was able to comprehend her parents’ request and somehow conceptualise it was beyond belief. When the paired rings were brought before them, it was as though they had been forged from the fires of their desire. These were works of sheer beauty, but not because of the wealth of gems they contained or the rarity of the metals used.

The first ring, worn by her father, relied heavily on onyx and white gold to create a star-filled sky. When she looked upon his ring, Victoria was reminded of her youth spent staring at the Milky Way. It seemed as though the stars twinkled defiantly, pushing away the night. At the centre of the ring was a beautifully polished opal that represented the moon.

Her mother’s ring was composed of a diamond, white gold, and mother of pearl. This ring created the illusion of looking into Heaven itself. A high-carat round-cut diamond was embedded to represent the sun, while mother of pearl and white gold created the contrast of a cloud-filled sky. The design was lighthearted and suited her jovial nature perfectly.

Victoria remembered how these rings, when paired, embodied night and day, or the feminine and the masculine. Two halves that, when placed together, completed the whole. Sappy, perhaps, but the rings seemed matched in temperament while having the unique workmanship the buyers sought.

It was a relief to find the jeweller here. How long had it been since she saw him last? This man, for all intents, was identical to her memory of him. Though his face was perhaps a bit more wrinkled, his hair a bit thinner and filled with more salt than pepper, the essence of this man remained the same.

At first, Victoria was nervous, unsure of how to introduce her request. What if she were questioned on the origin? Or worse, what if she were to be implicated in an elaborate international theft ring! Would an officer of the law believe such an object had somehow fallen into her pocket?

Before she could formulate a question, the man looked up, curious. Bashfully, Victoria pulled the treasure out of her pocket and brought forth from the velvet bag a glorious beacon that reflected the sun’s rays. Hesitantly, she extended her arm with unspoken intent.

“What is this?” the man asked.

He looked upon the object and then looked to her as though seeking permission to proceed. Victoria replied with a nod, retracting her hand once care was assured. She examined him as he did the item, both filled with curiosity as to what they were seeing.

“The lead crystal work is exquisite with no bubbles or imperfections in its formation,” the man said.

Victoria listened to his every word, noting that he seemed as entranced by this item as she had been.

“What is this inside? Some sort of greenstone or serpentine verdite?” the man asked.

He did not await an answer and sat down at his workbench. With careful and meticulous movements, he focused on the item. Then, with a bit of white light, he was able to bring forth details.

“It is about the size of an egg, but the top is elongated… Shaped more like a tear… Hmmmmm… Fascinating!” the man exclaimed.

At the mention of the word tear, Victoria’s mind conjured up the image of a woman focusing on one of her entrancing green eyes. The author observed while water pooled by an outer edge of the eye moments before a tear was shed. As the eyelids closed shut, the movement flashed before her as though taken in stop-motion photography. From this vantage point, she was free to witness the very creation of the tear.

The author saw this happen in exquisite detail, witnessing the pool shift as though a large body of water was tossed about. There even seemed to be mist, reminding her of a wave crashing against a rocky shore. It was an overwhelming emotion that brought about the tear’s creation, Victoria realised, seeing now what had been the trigger.

As the tear grew to the point of breaking away from its origin, Victoria saw the reflection of a painting before her. A portrait of a woman sitting upon a chair with every detail of her dress, hair, and smile represented to the fullest. In her mind’s eye, Victoria witnessed the unveiling of Evelyn’s portrait.

“You can see details far beyond works normally crafted in this size… The shape of her nose…eyes are actually shaped and not simply two punctures…her smile…her smile…” the man said.

He went on with his inspection. Meanwhile, Victoria remained fixated on that image as she ran over the newly discovered nuances in the scene.

The details of the reflection were the very same as those carved into that tear. She visualised every vivid aspect, the wild strokes that formed the base and background, the specifics thrown in overtop as though building up a foundation. Other reflections appeared in the tear when it broke free, rolling down her character’s cheek.

At first, she made out the painter’s face, his rough beauty filled with worry. All of this had been written before, yet this vision consolidated every thought she had on this key point. Once the tear rolled off the cheek going into free-fall, it reciprocated a change of scene.

“I wonder how he managed to put the figurine so cleanly into the glass… No holes for braces… No imperfections from two halves being joined… Her smile.”

Entranced as he was by the figurine’s smile, so was Victoria with her unfolding vision. She peered deeper into the studio and within the shadows the silhouette of a lone figure stood. Who was this individual?

* * * *

Victoria decided to walk back home. With her fatigue now mysteriously gone, it left behind an odd sense of euphoria brought on by her vivid experience. While moving across streets, past both traffic and people, she spent her time reliving that one moment in her mind. During her iterations, she would seek some new angle, something that would provide her with answers.

Instead, she came across a store front, stopping cold in her tracks. She spotted something from the corner of her eye and, judging from the look of the place, it was probably some sort of travel agency. This was one of many such places which peddled hopes and dreams to people whose stress levels were far too high to be healthy. The author pulled a tattered piece of paper from the depths of her pocket; Victoria compared the words and found them to be a match. Je me souviens.

“That’s one question answered,” Victoria said while she opened the door and stepped inside.

CHAPTER 13

KEY

Victoria could hardly believe it! No one she knew would have imagined her trekking through another country in pursuit of discovery. Even to her, the idea of committing such an act a year ago would have been sheer fantasy, especially when justified only by a desire to satisfy her curiosity.

Nor would they believe the mention of a car. She hated the things, except for taxis, preferring to use other methods of transportation to these overpriced contraptions whenever possible. How was it possible for an invention that so changed the world to give her such a headache? Their presence changed the surface of the world, shortened distances, and made it possible for her metropolis to exist. Yet for all her love of the city, it seemed a small sacrifice to trade it all for a simpler life.

Victoria thought back to the events surrounding her purchase. The idea of renting had been considered, yet crossing an international border involved a complex series of bureaucratic hoops to jump through. Why go through such a process when one could simply drive through in their own vehicle?

She remembered the salesman observing her from a distance, a man who pegged her as someone who was there to purchase some sort of ultra-fuel-efficient sub-compact. He began by showing her base models, speaking of such fabulous features like cup holders, air conditioning, anti-lock brakes, and bucket seats. All of this jargon simply bored her.

The owner passed by and recognised Victoria through dealings with her parents, and in that moment the salesman’s tune changed. She thoroughly enjoyed watching that man’s face turn white after he was taken aside for a private chat. Freed to walk about, she looked around for an automobile that suited her tastes.

The inner workings of these machines remained a mystery to her; for that, she placed the blame squarely on her curriculum. It seemed such matters were not normally covered within the halls of a law school, and her parents had insisted on a more cultured high school curriculum. Nonetheless, it did not take Michelangelo to appreciate the Mona Lisa, nor would she have to be a mechanic to find certain cars pleasing to her eye.

Victoria made her choice, settling on something that simply seemed to fit her in every way, right down to the vivid royal-blue colour. With a glance to the owner, his underling was availed as a runner who completed the necessary paperwork before the end of business.

Now, she drove along an alien highway in awe of the scenery before her. While looking through the windshield, Victoria thought how picturesque it was, considering the rolling hills and forests of sugar maples, birches, and poplars. To complement the scene, there were countless pastures, farmland, and an ever-present river which followed her path. This atmosphere filled her mind with enough creative material to keep fatigue at bay.

However, it seemed a gross understatement to use the word river to describe this specific channel of water. There were times when she no longer saw the other side and was reminded of her childhood spent looking out over the ocean. It was a marvel to behold, and Victoria sensed that her character would wholeheartedly agree with her conclusion.

Some sort of attachment seemed to exist between Evelyn and this land. Did it remind her character of home despite the subtle nuances that existed between their cultures? Did these nuances add a bit of flair? Her logic agreed with this line of reasoning, thinking back to her time as a lawyer and the immense challenge of searching through cases to find precedents. It was often the interpretation of these nuances that were employed as leverage, and she found their use quite rewarding.

Another aspect of interest in such queries was how these rulings were a snapshot of society at the time. Oh how things changed; all the proof she needed was buried in her library at home.

On a personal level, something was bothering her. Victoria never considered visiting this country before now. Most of her adult life was spent within the city’s boundaries, and no matter how grim the situation became, it was home. So why was she straying so far from it?

That was a good question, one without an immediate answer, just like the slew of other questions popping into her mind daily. How could someone explain away her ability to know people, places, and languages that were previously unknown? How did someone create works of art while openly admitting to being functionally illiterate on the subject?

There existed prodigies in every field, but that was not enough to get your foot in the door. There must be a need for formal training in order for someone to paint at the level of a master? Certainly, a complete lack of practice would cause such skills to atrophy? Or would it?

Victoria was torn, so she shifted her attention to the churches and cathedrals passing her by with surreal frequency. This region seemed so pious, leaving her to wonder if her character ever saw fit to be held within the light of God. Or did she choose to hide within the shadows of the Parisian streets in defiance?

* * * *

Victoria slammed her brakes in panic when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. This was starting to become a habit. A dull-blue smoke followed the car, leaving a visible black scar upon the road followed by the acrid smell of burnt rubber. At least now Victoria knew that, if required, the car would slow down quickly in a short distance.

Without thought of consequences, she opened the door and walked onto the highway. Narrowly, she was evaded by another driver who steered away from the hazard. Had she been conscious of the outside world, perhaps she would have heard the frustrated ramblings of the driver. That remained unlikely, given that she did not even hear the constant chime emanating from her vehicle, a chime pleading for her to close that door.

Nothing seemed to matter at this point in time. Not the car with the engine still running, not the blazing sun beating down on her, not the highway traffic nor the ramifications brought on by her little stunt. Like a deer caught in the headlights, Victoria was fixated on one point, and in this case, it happened to be a house. This was a home that matched the general architecture used in the area, a style that she did not remember seeing outside this region.

This structure had its charm, with the green elongated roof swooped out like a wave toward the sky, symmetrically protruding gables, and storm shutters that would protect the home from violent winds. Victoria’s attention shifted to the green-bordered windows and freshly painted siding that completed the look. Victoria imagined this home described in minute detail as a part of some fantasy setting.

There was something to this home which set it apart, but she could not yet put a finger on it. The location was not the source. Though nestled in a field of wildflowers as the river ebbed in the backdrop, this view was shared similarly amongst its neighbours. There was nothing of mention in the architecture, as this was not a grand structure designed by a master architect. In truth, it was most likely built by settlers, so what was it exactly that drew her to this spot?

A flash of light caused Victoria to snap out of her thought process, followed by an immediate shot of pain. While blinded from the shock, the world changed before her, replacing a warm and sunny day with a night at the height of the witching hour. A silvery moon looked down over the world, its pull primal, yet the rest of the world was eerily different.

Victoria darted her eyes from left to right with the distinct impression she was being chased. On the left, there was a narrow dirt road instead of the highway she spent hours driving on. To her right, on the edge of the property, lay a dying horse.

Unlike her normal dreams, she sensed changes in odour as the tide was at slack. She even felt the mist from the waves as they crashed against the shoreline. Despite the intensity of these senses, it did little to drown out the distant barking of hunting dogs carried forth by the light wind.

This horse, pushed to the verge of death, had been left there when it collapsed from exhaustion. She looked upon the gentle beast with great sympathy and wondered who could have been so cruel. That is when pain began to shoot out through her body, clearing her mind of all sympathy or any other lingering emotion.

Pain washed over her in waves, growing with such intensity that it went well beyond the point of mortal comprehension. She struggled to keep control. She looked to her side. No longer did she have the clothes of a modern woman, but the long flowing work dress of someone who long ago walked this earth.

“Dear God!” Victoria cried out.

She noticed the inky-black stain upon her clothes. The substance consumed the fabric of her dress with every passing moment as warm blood trickled over her fingers. When she focused on the substance flowing through her hand, Victoria’s eyes widened in realisation that she had been mortally wounded.

She would have panicked if given the chance, but an overwhelming instinct for survival took hold. At first, it was a struggled step, uncertain of her footing and unable to gain resolve. The addicted moviegoer would have believed this scene to represent fate, forcing the character to keep going no matter the cost.

With renewed resolve, her legs led Victoria to the front steps. Somehow, this home appeared newly built, radiating a sense of pride from pouring one’s heart and soul into its construction. While the mind was willing, the flesh proved weak. She stumbled to the ground and deposited her weary body onto the base of the steps.

She attempted to gasp for air and found her lungs uncooperative. Her mind, seeking some sort of solution, turned its attention to reaching that door. Perhaps if she managed to scream, the door would open up and a daring rescue would follow, though it seemed so slight a chance of such an event occurring. Instead, Victoria lay there, unable to go on, her strength seeping freely from the wound as the world grew dim.

Victoria was so desperate in her fight for survival that she never noticed the door open. The light bled out into the night, giving sight of life slipping away between the hands of fate. She made another valiant attempt to move but failed, helpless to do anything more than watch the world fade to black.

* * * *

The sun’s gentle glow warmed her skin when she awoke from a trance, greeted by the purr of her car’s engine with the infernal chiming echoing in the background. With those familiar modern sounds, the author sighed in relief, overjoyed at her renewed life. If this was no more than a dream, Victoria was not willing to dwell on it for now. These things were more easily digested when the mind was ready to form coherent answers to the flood of questions.

A thought lingered in the back of her mind. Was there something here for her to find?

“I have no clue,” Victoria muttered.

She looked about, staring idly at where the horse died in her vision, seeing nothing more than seagulls overhead. She was back to the world she cherished, yet it all seemed different to her now.

Victoria stepped forward, drawn to the steps, but she lost her tenacity as she approached. She grabbed the railing near the topmost step in an effort to steady her movements and felt the cool, rough surface of the mortar used in repair. No matter the skill of those who affected repairs, over time, imperfections became more pronounced.

Her fingers glided over nooks and crannies until she found a peculiar little bump. It was smooth from countless drops of rain and endless contact with the soles of shoes. By using an errant nail, she dug into the surrounding mortar and found that it gave way easily.

Victoria toyed with this mystery until she saw the tip. The item seemed to be small and cylindrical like a ring or a locket. It yielded its secrets once freed by revealing the accompanying shaft and protruding teeth.

“A key!” Victoria exclaimed with the item in hand.

It must have been precious, given her attachment and how she loathed to leave it behind. With no other recourse, Victoria crammed this key deep into a little nook and hid it from those who sought her secrets.

Back again in the modern world, Victoria palmed the key and walked over to her car. In the comfort of her seat, she looked upon the object and wished she knew why this was so important. Did it hide treasure, secret documents, or was it nothing more than a simple house key? And what had happened to this person from her dream? Could one even hope to survive such wounds? Even with assistance?

“I wonder what you will open,” the young woman said, giving one last glance at the house in her rearview mirror.

The place felt more like a sanctuary now, a place that saved an unfortunate soul on that night. The author would be sure to add this element to her notes as it provided inspiration for future chapters. Was this truth or fiction? Did it matter? It would certainly make for an adventurous story arc!

CHAPTER 14

NOTEBOOK

Her journey remained uneventful ever since she left that house behind in her rearview mirror with the key safely stowed away in the car. There was no dark presence chasing her through the region, no one with a demonic voice for which to hail the arrival of the four horsemen. Sadly, there were no vortices of doom swirling above her head when she stopped for fuel. Arguably, people here did speak in tongues, but that was more a result of their local dialect. There would be no need to recruit a duo of priests, one young and the other old, to take on the corrupted world.

Given this lull, she took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat and spent the night huddled in a warm bed at a roadside auberge. In the morning, she awoke to a lovely breakfast where she consumed half a pint of freshly squeezed orange juice, three scrambled eggs, bacon, and unlimited coffee. Oddly enough, she was offered a pack of Morlands cigarettes to accompany her meal but thought it best to decline.

Once back on the road, time passed along with the surroundings, and yet that was not enough for her to absorb all that had happened. Time was known to mend all wounds. Would this prove to be the perfect remedy for her as well?

As an author, Victoria believed she would never be able to write such a dark scene as she had envisioned while standing on that road, and yet, it seemed so real. So vivid it was that her side still throbbed in pain as if it had been she who was injured rather than the figure in her vision. Was this a trick of the mind? Could there be answers when she had not come to terms with the event as a whole?

She continued her journey along the same route and strayed farther from civilisation. Houses, cities, and the commanding churches that were common to this region appeared with less frequency. Wilderness became more prevalent, showing a vestige of the untamed world settlers faced when they first set foot here. There was a certain romantic element to such an era, a time filled with stories of conquest and the building of a civilisation.

There were wildlife parks near her home, and she even remembered the occasional childhood trip. Such journeys required her to leave the fortress of concrete and steel behind, yet such situations differed greatly from being out on one’s own, capable of changing one’s destiny.

Perhaps being out here alone only provided the illusion of freedom. Just how random was her journey? The discovery of that artefact hidden at the small home she happened to stop by, and the fact that every licence plate registered to this land contained the same phrase found on the wrapper that had mysteriously found its way into her pocket. What were the odds of such a series of events occurring naturally? It seemed more likely to win the lottery—perhaps even for a second time.

A lone road sign appeared on the right-side shoulder. Simplistic and iconic in design, it distilled the message down to people’s most primal understanding. This one in particular served to inform any passerby of a point of interest ahead. Renewed curiosity with the desire for a change of pace led her to pull the car over. This time, she waited for the car to come to a complete stop, then she picked up a travel bag from the trunk.

“I need the distraction anyway,” she said lightly.

Victoria slipped the straps of the backpack over her shoulders, tightening them for comfort. With the weather blessed by a warm sun, accompanied by cool prevailing winds, it created the perfect set of conditions to help Victoria find the strength for a long hike. Time to shift her thoughts to something else for a while.

She trekked down the path as time flew by while navigating the network of trees, roots, and rocks. She found that it was not much of a challenge for her, yet the scene’s intrinsic beauty kept her mind alive. How could so simple a pleasure entertain her as it did?

Time was fleeting in nature, shown to be the harshest of masters when one wanted nothing more than for the day to end. Today she hoped this master would bless her with a never-ending journey. Nonetheless, Victoria saw it as a sign that things were going well, and she took the opportunity to enjoy the moment.

Enjoy, she did. Victoria stopped by the shore overlooking the river and took in the breathtaking view. Water stretched on forever, with the opposing side out of sight. In the distance, she saw a tanker ship float by that seemed no bigger in size than a child’s bath toy.

Closer to the shore, she saw an island, beaten by the elements and forgotten by time. She was curious about such an anomaly. The young woman was in awe of the defiance this landmark had shown against the onslaught of Mother Nature and Father Time.

To Victoria, it seemed rather silly to personify an island. It had likely been part of the shore thousands of years ago and then torn from the mainland by erosion. Nonetheless, the author looked over this remaining defiance and smiled as an idea of pure mischief popped into her mind.

* * * *

The author’s body glided through the water as though she were born to it. The water was frigid, something not considered until too late. Perhaps she should have expected as much from a large body of water? Did she not learn this years ago when she had ventured into the ocean? Even so, this virgin nudist enjoyed the experience; the water constricted the blood flow and made her skin tingle.

When the swimmer reached the island, she lifted her body from the water’s grasp, settling herself under the sun to dry off. Victoria smiled while looking to the other side and spotted her things tucked away under a few shrubs.

Once dry, Victoria opened up a plastic bag that contained a notebook and pencil. She packed it in an odd chance her muse came and would now use it to record her legendary journey.

“I claim this land in the name of…” Victoria giggled.

She enjoyed the pride felt for this stunt, assured that Evelyn would have done the same. Since mischief was the trademark of her character, did the alternative mean a life of prim-and-proper boredom?

It took no time at all for this island to yield all of its secrets. Trees set upon the isle were dwarfish, nearly as tall as the brush on the shore. They were twisted and deformed from sweeping winds, a testament to life overcoming adversity. Victoria made a note to explore this concept further, given that she believed a relationship existed between the two.

She moved from the sandy shore into the lightly wooded area. Victoria found a fallen tree trunk and settled down against it, supporting her back comfortably. She thoroughly enjoyed the stunning view of the shoreline and the fact that it provided a measure of isolation that doubled as cover. Comfortably warm, Victoria opened her notebook, leaving the sun as sole witness to the heart and soul poured onto these virgin pages.

* * * *

The most difficult part of any writer’s day was insight on where to start. Should the tale of the key’s discovery be chronicled in detail? Perhaps create a new work of fiction that did not involve Evelyn or her era? She might turn this notebook into a diary, writing her every secret with no fear of reprisal. Who knew? Perhaps she could share it with her kids when and if that opportunity arose.

“No! That simply will not do,” her voice comforted her while opening the floodgates of creativity.

Unfortunately, what flowed past proved to be nothing more than a trickle of inspiration, originating from a source no greater than a cheerful brook.

It was a shame, considering the nice weather and freedom from her mundane life and social norms. It should have made this event special, yet with no muse, how could it be? She wondered if her character ever had bouts of stale creativity. She doubted that an artist of her calibre was able to live without tasting the fruit of creation. She was an artist, a writer, and a poet all mixed into one… She was…

The sound of the pencil’s friction against paper awoke her senses. The writer looked down and saw a page that did not contain prose but formed the basis for a drawing. Victoria’s eyes gleamed with interest. She stuck out her tongue while engrossed in completing the task. This artist allowed her hands to perform magic, seemingly on their own, moving about the page as though possessed.

The image took form at a furious rate, with every new detail burned into her mind. Her concentration was fixed on this piece of paper until it was completed an hour or so later with an image that would forever haunt her.

“Evelyn,” she said slowly.

Victoria allowed the image before her to merge with those already in her mind. This was the portrait of a young woman wearing a dress afforded only by affluent members of the court. A woman who seemed to be staring out at her from the picture with ageless eyes. She had never experienced a childhood, of that Victoria was certain. The proof was in those eyes, reflecting back years of life experience that pushed away any hint of innocence.

Victoria flipped to a new page and began to write what came to mind.

* * * *

The young courtesan moved through the streets of Paris with a skill that came to those who grew up among them. No guide or King’s cartographer could comprehend the complex network of streets and alleyways she utilised to return home.

The woman passed under the shadows of a great Church, standing taller than any structure surrounding her.

“All for the glory of God,” she hissed.

The woman paid no heed to those around her while remembering how the clergy would scorn her. Odd how these same men would attempt to solicit a confession from her when they believed no one was looking.

If God truly existed, then why was she robbed of her rightful position in the courts? How was it she was made to suffer the humiliation of pleasing men day and night? Oh, their foul stench and seed! A constant reminder of the permanent sin she was forced to endure to simply survive!

The deity of this corrupt Church truly did possess a sick and twisted sense of humour. Who could argue that when the Sun King had more mistresses at his beck and call than there were women in her brothel? Ordained by God, he wreaked destruction with his wars and spread his filth across the world without fear or reproach from these so-called men of the cloth. How was it not a joke to think of this man as saintly or godlike?

These feelings began to subside when she turned a corner. Evelyn put on a well-practised smile as a gentleman approached—on his way to a function, judging from his attire. It was a reflex, really, always on display in case someone enjoyed the merchandise offered. In this case, the item for sale was a young and scrawny girl who lacked the attributes of a blue blood’s breeding.

He passed her without interest or even the benefit of a glimpse. She sighed, knowing many did not consider her pretty; it was a wonder her mistress kept her around at all. Perhaps the Madame believed she would fatten up in time? Small chance of that ever happening, especially considering what she could afford to eat. She was quickly approaching the age associated with being an old maid and her dreams of marrying her own prince were in no rush to be materialised. Afterall, such dreams rarely belonged to those who pleased men for a living.

“An old maid,” Evelyn said.

She rather liked the idea of becoming too old to marry. No man had ever been good to her in her life. Not the clergy nor her father who abandoned her the day she was born. Anyone who left their daughters to be whores hardly encouraged warm feelings. Examples of chivalry and gentlemanly behaviour were rare. Instead, she prayed her clients would let go quickly and fall into a deep sleep. That would at least leave her with a moment’s peace.

Once at the back door to her brothel, Evelyn took a deep breath. She needed to be on her best behaviour tonight as only money would save her from a life on the streets. That was a fate she wished no one to suffer but witnessed far too often. With the most radiant and practised smile, Evelyn opened the door, ignoring the foul odours of sex, dried blood, and stale wine.

“Bonsoir, Madame!” Evelyn said brightly.

* * * *

“Good evening, Madame,” Victoria said in the comfort of her car as tears streaked down her face.

The harsh world crushing those at the bottom was incomprehensible to Victoria, yet something told her that such a life would not last. How else could Evelyn still haunt her dreams if this was all this character achieved?

Was this all that was to be written about her character? She had nothing more than memories of an old painting aged by time and various re-creations in her possession. Perhaps this was her subconscious way of paying homage to those who had struggled through life? Unlike the life she led. Perhaps the goal was to instil her with harsh lessons only life could offer.

No, that seemed far too farcical an idea to be remotely true. So why was her muse working like she did? Why was it all coming in such a fractured state? Would such stories return to her? Would they haunt her as this one did?

Victoria was not an expert on such matters, nor did she imagine anyone capable of assisting or guiding her. Like all good mysteries, it often left the reader to speculate on the guilty party until the end. Was that not the point of such tales? Victoria did not know all of the answers. She only knew of the clues left behind for her to find. With the long road ahead, Victoria was sure her mind would find reasons behind this turmoil enveloping her.

CHAPTER 15

SLUMBER

Evelyn was jolted awake from a deep slumber with her mind feeling both numb and detached from her body. This sensation gradually subsided and the young woman began to feel a cool breeze flowing over her body. Was she outside?

The taste of iron became more pronounced, leaving her parched. A sense of discomfort grew with that singular feeling of being out of place, but she could not pinpoint the source. It even took a moment for her to realise she needed to move away from the breeze or somehow prevent it.

Her eyes were heavy like they were weighed down with lead bars; it seemed as though the act of opening them would require Herculean strength. Eventually she succeeded but was greeted with nothing more than darkness. Evelyn turned her head, looking about as though in a daze, pausing when she saw an orb of shining silvery light.

Her eyes adjusted to the world, and what she saw transformed from a shapeless white hue to a celestial object observed thousands of times. Her eyes focused on the moon while details of its face appeared, eventually accompanied by stars in the heavens. Finally, the outline of a window appeared, and she saw curtains sailing on the wind.

She was cold, so Evelyn reached out to find something to cover her body. Her hands glided over her body, then around where she lay. She felt the texture of the cloth and was comforted by the thought of waking up on a bed this eve.

Unfortunately, that sensation was pushed to the pit of her stomach, forcing up bile once her hands slid over something unexpected. It was cold to the touch, thick and viscous, reminding her of spoiled milk. Evelyn panicked, her body reacting on instinct, and she launched from the bed. For all the effort expended, it proved foolish. She lost her strength and was weightless until she came in contact with the floor.

Her head throbbed as she waited for the ringing in her ears to subside. Once the stars faded from her vision, she looked about cautiously to note that the room was barren, devoid of life, and completely unfamiliar. Where was she, exactly?

Evelyn sought to control her growing panic, taking in large, measured breaths to calm her heart. It was then that she looked upon her own nude body covered in that same dark and viscous substance she had noticed on the bed. Panic moved back into the forefront, and her eyes darted about. She heard no sounds other than the wind and the occasional rustling leaf out in the distance.

It was eerily quiet, the polar opposite of her time spent on the streets of Paris, a place where she never recalled such calm. There was a myriad of sounds blanketing the city, with horses trotting over cobbled streets, and drunks singing while people lived out their lives. Wherever she was, it certainly was not within the city?

Silence was normally a comfort to her in such moments. At this time, Evelyn wished she heard just one of those familiar sounds, even the sickening breathing of one of her rutting patrons! Her prayer went unanswered, so she remained immobile while contemplating her situation. Would her strength eventually return to her?

It took Evelyn the better part of an hour to recover from shock. By then, the breath she drew created a fog and left her with the choice of hiding or investigating what exactly was on that bed.

Evelyn chose the latter, so she crawled to the edge, sliding her hands over the side until she reached her destination. She advanced cautiously to look over the surface, then found a pair of eyes that stared back at her. Fear caused her to gasp, but despite the horror, she was unable to break eye contact. While shaking like a leaf, she stared helplessly at these eyes, asking herself one question.

“Why?” Evelyn asked herself.

In truth, she knew full well why there was a corpse. Even in the moonlight, she identified the dearly departed, the body that had grown cold and blue; stripped of life and vigour. The deceased face was frozen in shock, her gaping mouth attempting to utter a scream that would never be heard.

Shame fell over Evelyn when she realised what was the cause of this bizarre attack. Memories of last night took shape by coming through in flashes of light and sound, similar to an old movie projector. With every scene that passed by, she felt more ashamed of her actions.

It had started out as a lovely week. Her captain brought in a maid to handle all of the daily chores and attend to the needs of the Lady. This was new to Evelyn, as she was unaccustomed to it. In fact, she was rather giddy at the idea of having someone to look out for her, dress her, and even brush her hair while they talked about mundane topics.

Her servant had been older than Evelyn by a few years, an old maid born into a poor family and forced to provide as best she could. Her employment in this household would have been a dream come true. Even with the secretive nature of her work, the pay was more than thrice the going rate.

Evelyn never expected to grow fond of this woman. She saw her as a sister and began to spend time with the maid even when there was no need. They chatted away while Evelyn stared into those deep, blue eyes, becoming enraptured by their innocence.

These feelings progressed well beyond where they should have and became twisted into feelings of lust. One night with her liege absent on business, the two were free to explore the manor. They giggled and laughed as they trespassed over every inch of the home, finally stumbling upon a lonely room, a room that was empty except for a bed that was soon under siege by two willing bodies.

Evelyn remembered little else from that point on, only the warmth of their bodies and the extreme ecstasy which prevailed in her mind. She never before experienced such passion, and at the peak of her excitement, a new sensation overtook her senses. From that point on, she saw nothing more than blood, clouding her vision and dulling her mind.

Memories were confirmation of her involvement in this travesty. She reached for the maid’s hand, trying to find a faint sign of life. She hoped her body would just rise and things would return to normal. Yet the murderer felt only the stiff resistance of this woman’s rigor mortis. It was the cold chill of the grave, and she knew the magistrate would exact his pound of flesh in penance.

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes in sorrow for the beautiful life she ended. For years, her prayers had gone unanswered to the point of having forsaken God. Now, it seemed she would be damned for going against his tenets.

Suddenly, the door blew open, and Evelyn turned to gaze at a storm bearing down on her. This tempest made brutal contact, throwing her violently against the wall. Her mind went numb, and after her body slid to the floor, she drifted into unconsciousness.

The next evening, Evelyn awoke in her own bed with a pulsating headache. She was clean, her hair washed, and the acrid smell of burning incense filled the room. Before she stirred out of bed, the door opened, corresponding to the entrance of her liege. The young lady sighed in relief and smiled, finding that the expression would not be mirrored. Would it kill the man to make an exception?

Something seemed amiss, however, given that he seemed darker and more sullen than normal, and she soon discovered his normally meticulous boots were smeared with fresh dirt. Her heart sank, and she was about to ask, but his eyes told her all she needed to know.

That evening, a man, born of the court, helped her into her many layers of clothing. She was dressed into one of the best gowns. He then combed and set her hair, aided in the application of makeup, and selected some of the finest jewellery for her to wear. For all the care and attention he displayed, never once was there a gentle caress, a kiss, or even a single word uttered.

While in time he would eventually speak to her again, Evelyn came to realise that he would never show her any warmth. In the beginning, this bothered her, but she soon learned to appreciate the independence it gave, for it freed her to choose her own path while pushing the boundaries of lust.

* * * *

Victoria awoke from her dream, the sun shining over her face, comfortable in her hotel bed. She sighed in relief, thankful to be freed from this dream. As she looked out over the view, Victoria stretched her body, feeling every joint scream out in delight. She thought back to the dream and seemed unsure of what to make of the scene. Should she even attempt to include it with her story?

Despite the uncertainty, the author drew out her notebook. Victoria then wrote details of the dream while she considered how these elements would suit her work overall. It did provide her with a tragedy, which was generally seen as good writing, unless you were tailoring your works for children. In the back of her mind, she kept asking why a needless death was required to drive the story forward.

CHAPTER 16

LETTER

When home, as she was, people often gave into the comfort of the routine and mundane. Was it not in our nature to seek stability? To navigate away from random currents and eddies on the river of life? Victoria managed to escape this stagnant stability when she became a writer.

Life revolved around a question, one which invariably led her to wonder what would be accomplished that day. This daily divergence infused her with a great deal of vitality. Yet, it robbed her somehow of certain social aspects of her former life, unbeknownst to Victoria until she received a letter.

The doorman passed it on the morning after her return from a trip to the local store. She carried it up with her bags then promptly forgot about it until the next day. Victoria was left with much to do on her return from her excursion, which could be described as the wild side of a writer’s.

Mail had no priority in her new life. It was more of a formality for reminding her of bills due or solicitations on a cornucopia of subjects. This appeared no different than others, even if it arrived during a period when she rarely received correspondence. It was the letter’s presentation that hinted at this being no ordinary parcel.

When was the last time she saw a letter with a wax seal stamped with a signet ring? Such practices seemed out of place for this day and age, relegated to a novelty, or more precisely, an anachronism. The practice seemed more appropriate to a historical film or a dust-filled novel. Someone took precautions to seal the envelope, hoping it would not be tampered with. Or was this done to give the sender the aura of class?

Victoria noted that this envelope had no return address, a seemingly mundane detail were it not for the fact that the postage stamp was from a foreign country. Victoria doubted she was the intended recipient, so she scanned the address to confirm. With perfect calligraphy, Victoria saw her name clearly outlined with no other recipients.

“Do I know of anyone from there?” Victoria asked.

She then thought back over the faces and names encountered through the years. While she knew people who were originally from that part of the world, none had the composure to write in this matter. Victoria sighed in frustration, cursing her own frail memory for not being able to place such an individual. How was it that she did not place a name? A simple face would do! Unless the letter was written by a stranger. A stranger?

“Why?” Victoria’s question was perfectly on target.

Although perhaps she should refrain from thinking about such matters and simply open the letter? How was it that she was both apprehensive and curious about the contents within?

For all she knew, this could be some sort of immaterial chain letter, one that demanded she mail off another ten copies by the end of the week or suffer a dull and dismal sex life. Was that a point of worry? Admittedly, such correspondence did not normally make a lavish presentation. But what better way to get someone’s attention?

Nonetheless, answers would not come about by examining the exterior. Insight came from within, so she used a fine-edged blade to break the seal. Then, she carefully peeled back the flap from the main body and brought forth its contents.

Within, Victoria found a sheet of fine-grained paper folded in three by someone who had an exacting nature. As she opened the letter, her finger ran over the texture of the paper, feeling the soft grain. This was expensive stationery, and when held to the light, details of a watermark appeared to match that of the seal.

From the outline, Victoria distinguished some of the crest’s identifying features. In the background, there was a series of flags, three on each side of the shield, and they were all tied together at the bottom. Overtop, was the familiar crown and at its centre, a shield containing three fleurs-de-lis and three other symbols she was unable to discern. Victoria was not quite certain, but there seemed to be two batons protruding from the shield itself. It was very ornate, so she wondered if it had a historical significance. Though, in this day and age, how many people would even be able to identify such a symbol? Perhaps she should brush up on Heraldry?

“Commercial?” Victoria asked.

Who could afford to have their own watermark embedded in stationery? This line of questioning came to an end once she focused on the penmanship.

“This is absolutely remarkable,” were the only words this aspiring author said while in a state of awe.

In time, Victoria would realise the distinctive and nuanced calligraphy. She even noted the thinning of the line near the end of long words. Did he use a bottle of china ink instead of a cartridge? These minute faults gave the letter a certain charm. It seemed to showcase the human side to this writer, whoever they may be.

* * * *

Every night when I was a boy, I would dream of where I would arrive when travelling my path. Would I grow up to be a brave musketeer fighting for the weak and defenceless with only the sword of righteousness and a long-feathered hat? Perhaps my path would simply follow the footsteps of my father, adding another few lines to the family’s history and heritage.

None of those questions could have prepared me for the day I set eyes upon you. Entranced by the music and architecture, you seemed moved by both equally. It was as though you experienced the emotions the artists had felt when creating their masterpieces.

Never in my life could I imagine art being so enjoyable to anyone. For me, art has always been more an appreciation of the skills others display, the same skills I found lacking personally. I find, for my part, that I am rather envious of your ability to enjoy music for something more than a mere string of notes, measured by complexity and tempo.

Now my dreams are no longer filled with the adventures of a young musketeer. You dominate my thoughts and fill me with a sense of longing I had not experienced before in my heart. I sincerely hope that you are not offended by such an admission and, courage permitting, I hope to write you again.

Le Marquis

* * * *

She read the letter over and over, each time feeling overwhelmed that anyone noticed her. She never considered herself a radiant beauty or someone who could attract more than the ire of her parents.

Her character did not share such a disposition. Instead, she knew that her beauty had no bounds in society. With the hollowed-out values we placed on beauty, it was easy to imagine Evelyn wielding her appearance as a weapon. Did this not make her as dangerous as she was beautiful?

It seemed obvious that she now had an admirer, one who chose to use a rank in the French hierarchy. Why did he use that specific title? Would he have the courage to send her another letter? Perhaps in time, he would see fit to identify himself. Then, she might learn how they met ages ago? Would it disappoint her if that were so?

“How would Evelyn react to such a letter?”

She laughed in response, knowing that her character would react with nonchalance. Admirers were part of the game, another variable to be used as pawns in her matches.

Victoria noticed that she was yawning. Perhaps it was from fatigue or an unconscious desire to explore this revelation in her dreams? Would she be the young countess walking along the beautifully kept gardens in a quest to find her secret admirer? Would he whisk her away from the prying eyes of the court? Would her heart melt as his lips touched hers? Would she be entranced by his deep hazelnut-coloured eyes, long untamed hair, and sharp features?

At this point, it was all conjecture, and Victoria was content to dream of such matters. Perhaps she would be disappointed if these letters never amounted to anything, though for the moment, her mind was alive with activity, which was enough. It seemed that her very being required freedom to dream of life with another.

* * * *

The room had long ago been abandoned to the elements and was barren except for a thin layer of dust. The windows were seized and covered in a grimy filth that made the room appear as though it was formed out of a nightmare. Some of the panes were cracked and loose, permitting pigeons to roost within. In the corner, staring out a window, stood a man smoking a cigarette. Every so often, details in his face would light up in a hellish red hue only to disappear into the shadows a moment later.

Hunched over a tripod-mounted telescope, this man seemed intent on his task. While looking through a carefully cut portion of the windowpane, he found he had just enough clearance to get a view of what was going on. From his vantage point, he saw his target enter the bedroom with a letter in hand. His face cracked a smile, cigarette balanced expertly upon his bottom lip.

From his breast pocket, he produced a mobile phone and, without a glance, pressed a button that dialled a programmed number. He placed it against his ear and heard one ring before it was answered.

“She got it,” said the man, and before anyone could reply, he hung up.

After he replaced the phone, he let the cigarette drop to the floor and crushed it with his foot. Now that she was in the bedroom, he would have to be more careful of the glow from his smokes. Instead, he reached for a bag of sunflower seeds and began to munch on a few at a time with the echoes being his only companion tonight.

His task was easy: conduct surveillance on the woman who lived across the street. The most disappointing aspect of this case was the distance from his family. Of course, the fact this lady never left home for long and led a rather boring life only amplified the hardship. In hindsight, such annoyances were easily abated by the large downpayments and a promise of an even greater payoff.

As Victoria undressed in preparation for the night, the man eyed her from his distant perch and scrutinised every detail. At least she was not shy to undress in front of an open window. This may be a large city that thrived on ignoring one’s fellow man, but there were certainly more than a few perverts, present company included. Either way, he had a long night. Fortunately, there were snacks.

CHAPTER 17

BARISTA

Victoria enjoyed city walks, taking time to relish the atmosphere created by the swirling mass of people and their things. Life remained chaotic, despite humanity’s best attempt at controlling both Mother Nature and one’s self, given that there were always subversive elements to be found. Such elements could easily amount to a net positive or tear in the fabric binding society.

Victoria was unsure as to her role within society and what her lasting legacy would be. Would her words be immortalised by her writings? Were they fated to be consumed by millions and live on in popular culture? Or would it be more a case of her final breath having no more effect than the flap of a butterfly wing countering a hurricane?

No one liked to trivialise their existence, to sum up their net worth on a global worksheet and discover no change to the balance. Perhaps if she took time to get to know people better? Could she include herself in the maelstrom of society and consider a life as a celebrity or politician? Money was already available to her in excess. How difficult would it be to buy her way into either? Though, how likely were politicians or stars of the silver screen to be remembered for more than one generation? Where were the great bards of our generation? How about the great philosophers? Or had we simply lost interest in making a long-term impact on the world?

She was not sure she liked this line of thought but was fortunate to find one of her greatest diversions around the corner. These were a marvel of modern cities. They seemed to litter every neighbourhood. Fortunately, they differed from the communal baths of the Roman Empire or Feudal Japan as she was not required to be nude. Oddly enough, this thought made her blush as she opened the door to walk inside.

The aroma of the familiar bitter elixir mixed with creams, vanilla, chocolate, and a myriad of other ingredients invaded her senses. Gone were the thoughts of existentialism. Now her focus was exclusively set upon the handwritten menu hanging over the counter. Fortunately, she could still see it above the lineup that wound its way to the cash register.

Victoria loathed the cookie-cutter variants of these places, so she sought out independent shops. She had been to this one several times already, would order a different drink and sit near the faux fireplace. She watched the world fly by as she remained anchored, freeing her mind to think of various subjects, normally about her character. Sometimes a smile would appear as the author daydreamed of her creation sitting on the opposing seat, a moment in time where they would just chat over their warm drinks as all good friends often would.

The line moved forward, and her eyes returned to the menu, scanning it quickly. Some people often ordered the same thing each and every day. Some went to the extreme of dealing with one person exclusively as a way to quickly and effectively get on with their daily tasks. This dogmatic ritual in their lives helped them to combat the chaos that invariably surrounded them. How effective were these methods in reality?

For those like her, this was an opportunity to try something different and new. A novel concept for a woman of her upbringing, but how can someone know what they like or despise if they never deviate? She supposed opinion pieces in magazines and newsprint helped to make those determinations. Victoria seriously doubted she would prefer someone else’s opinion over forming her own without so much as a try.

Her eyes darted from one item to the next as the line moved forward.

“Iced hot chocolate,” Victoria said while reading over the line a second time. “What a peculiar thing to have in a boreal climate.”

She was about to giggle when she noticed the person ahead of her was turned to appeal to his curiosity. Instead of a witty remark, she averted his gaze, then blushed. Despite the years spent in this city, the author was taken aback, and even surprised, at the fact people would still lend their ears.

Moments passed and Victoria imagined, based on Evelyn’s physical age, that her character would most probably have used a smartphone to look up the definition of the word boreal. To have the world at one’s fingertips! Oh the power and responsibility that should come with such a device only to devolve into a medium for sending nudes and crude messages? What about her decision to forgo that technology and convey her thoughts on a typewriter that was considered haute technologie well before she was an idea in her parents’ minds?

A few more steps forward, and this time she was nearly at the counter, having only decided that an Iced Hot Chocolate would decidedly not do. Instead, she concentrated on the items that contained steamed milk, chocolate, caramel, or some other sweet flavour. The thought of a nice Caramel Macchiato came to mind. She imagined the hot liquid washing down her throat, then flowing down to her toes. That image alone made her entire body feel warm and tingly. The mind certainly had a knack for pointing the way!

The eavesdropper was just picking up his cup when her eyes drifted toward the barista who often worked here when Victoria came to visit. Their eyes locked, and they both smiled cordially as good partners did prior to a dance. Her father long ago taught her that dances came in all styles. Such encounters might take place on the battlefield or the boardroom, so it was best to be on one’s toes and maintain decorum.

“Good morning,” the barista said.

Victoria responded with her usual shy smile.

“Hello,” Victoria said softly.

In the back of her mind, the author almost heard her character chant something; the musical overtones of the stunning black-haired woman were faint and distant. For the first time, Victoria was befuddled over this development.

To overcome her puzzlement, Victoria sought to focus on the real and threw out some small talk. Meanwhile, she looked again to find the item that moments ago had invoked such a vivid reaction.

“What a beautiful day outside,” Victoria said with a raised voice, as though talking over her character’s distant chant.

“Is it?” the server asked.

The server took her eyes off Victoria only for a brief second, seeing nothing more than a wall of people outside. The woman leaned over the counter as though to be heard with more ease.

“Honestly, I get here before dawn and often do not leave till after dusk,” the server added.

“Really?” the author asked as though shocked.

Meanwhile, the taunts grew louder and louder, though she could not make sense of what was being said. Was the word licks being repeated over and over?

“Such a shame, really,” Victoria added.

Her face came aglow when the drink she sought was found, filling her with the same tingling sensations as before. She bit her lower lip.

“I think I will have a Caramel Macchiato,” Victoria said.

“With cream?” the server asked.

While that question was asked, the barista never broke eye contact. Victoria thought it over and smiled as a child did after tasting chocolate for the first time.

“Whipped cream and sprinkles?” Victoria asked.

“Coming right up!” The barista exclaimed.

The server then gave Victoria a wink as she moved about to conjure up this requested drink.

Victoria looked at the other woman intently while the muffled taunting remained ever present. She was brought back to memories of her childhood, more specifically at school, where children often ganged up on others. The taunting chant, the near-musical aspect of it to get everyone to join in, every element was there except for the message. What was Evelyn saying and, more importantly, why?

“Caramel Macchiato with whipped cream and sprinkles,” the barista said.

All the while she deposited the drink on the counter. The other woman moved in closer to add to the conversation as though Victoria were still invested.

“I don’t mind the hours, since I can enjoy evenings to my heart’s content. Besides, it lets me get to know folks from the area. I also like to watch people, much like you do…” the server said.

Victoria kinked her neck to the side, distracted by what was said. Then, she began to worry; the taunts had abruptly stopped.

“Like I do?” Victoria asked.

Victoria mechanically reached for her purse to pay when the other woman grabbed a hold of her. Startled, the author looked up and saw the same intense stare that had been present throughout much of their exchange. The customer stood there frozen, as though a robot looking for programming.

“It’s on the house, dear,” the barista said in reply.

It seemed so distant and disconnected a statement that even her lips seemed to move in slow motion with every movement appearing to be a breathtakingly beautiful dance move.

“Why?” Victoria asked, while slurring the words as though intoxicated.

“Feel free to repay me sometime when you have a free evening,” the other replied.

Meanwhile, she held onto Victoria’s hand as though beckoning her to reply. Instead, the barista was greeted by growing silence.

“Thank you,” Victoria managed to whisper.

Victoria took hold of the coffee cup, her hand shaking violently, risking that it would spill. With a clouded mind, she moved away from the counter and headed toward a free table until she heard.

That woman likes you! That woman likes you! That woman likes you!

The chant returned in full form with the loud, distinct words startling her.

* * * *

On her way back home, Victoria had no recollection of what happened. Did the cup drop to the floor and break? Was the smell of coffee lingering on her walk a good indication? Did she offer to clean it up or run away? Would she have been embarrassed to face the barista? Her character giggled.

You screamed like a little girl and ran out of that coffee shop in panic!

The words gave way to a laugh, one that grew more powerful and made her feel small and insignificant.

Sometimes trying something new means looking for things that are not on the menu!

At that moment, Victoria decided her imagination could use a bit of restraint, even if it seemed to be right on the money.

CHAPTER 18

DREAM

Tired?” a man asked.

That word was delivered in such a way that chilled her to the bone. Victoria shivered as dread invaded her mind, leaving it as her only companion. Was that meant as a question or as a statement?

She heard someone approaching in the distance. Without warning, Victoria sensed a chill run over her as a hand moved up her thigh. This sensation, straightening every hair on the back of her neck, felt as though she was touched by death. In the back of her mind, she thought of how she would rather sunbathe in the dead of winter than be exposed to its touch again.

“Tired of the rampant corruption? Tired of the criminal elements ruling the streets? Or perhaps you prefer hiding in the gutters while you reek of death?” the man asked.

The male voice was constant, employing precisely spaced rests measurable with a metronome.

“Tired of scum covering every visible surface, blanketing the streets and even the sheets of your bed?” he continued to ask.

The questions painted a very grim portrait of life. Despite her dread, Victoria sensed that such questions were meant to be brutally honest and sought to stir up her emotions. To what end? If only he would change his tone so this sense of dread would subside.

Such hopes were soon extinguished once his ice-cold hand moved to the base of her neck. He forced her closer to him, so close that she felt his lips tremble.

“What has the God of Man ever done for you?” the man whispered.

There followed a customary pause, yet all Victoria remembered from the question was how his breath was cool as an autumn breeze.

“Has he ever granted you a miracle or blessed you in his divine light?” the man asked.

He paused while his hands openly explored her body. Victoria convulsed in disgust and felt the urge to vomit but found no strength to do so.

“Perhaps you have opted to shy away from his light? Like you have with your father?” the man prodded.

Every word added to her sense of desperation. It was as though weights were set upon her shoulders, pushing her down and augmenting the despair. In turn, her feelings and emotions were cast away, one by one, until nothing was left behind. These questions banished her to a place devoid of light and warmth, a place where he ruled.

Victoria was frozen in fear and yet entranced by his hypnotic words. She could barely breathe. All that she managed to do was shed a tear. This tear streaked over her flushed cheeks as gravity dragged the fragile little pearl of water into the unwelcoming palm of her captor. Her heart sank deeper into the abyss when her captor brought the tear to her lips to taste its salty essence.

“Youth is fleeting as a flower, wasting away until there is nothing.” The man paused for effect. “No heads of state are immune to the sands of time as each grain will tear flesh from bone. A shame that such a fate should fall upon you.”

Victoria’s eyes opened wide when she realised the gravity of the words. Nothing. There was nothing more than darkness to greet her, leaving her to drown in her despair. Never would she think it possible to consider greeting death so soon after her parents. Nor would she complete her life’s journey to discover her muse nor the identity of her admirer.

“No. Such a fate is hardly befitting you,” the man said.

There came a pause, which left Victoria with the impression she was being examined. This vile creature was looking over every curve of her body as though he were drawing strength from her fear. Would he feed until there was nothing left?

“Death… From this point on, it shall be your constant companion,” the man stated.

Before these words settled in, her senses dulled until there was nothing. Was this her end? Was this death?

* * * *

Victoria rose from the bed gasping for air and clenching her chest. Her eyes scanned over the bedroom, looking for a sign of an assailant but finding none. A quick search confirmed that the windows were clasped, the door bolted, and every item neatly where she had left them.

Once certain of her safety, Victoria began to let her guard down and relaxed. In frustration, she ran a hand through her soaked hair while wondering how this could have been a dream. Caused by nothing more than a figment of her imagination? Was the invasion of her normally pleasant dreams to fill her with untold levels of dread?

Victoria returned to her bed and grabbed a sheet to modestly cover her body before moving into the kitchen. She was in desperate need of water, dehydrated to the point of trembling. Did dreams normally leave one physically drained to such an extent?

“I guess,” Victoria replied.

Meanwhile, she carefully poured herself a glass of water and downed it. After the second glass, Victoria moved to her desk and landed onto the chair with a loud plop. She needed to go over her dream in every painful detail in order to rationalise the affair. This would be her way of dealing with the event. Would she eventually come to terms with the symbols within?

With a light sigh, Victoria closed her eyes and grabbed stationery. When she opened her eyes, the author began to write down her dream before it faded completely.

“It all began with such a simple question,” Victoria narrated.

Committing those words to paper felt like a fitting place to start.

CHAPTER 19

CLAY

Her first attempt at painting produced some unexpected results. It was beyond her expectations to create an image so vivid and detailed that it rivalled the mind’s rendition. Not once had she faltered in its creation—or was that fiction? Could she account for every minute that passed by during her trance?

Yet that achievement was dwarfed by the work before her. What began as a block of clay was transformed into something else entirely. With her hands, water, tools, and above all, patience, Victoria looked at the bust of a stunningly beautiful woman. She pondered her work, questioning if this creation stared back at her. Was this a work that transcended both time and space to call out from a forgotten era?

“The eyes don’t seem convincing,” Victoria said, while considering the existence of her work of art.

With exception of the eyes, Victoria wondered how such details were so easily fleshed out. It was a masterpiece complete with full lips and pronounced cheekbones. She also captured the finer details of this woman’s hair, right down to the carefully prepared locks that clung to her forehead.

This was nearly a perfect reproduction of her vision, the very same woman embodied in previous works of prose and art. Still, the eyes lacked what was needed to breathe life into the work. This greatly disappointed the sculptor, since she feared that without this final touch, her work would remain incomplete.

Victoria grinned as she thought over a passage she had read as a child:

After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.

She was, in a way, attempting to recreate life using clay as the medium. Had her creation not run amuck within the confines of her mind as it did in that story?

Perhaps there were lessons to be learned with this medium. Clay, while easy to form, lacked the ability to recreate details normally found wholly through colour. Thinking back to other such creations, Victoria remembered that a vacant look was often present in busts of generals, emperors, and queens. For Victoria, the eyes represented the window to the soul, and even a master sculptor of clay was unable to move beyond this limitation. Would this realisation ease her disappointment?

“Of course not!” Victoria exclaimed.

Victoria was busy thinking that works of art left incomplete were nothing more than abominations, aberrations in the eyes of those who sought fidelity in their reproductions of life. This creation lacked such an element and was just as repulsive to the artist as an incomplete ballad. How frustrated would an audience be after they hung on every word only to find there would be no logical conclusion?

Unless the intended goal was to let the audience use their imagination? Would this not also throw in mystery or render their work a riddle? Victoria recalled how fun it had been to spend innumerable hours trying to decipher riddles by seeing beyond the literal. It was a shame that the great riddles of the Sphinx and their ilk did not translate to this medium.

It has often been said that a picture was worth a thousand words, but was this necessarily an equation? Words varied between observers and changed the perception of a work. As a lawyer, had she not spent a great deal of time interpreting words into an alternate point of view to win her arguments? Could someone equate the greatest prose to the statue of David? How about prose dedicated to describing the David?

Victoria realised these methods of creation offered alternate insight into her vision of Evelyn. All of these works were related, linked to a central point in her character’s story. So what was the significance? This author knew that without understanding the significance of the painting, she would remain at a crossroads. Was this image at the beginning or the end of her story?

“Neither,” replied a small voice, which echoed through her mind along with that distinctive musical giggle.

Evelyn was right. This must be the focal point of the story. This was not a footnote found at the periphery of the book but an image that balanced itself at the centre. So why did this seem so important?

“A counterpoint!” Victoria exclaimed.

She nearly jumped from fright at her own reverberating voice. Victoria pondered the meaning of this word and how it applied outside of its origins in music. This event served as a transition for a character, like two melodies playing together with one representing her past, the other, rebirth. It was during the counterpoint that the melody of her rebirth would take over from that of her past.

In her novel, Victoria easily envisioned the painting working similarly to the mirror in Through the Looking-Glass, a story in which a character named Alice saw both her world and a variant thereof while remaining unaware of the subtle differences between the two. Before the commission, her character would have been living a life that very few envied. To Victoria, the idea of surviving a life on the streets was nearly impossible for her to fathom, especially considering her occupation. How did Evelyn endure such a life?

“I died,” the foreign voice replied.

The seriousness of the message mixed with light in tone as though what had been said was of no consequence. This surprised Victoria as such an answer rang false in all respects. The statement brought forth a maelstrom of confusion after having just lived through the death of her parents. Victoria felt that writing about the death of her character would have a potentially crippling effect.

The voice did not reply, yet a thought floated to the surface, reassuring her that such a fate was not in store for this character. Death in this case was born from a lesser definition, known in other cultures as a symbol for transition and change.

Change was the reason this focal point existed. It symbolised her character’s transformation from simple Parisian trash to one of the greatest artists in existence. Was this not a character Victoria looked up to? Was this not accomplished in an era when women, even those of the court, would still be considered no better than chattel or property?

Victoria smiled as the veils shrouding her answer dissipated and left her with a clear vision of the scene, one containing a woman dressed in a manner normally beyond her means, but also the events surrounding its inception. This was the reason this work was on display in some candlelit hall. Victoria then wondered if such a voice could have lent credence to the legends of mermaids who lured sailors to their death.

“Very good, deary,” the voice said.

That answer gave Victoria the needed nudge to move on. The fact that these musical tones were so entrancing was a detail this author would have to capture in her book; given that such a unique ability only enhanced her story. The writer grinned, then thought that the whole of the English language would ill complement her perception of Evelyn’s voice.

Victoria looked at her creation, still incomplete, with details lacking in the eyes. Nevertheless, the creation carried a desperately needed lesson, one that would permit her to press on and provide this author with an unintended purpose.

“Perfect,” she said, while covering the bust in a sheet.

This work would remain as it was, stand as the lesson learned, and prove more valuable than the detail lost, an element Victoria swore would be corrected in future attempts. The author sighed. For now, she needed to clean up. Overall, this proved to be a small price to pay for the ability to unlock one’s insight.

CHAPTER 20

QUILL

Evelyn looked at her hands and saw her fingers were covered in welts and bruises. Indeed, she never expected such an experience, nor would she look forward to another. Despite the pain, she wondered if her captain had displayed a sliver of humanity—a shame that it took the form of a stern schoolmaster.

This all started as a surprise, given that the room had been organised according to his precise specifications while they were at the theatre. She remembered how human he seemed during that particular outing, and she came to learn it was an elaborate act he kept up in public. During the show, he periodically pulled out his timepiece to eye the mechanical wonder for a second before returning his gaze to the stage below.

At the theatre, Evelyn saw people of significance to this city. Present were the royalty, clergy, and bourgeois who were leaving an imprint on French society. This was new to her. Being amongst those who would pay for services she once offered, and yet now she was free to mingle with them as she wished. It was telling of this world when a different set of clothes permitted her to walk amongst the social elite.

She watched the show while seated next to the man who saved her from a fate worse than death, the same man who rejected the pleasures she would freely provide. This perplexed her greatly and often made her wonder how correct her Madame had been in her judgement of Evelyn’s value on the market.

* * * *

During the carriage ride, the young woman remained deep in thought, enabling her to tune out the harshness of the streets beyond her curtains. For a woman of her origins, it proved difficult to become accustomed to the comforts of a warm bed, at least one that did not smell of her latest client or that she would have to perform upon for her next meal. To many of her profession, this man was a knight in shining armour. Yet, there must have been some sort of motivation for this rescue. Odd how he seemed intent on keeping it from her. Would he ever sit down with her and reveal his reasons?

When the carriage came to a halt, a courtier opened the door and helped her down onto the cobbled stone. Once joined by her knight, she was lifted into his arms and carried inside. Her heart always skipped a beat when he did such things, taking care of being nothing less than a gentleman, and in turn, she felt like a lady. Something was amiss, however, and her heart sank when he bypassed the grand staircase. Instead of the norm, he continued straight through to an access door that led into the cellar.

His steps were precise and confident, while hers were cautious. She raised her dress to avoid soiling its delicate fabrics or suffering from an unfortunate fall. Evelyn wondered what sort of surprise this was, then began to worry about this being a punishment. Had she done anything to draw out his anger? So why did he treat her with such grace earlier?

Panic set in as his grip was lost and she was left to stand alone in the dark. Before she uttered a word, Evelyn was commanded to remain still, to which she complied, out of fear. This relationship was still in its spring, and she knew not how to interpret his moods.

A flash of light followed by the scent of sulphur flooded her senses. As her eyes adjusted, the girl saw a lantern burning brightly, though it barely illuminated this large and unfamiliar room. The man moved from one lantern to the next. The warm glow of light filled her heart while she looked over the scene.

Hung in the upper-right corner was something resembling a painting. Upon it were characters she knew as writing but was unable to decipher. The painting was colourful, containing coloured shapes with thick black borders and dots of various sizes.

In the opposite corner was a wooden board, black in colour, with writing that also covered its surface. Anchored to the wall, it seemed to lend the idea that this item was a permanent fixture. Within this room, Evelyn could vaguely discern various odours such as chalk, paper, leather, glue, and India ink. There were two desks in the room with one centred prominently on a raised platform, adorned with paper and books the size of cobblestone. Prominent in her view was a long wooden staff perfectly balanced atop the highest pile.

The other desk was simpler and diminutive in nature. The student deduced that it would suit her slender frame and was an obvious attempt to mark one’s station. Evelyn guessed her liege would command from the centre while she assumed the place of the subordinate. Without any hesitation, she moved to take her seat at the smaller desk while watching for his reactions.

Once seated, her instructor grabbed the staff and slapped it across her desk, narrowly missing her fingers. Evelyn jumped in fright, then snapped her gaze to his eyes. Was this the same man? The one who moments ago had been the perfect gentleman? Now he reminded her of a magistrate handing down his sentence.

“Hands flat upon the desk! This is a classroom, not a bordello!” her captain exclaimed.

If his statements were meant to make her laugh or cry, she was unable to tell. She did as instructed, her eyes following his every move as he paced back and forth. Was he waiting for her to make another mistake or was this a show of dominance to set the mood for this evening?

Eventually, she would make a mistake, since that was inevitable. For now, the student was far too leery of his actions to stand down her defences. She looked at her instructor as he erased the board and replaced it with a string of characters written with the precision of a monk. Once he finished writing the last character, the schoolmaster turned upon his student, pointed to the first letter, then waited patiently.

A blank stare fell upon her as she looked at the rounded and looped letter before her. She had seen writing before, upon store signs and old, discarded literature, but Evelyn never tried to identify it. Why would a whore, of all people, be required to perform such tasks? Why could he not get her a studio?

Before the answer came to mind, a loud thwack resounded throughout the room that sent a shock of pain right through her fingers. As stern as this schoolmaster was, he lacked complete cruelty in his methods as he allowed her to recover before continuing. As she looked up to him all teary eyed, he pointed to the first letter. Evelyn’s lips began to tremble in that heart-wrenching way, but his face never once registered sympathy.

Her ignorance uncovered, Evelyn gulped and responded meekly, “I don’t know.”

With the expectation of full retribution from the master, she closed her eyes and winced in preparation for a hit that never materialised. Later, she thought of how it was worse than being struck, given that the anticipation amplified emotions. Cautiously, she opened one eye. Evelyn saw him waiting for her to look.

“The first letter of the alphabet is the letter A,” her captain said.

Before she asked a question, he pointed at a second letter to start the process anew.

* * * *

Victoria stopped typing for a moment because she needed a reprieve. This was her first glimpse at this woman’s education, one that would likely lead to criminal charges if mimicked today. In her character’s time, it was rare for women to receive any schooling at all, unless those women happened to be Italian courtesans, who were expected to entertain men with their minds while they dazzled them with their beauty.

Why would her captain… She hated the fact that there was no name yet for this character, so she settled on Marc since it seemed fitting. In Latin, the word meant the god Mars. Being the God of War seemed to fit the man.

Why would Marc choose to teach her or even bother, for that matter? Something seemed amiss as a part of the puzzle remained unknown. Thinking back over the story, an impish thought entered her mind. She placed her hands upon the keys, then typed out the new scene while narrating.

“The next day, Evelyn bribed one of the staff to have her desk moved to the extreme right. She believed that moving her desk away from the board would alleviate retribution to answers she was not able to provide,” Victoria sounded out.

There was a pause when Victoria heard the familiar ding from the typewriter that prompted her to change out the page. The writer began anew on a fresh page, and the familiar, rhythmic sounds of heads colliding with the drum re-energised her creativity.

“The next evening, as expected, she was brought down. As she sat at her desk, the man looked at her and said…” Victoria narrated.

Victoria smiled, imagining the look on Evelyn’s face as those words sank in.

“Today’s lesson will be on geography,” Victoria added.

CHAPTER 21

CORRESPONDENCE

Time flew by and seasons changed before Victoria received another letter from her admirer. That letter led the charge to an influx of others. It was as though the levee had burst open, eventually reaching the point of getting letters daily. His last letters were as charming as the others, bringing forth a few subtle hints about their writer while maintaining anonymity. Even if she were a super-sleuth from the likes of an Agatha Christie novel, the identity of this admirer would remain a mystery.

Victoria thought back over everyone she had known and even went through her old high school yearbooks to retrace acquaintances. No one fit the profile of an individual who would invest the time needed to compose such letters, and judging from their track record, this young woman doubted that many of her acquaintances would even invite her for a cup of tea.

This realisation frustrated Victoria. In truth, she was more frustrated with her inability to enchant men like Evelyn could. It was that tinge of jealousy which did more to her self-esteem than a lapse in memory. Sometimes she dreamed of being her character, taking on the form of a socialite, where men and women alike would turn their heads, simply to gaze upon her beauty.

Victoria already knew her character would have rejected the first letter. She imagined Evelyn collecting the pages to burn them on his doorstep. She would then ring his doorbell and be witness to his heart breaking once he realised what she had done.

In contrast, Victoria would await his next letter in the hopes of knowing more about this elusive Marquis. He became more casual in his writings and presented her a glimpse into his personal affairs and, indirectly, into his heart.

It was surprising to be invigorated by learning such details about another soul. She seemed more empowered by each letter, more confident in her daily activities. She felt a part of this world, no longer a spectator in some bizarre play. The sense of belonging and being desired was hardly a deterrent to her mood. She even found it easier to cover the darker themes in her character’s life since they faded from memory quickly and had minimal effect on her mood.

* * * *

The letter she received in the morning marked a departure from his normal patterns. Missing were the thoughts of a young man abroad confiding to her his deepest secrets, musings, or just some day-to-day events. In contrast, this letter contained a few lines of text formed into a familiar format. It was an address floating in a sea of luxurious paper, her opportunity to send a reply.

She could finally reply to a man who took months to send her this address, someone who noticed her in a sea of people and saw what made her unique among all of that chaos. Amongst all of those obstacles and distractions, he chose to share his experiences with her. Was she his princess atop an ivory tower?

She leaned back in her wooden chair, hearing it creak while she stared at the crackling fire. She watched the flames dance around the logs while consuming them with every passing moment. It was then she realised those logs would forever be changed from this interplay. Was this not similar to passion and how it consumed those possessed by it? His letters had changed her irreversibly, and now it was her turn to take the next step. Would she step away from the flames of passion to avoid being scarred, or would she instead embrace them and chance linking their souls?

Would she put up a wall between her emotions and this man before it became too late? Difficult were decisions in matters of the heart, since hiding from life could save all that potential pain. Would it turn out to be as effective as an ostrich digging its head into the sand?

The author noted that she was subconsciously nibbling on her lower lip, a nervous habit of hers. She vaguely remembered a verse from a book read long ago:

Better to be a rose if only to bloom for a season, than a diamond eternally closed to the world.

Those words echoed back into her mind and held a ring of truth.

Victoria considered leaving this decision for another day. She would dwell on it and potentially consider some aspect currently concealed from her. Yet, this seemed petty, as it kept her admirer waiting for a response longer than he deserved. Would she appreciate being held in suspense? Had he not already held her in suspense long enough? What had been the effect on her?

Ah, but had that been part of his charm? It likely gave his words more sway, since she never assumed another letter would come. That doubt unquestionably shielded her from the emotions associated with loss.

“Prepare for the worst and hope for the best,” Victoria said, knowing a reply would force her out of the nest and into flight.

Finally, Victoria pulled her gaze away from the crackling fire to the letter, and she reasoned that this would be as good a time as any to respond. She would take a page from his book, start out slowly, and see how the events unfolded. It was the best course of action, the one that seemed true to the heart.

The author removed a fresh sheet of paper from her stack and wondered what to say. In a way, she believed she knew him better in some respects than herself. So where should one begin when balance was called for?

In a flash of insight, she began by telling him of a childhood dream involving a woman in white and how that defining moment had led her down this path. A small smile came to her lips, wondering how le Marquis would react to knowing that her character inspired her to appreciate arts and architecture.

“For now, that will remain my little secret,” Victoria said.

Meanwhile, she was thinking that every woman was entitled to a few. Secrets kept a relationship healthy, just as innocent white lies introduced some spice to life. Evelyn was surely an embodiment of this fact, given how apt she was in keeping secrets from her creator. Would Victoria ever have a complete grasp on her character?

CHAPTER 22

MALL

Will that be all, miss?” the woman asked.

Victoria appeared to be deep in thought. Of course, girl was more of an apt description for this cashier, what with the nose ring and apparent hatred for the formal clothes she wore. Victoria wondered if this girl was trying to make a bit of spare cash during the school year. Or was this a case of being forced into the job market for less desirable reasons?

While Victoria never fathomed the reason for piercing one’s nose, she could sympathise with being pushed onto the wrong path as that was still fresh in her mind. Would there be a point in showing compassion for the troubles of another? The cashier worked in a store of fair repute, though there was no shortage of such places in this mall. Besides, was it socially acceptable to show such compassion during a business transaction?

“Miss?” the cashier asked again.

Those words snapped Victoria back from her cycle of questions.

“No…I think this will suff—be fine. Thank you,” Victoria said in a shy voice while clearly pointing out how distracted she was.

Not that it mattered, since the clerk ignored the author while completing her side of the ritual.

“The total comes to one-forty-two…” the cashier said.

Victoria never heard the rest given she shut out the other voice and completed her part mechanically. She honestly was not interested in dealing with her or anyone else at the moment. It was odd, considering this trip had been done specifically to enjoy the social distraction, yet this was somehow the wrong kind.

Victoria picked up the bag, smiled vaguely, and left the store and clerk behind. She walked along the promenade while looking about, eyeing the various windows that bordered the interior. With ornate displays designed to lure you in, Victoria often wondered if the originator of this concept had seen the idea bear fruit. Was it a case where the successor reaped all the rewards?

Despite the colours and designs screaming to get her attention, Victoria still tended to stare at the floor with her feet playing centre stage. There was comfort in the mundane, the routine, and the expected, though it blinded people from the beauty surrounding them. For example, this stonework floor was cut using tiles that varied in both shape and colour. That made it impossible for an onlooker to find a pattern and lent to the workmanship having an artistic quality.

Perhaps her interest in stone was not nearly as misplaced as originally thought. Evelyn was an artist of skill with mediums that ranged from watercolours to metalwork. Despite all that, her character would insist on the use of one craft above all others. What was the root cause? Did it bring her immense joy? Was it brought about by fear or some other reason?

“No. No. No,” Victoria exclaimed, growing weary of having these questions running through her mind.

When she realised her outburst, the author looked about in embarrassment. As a blush flushed through her cheeks, she wondered who could envision a world where people showed no care for the actions of others as a blessing. Suddenly, she was a fervent believer in the concept.

Victoria decided she simply needed to stop thinking about her character. She was a budding writer, but there must be limits to the depth of her involvement. She needed to stop being consumed by her passions and give herself the opportunity to rest! After all, who was Victoria when all that remained was the embodiment of her creation?

Our intrepid traveller took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Victoria sought to wrestle control of her mind and body, then purge all other frivolous thoughts demanding her time. Unfortunately, this failed miserably, and Victoria concluded a distraction was desperately needed.

What would give her reprieve from this onslaught of questions? What would serve as her catalyst? At the moment, no answer came, so she put her best foot forward and searched for a distraction within the promenade.

Interestingly enough, Victoria never expected a store filled with knick-knacks to be an effective diversion. Such stores at one time seemed to exist in every mall. In some cases, they appeared to be cloned copies of one another. These were places that provided an eclectic touch at home. With their mazes of packed displays covering a multitude of themes, did it come as a surprise some visitors suffered from a sensory blitz?

The front rows were filled with staples expected from such an establishment. There were wind chimes ranging from soft metallic tones to the more pronounced sounds of its wooden ilk. Yet for all their charm, these would not satisfy her search.

Other sections fell into the cliché category as there were slews of plates, spoons, pens, and other memorabilia that littered tourist traps. Victoria often wondered how such objects were mass produced. One item in particular led her to wonder how anything created out of recycled soda cans could cost so much.

It dawned on her when she passed through a section that took its cues from the Orient. What caught her eye in particular were the stone works. At first, Victoria looked upon pieces of stone found in any craft store, then eventually came across a sculpture-within-a-sculpture. These creations had an embedded work within the larger one that was visible through a series of boreholes. She examined one in detail not because she considered it aesthetically pleasing but because she was curious as to how they were fashioned.

She assumed these were made hollow with the inside piece added later during the manufacturing process. Yet, there were no cracks or fissures found, and the natural veins running through the material would not easily match up. No, these had to be carved as one piece using tools she could not imagine.

Would the carver have to use the initial holes to carve out the inside piece by removing all the excess as they bore deeper into the structure? Was it similar to building a ship in a bottle? Those were created by assembling items within the constraints of the bottle and its opening. How much patience and a steady hand were needed to complete such works? This realisation caught Victoria by surprise, as though the truth had evaded her all along.

She moved on to other pieces that she would most likely find in stores throughout the continent. Victoria found carvings made out of soapstone, a malleable material used by the Inuit to capture the likeness of animals they saw or hunted. These works held no intrinsic value to her, no lesson to learn beyond what her elementary school curriculum covered.

Once she linked the choice of carving material used to the sculptures themselves, Victoria managed to gain some insight. Both had been carved out of soft stone and were not as work intensive as originally thought. This implied the choice of materials in art was critical for achieving the desired end.

Victoria’s eyes turned to other works on display. There were typical dragons and wizards holding glass gems that also served as incense burners, fountains with spinning spheres, and other nondescript accessories. She eyed the pieces and found their consistency to be far too high to be handmade.

Stone composition in this case happened to be an illusion. These pieces were fashioned through synthetic means to create them en masse. Victoria was certain people did not concern themselves with the origin of such purchases. Did we not get what we paid for?

“Too easy,” Victoria said.

At first not realising the intent those words would have, Victoria’s mind linked these words then formulated an answer to a question sought for weeks. Why did her character decide to make use of materials like marble or granite while avoiding others?

“Too easy,” Victoria repeated, this time, with a grin.

These other mediums were no longer a challenge. Instead, Evelyn experimented with new materials that would push her to the very limits of artistic creation. Only stone offered her the ability to create works of detail that would stand the test of time. This material would also remain a challenge, even after years of practise. She endeavoured to move beyond the soft mediums and onto materials employed by the greatest of sculptors.

Yes, it was only through the constant challenge of her artistic prowess that she was compelled to keep creating. Quite a novel answer, even if Victoria thought this aspect of her character could be ignored and tossed in with other elements that ill fit her story.

Nonetheless, while her initial goal was to find a diversion, she ended up with something to aspire to. First, she would start with the simplest of materials: soft, malleable, and forgiving to her fumbling hands. Then she would graduate her way up in material until she could carve works out of marble as Evelyn did. Would she create pieces of breathtaking beauty? Only time would tell.

“Now where would I get the tools to start?” Victoria asked.

With a smile, she looked about with a bag in hand. She would explore this mall further and see if it concealed any more secrets for this endeavour. In the back of her mind, Victoria sensed that even if her initial search came up empty, something would likely nudge her in the right direction.

CHAPTER 23

STONE TO FLESH

Once Victoria began to experiment with sculpting, she noticed the trance-like state she experienced during earlier creations never materialised. This endeavour would necessitate a large investment of time, and a decision was needed before proceeding any further.

Though, as with most tasks that seemed daunting to the point of impossibility, it quickly gained traction and became a blur. This evening, after months of hard work and many failed attempts, what stood before her could only be described as the quintessence of stone to flesh.

It seemed to stretch the imagination that her character would choose this as her favourite material. Here, a woman of slender build used the tools of men to create a work imitating the beauty of God’s creation. The entire affair smelled of irony, considering how Evelyn felt for any entity wrapped in the veil of divinity—or men, for that matter.

It had been her character’s choice to use this medium because of its inherent challenge. She was defying nature, tearing away the protective layers of rock until all that remained were her creations. Did these tools not mimic the effects of water eroding rock to create vast canyons? In the end, all it took was time and patience.

Victoria was surprised she came so close to her character’s skill level. At first, she chose materials more responsive to the wills of the novice. As though learning with a class filled with school children or the John Dillinger School of prison breaks, her first attempts were carved out of a bar of soap. These poorly executed works led her to discover how she lacked either the finesse or fine motor skills necessary to reproduce basic shapes with accuracy.

This setback hindered her progress. She thought it likely that she would never succeed. Perhaps it was time to consider alternate mediums? Would Evelyn forgive her for passing over this opportunity? Yet, this task continued to haunt her, and in her dreams, she was beckoned to stay on course or chance failing as a writer. Was this her consciousness speaking out as she struggled to sleep?

Needless to say, the next day, exhausted from her defeat at the battle of wills, Victoria was back at it. She went through bar after bar, creating nothing but flawed pieces, until the day came when she sculpted a lifelike woodland animal. Her mind learned how to control the finesse of her movements, empowering her fingers with a dexterity she believed unobtainable.

The artist supposed it would have been similar to learning how to dance ballet. At first, the moves were unfamiliar to those being indoctrinated, but with practice, that same individual would perform these steps as easily as they breathed. With added determination and confidence, dancers were free to become the embodiment of music.

With one small victory under her belt, Victoria carried on confidently, driven to surpass herself while creating works originating from the depths of her soul. Gone were the days when she moved out of the way to accommodate. Instead, she forced the material to bend to her will and, in doing so, flowered from an innocent child to a graceful lady.

Victoria moved onto stone that was softer on the hardness scale and took little time to discover the quirks and pitfalls of stone carving. It turned out to be easier to sand lightly than to re-attach a chunk after it fell unexpectedly to the floor.

When her successes mounted, she graduated to a material favoured by the masters of this art: marble. Marble was limestone transformed through intense heat and pressure. This natural process led to a material popular during the Antiquities for both its use as the building blocks of a civilisation and for immortalising its greatest citizens.

Her first attempt using marble resulted in another setback, though it did little to dissuade her from pursuing this craft. Mistakes, and the lessons learned from them, were a great source of wisdom. So she took each and every flaw to heart given that it would prevent future iterations from suffering the same fate.

As each work progressed, she adjusted her methods and re-evaluated how long it would take to reach her goal. Early on, her estimates were too optimistic: assuming she would need a few days to complete the task instead of the week it took in actuality. Her outlook worsened with every failure, produced more conservative estimates, and yet remained hopeful that her goal would be met by year’s end.

Victoria eventually succeeded in beating this self-appointed deadline. Now, with eyes closed, her hands roamed freely over the soft surface of the carving. Her fingers glided over the details of the face and felt the texture of her creation’s skin that included some of the leftover grit. Such imperfections would need to be brushed or sanded down. For now, she took this opportunity to take in the full depth of her creation. Only when satisfied would she devote her full attention to the thankless task of cleaning up.

In truth, this artist did not need to look upon her creation, as the image of this stone splendour was etched into her mind. Her fingers followed the curvature of the arms and met where the statuette’s hands were pressed together. She sensed warmth emanating from this creation, as though it sought to reach back to its creator.

Would her character do the same when she finished one of her works? Could her character feel the piece, and would that emotion remain vivid in her mind? Why was it that the creation of such works consumed the life of the young courtesan and transformed her into a master artisan?

“You know the answer, Vicky,” said the voice with those familiar musical chimes in response.

Victoria did know the answer was captured within the stone work before her. The creation of such an object required the artist to embed a part of their soul into the work. It was effectively their way of releasing part of their being into the world and having it preserved throughout time. What else on this earth compared to the scope of such an act?

Victoria smiled at this realisation while looking at her completed piece. A small tear began to bead in the corner of her left eye, and this perplexed her at first. It took her back to the darkest moment of her life, then led her to question its source. Was this an emotional outburst, similar to seeing a loved one return safely from war after enduring the uncertainty of their fate? Yet these tears were not disturbing in nature, how could they be? These had to be tears of joy!

With her left index finger, Victoria rescued the fledgling tear from her cheek and placed it lovingly upon the statuette’s forehead, just above the eyes. This would be her way of christening the creation before her and breathing life into this doll-sized Evelyn. A woman rigidly seated, with a dress that fell outside the norm for a courtesan, but with a predatory smile falling neatly upon those lips. It was no surprise many would be distracted from questioning the irregularities further. This was Evelyn, the character who was set to be the counterpoint of her life.

Victoria was reminded of a butterfly exiting a chrysalis. The Monarch butterfly, with wings of pure beauty, would hang from the empty shell that served as the vessel for transfiguration. In the sun, its wings would dry out, waiting to take its first momentous flight into the heavens. In this statue, she saw the remnants of the woman’s past with elements of comfort and decadence ahead. Just like the Monarch, her character would fly away from the streets of baroque Paris to become something unexpected.

The tear set upon the statue gleamed in the light of Victoria’s makeshift studio. The sculptor began to cry openly, as though her character were witness to the completion of this piece. Would her mentor be proud? Or, like a good teacher, would she simply stand back and permit the apprentice to form their own opinions as to the artisanship?

“You know that answer as well, love,” came the reply in a motherly tone, soft and gentle as a lullaby.

This voice of reason instilled Victoria with tear-soaked pride, since she not only flew like a butterfly this evening but soared with the gods!

CHAPTER 24

SAFARI

The world never ceased to change. Cities, states, and nations expanded, then eventually crumbled from the weight of their decadence. In a sense, civilisations behaved much like fire that consumed everything in its path. At least elements of nature could be tamed and brought under control. Once harnessed, these became tools used to better society as they had done since the Antiquities.

It took no more than a few stray sparks to spread fire like a plague, the reaction feasting on draperies, wooden mouldings, carpets, and furniture, until nothing remained but a home’s skeleton. This path of destruction seemed inevitable, observed countless times throughout history. All it took was one singular point of friction or an individual like Nero to set the world ablaze.

“You know?” Evelyn asked.

He waited patiently for the speaker to continue.

“You spend far too much time in front of that fire, dear,” Evelyn stated.

The speaker came from behind in an attempt to catch him off guard, though he already knew she was there. In truth, he was even comforted by her presence, though he would never express such emotions.

“The fires remind me of both my heritage and my past,” Marc said.

That response was not wholly unacceptable, considering it was fact. His past was mostly a mystery to her, and would remain that way, even if it meant taking his secrets to the grave. There were rumours swirling about, of course—inevitable in society—permitting her to form many grand theories. Ultimately, she would never have actual evidence to back any of it up.

“Perhaps you are trying to dry out that mouldy past of yours?” Evelyn asked.

The woman then fell into a giggle as she dropped something on his head. He looked up and saw the tan lip of a cap, then chose to regain his focus on the fire ahead. Curiosity would not have the better of him and Evelyn would likely enlighten him on the symbolic nature of this latest phase.

“Instead of a small fire for which to dry them out,” Evelyn continued.

She paused, then moved in close enough so he could perceive a difference in her clothes. The imp leaned in from behind, reached for his shoulders, then wrapped her arms around him. Locked in embrace, she edged close enough that her lips lightly brushed against his ear. To many, this may have seemed sensual. For him, this was a trait he long ago discovered as belonging to those who wielded such elements to exert control.

“We could enjoy this Parisian winter by spending it somewhere else?” Evelyn asked.

The bait was set, he thought, wondering what she meant by such a statement. Evelyn then pushed off and pranced about while remaining behind him, sounding like a child excited about her first trip.

“No. No. My dear!” Evelyn exclaimed. She threw in another giggle before she added, “I am not referring to your ancestral home in the Alps, either.”

“I took the liberty of booking us passage on a steamer ship headed for London,” Evelyn added quickly to prevent any interruption.

This had been part of her strategy all along, and one he observed her mastering early on in their relationship.

“From there, we will board another ship that will take us past the Cape of Despair!”

Now that his curiosity was sufficiently piqued, he turned around to look at her. Evelyn did away with her habitual dresses and corsets, a mark of La Belle Époque. Instead, she wore a pair of ankle-high leather boots with long socks, shorts, and a buttoned shirt with a matching cream coat. To top it all off, he assumed, she wore the same silly, rounded canvas pith helmet placed upon his head.

Evelyn smiled, as only she could, a trait from her past that was not among his teachings. He was mostly immune to it, knowing it was all part of an elaborate act. This would be her final nail in his coffin, her way of getting his attention before asking him to pick up their bags on their way out. She had grown over the years, evolving from her days on the streets to flowering into a lady who demanded absolute respect from her friends while commanding fear over her enemies.

Of course, there were always ways to counter such enthusiastic planning.

“What if I told you we were staying here all winter?” Marc taunted.

He smirked, thinking he pushed her into a corner and would get to see just how much she was willing to lose to get her way.

The imp’s smile, as expected, began to fade, only to fall into a giggle.

“Well, darling…” Her smile grew even more vibrant then as she added, “I already gave the hired help leave until our return. So I doubt you want to be seen dusting the home?”

Marc was surprised how easily he was countered by this beauty, a sign that youth was no longer a factor when dealing with her. This artist had grown much during their years together, and he began to see just how dangerous she was.

“Besides, who says I need you around?” Evelyn asked deliberately to play on his emotions.

A manoeuvre that would have speared the heart of lesser men. Dangerous were such games, unless one mastered the volatility of human emotion.

“The coachman can take my bags to the port. I am sure the captain of the ship would be more than willing to invite me to his cabin for the evening meal…” Evelyn said.

Marc stood and applauded, then followed through with a well-practised bow to celebrate her triumph.

“You have outdone yourself, young lady,” Marc replied, using a descriptor to poke a bit of fun at her expense. Then he prevented a response by adding, “So why has our favoured artist decided to take us into the land of lions, Cape buffalo, and zebras?”

Evelyn’s beautiful eyes rolled up to the ceiling. She bit her lower lip, as though in deep thought, which imbued her with a look of pure innocence. This was nothing more than a well-planned spectacle that would distract him long enough to give her time to think of a proper response.

“Hmmmmm,” she said as a smile grew from the corner of her mouth, still inwardly pondering exactly what to say. “Now, dear. Artists should not reveal all their secrets, should we?” Evelyn asked.

All the while, Evelyn looked straight at him, right into his eyes, as though trying to peer into his soul. Was she seeking an answer within the depths of his being?

“Though…I may have heard rumours of rare deposits of greenstone, green verdite, and other lovely stones that would make perfect carving pieces,” Evelyn said. “Besides, it would give you the opportunity to collect some rare weapons…”

She turned around to face the door, then walked out. She elongated her stride to exaggerate the sway of her hips, and it turned out to be an interesting side effect of not wearing an outlandish dress.

“Oh and be a dear. Pick up the bags by the door on your way out?” Evelyn asked.

He heard her words echo in the hall, followed by that ever-present giggle.

“Well done, milady,” Marc said, considering he remained unsure as to where he was going.

* * * *

Victoria read over this chapter wondering exactly how this would fit in with her book. While the new point of view was refreshing, something that granted the reader a new vantage point for both Evelyn and her liege, it was clearly out of place. It seemed to this author that elements from this story fell outside the established timeline.

The author laughed at this description, since it reminded her of old movies with King Kong or some National Geographic documentary. Yet, that seemed out of place for someone who existed in the time of the Sun King. For that matter, the reference to a tramp steamer appeared out of place. Did these ships not become commonplace in the nineteenth century? Clearly, this work was outside of the timeline, putting it a few centuries ahead of when her character existed.

The creak from the chair became more audible as she leaned back to look upon her neglected fire. At the moment, she would not be able to use this story in her novel, as she needed to mould it to match the appropriate era. The question remained: How to complete the task?

Some of the references could be easily adapted. Say, the steamer to a Spanish galleon. Other aspects would be hard to adapt, such as the entire Safari dress. That was a hallmark of early British colonial history on the African continent, or was that a matter of Hollywood’s influence? Victoria considered that this oversight was, by far, the worst offender.

Would the readers care? Critics probably would, as they loved nothing more than pointing out idiosyncrasies in a storyline or the inappropriate adherence to historical context to tear a novelist apart. It was their job, their reason for being, and she would do the same. Such critiques were expected when their livelihood was at stake.

She turned her head, then focused on the clock while gazing upon its ever-changing face.

“It’s getting late,” Victoria said.

She got up from her chair. Things needed to be done, and her never-ending questions over this part of the story would not get resolved before the sun rose again. First, she needed to quarantine these pages, then revise them at a later date. Now, it was time to get to the store before it closed, seeing that she needed supplies for the week.

“Broth, chicken, onions,” Victoria rhymed off to help her remember what was needed.

As she hopped about in an attempt to slip on her remaining shoe, Victoria wondered if she put her best foot forward toward this new endeavour.

CHAPTER 25

COMMUTE

Nature differed from my expectations, Victoria thought once she caught a glimpse of the road to her left.

For many, this view was a wonder to behold, with its majestic trees swaying in the wind and the occasional fauna travelling by. A commute to the temple of Mother Nature was their atonement for sins committed within their fortresses of steel and concrete—or worse, the vortex of suburbia.

For Victoria, this was less a pilgrimage than strolling through No Man’s Land with untold dangers awaiting her behind every tree. Honestly, the young woman did not understand when and where this opinion had taken root. She remembered the hours spent in the woods during her youth. Those had been times of joy that marked the simplicity and innocence of the era. She could even remember being watched by a governess while her parents were away on business.

As a child, Victoria looked out over the endless sea, imagining herself on board a ship or in a faraway land in search of adventure. What child did not spend their youth imagining themselves on a pirate ship or riding atop a camel as part of a caravan carrying untold wealth between China and Europe?

Victoria thought back to her time abroad. Had it already been last summer? Had she not spent time travelling through the woods along that coastline? So why did this forest seem so hostile to her? Did it have something to do with her throbbing left foot, a reminder to break in new boots before making such a trek? Or was it the kink in her neck from carrying her backpack over such distances? Was this related to the fact that, for the first time in her life, she was unable to call for the assistance that people took for granted in her blessed city?

Nature differed radically from the kingdom of men. The seat of power for humanity had trains arriving on time and streetlights functioning with technological precision. These were the tools of society that fought off the darkest night with the flip of a switch. However, this was the heart of nature. Here, Victoria was an unwelcome guest where the notions of symmetry, efficiency and mechanical precision were not to be found.

Victoria sat on a boulder, finding the surface uneven and cold though her back cried out in relief. She slipped off her pack, opened a pouch, and pulled out a canteen. In one quick swig, water poured past her welcoming lips and immediately offered that sought-after refreshment. Her body responded favourably to the water, something to be expected when it was her first real drink of the day.

“I wonder how Evelyn would react here,” Victoria pondered.

In that moment, anxiety overwhelmed her as though her life were in peril. This sensation enveloped her like a migraine but left her unable to pinpoint the cause.

Evelyn, who seemed to fear nothing in life, was afraid of this very scenario for reasons that completely evaded Victoria. What caused her character to dread the vast untamed spaces of nature, and was it related to her own current apprehension? Could it be the reason she stayed within the confines of the city all this time?

Victoria sighed in frustration. Why was it that with every revelation, new questions came flooding in? Perhaps it was futile to believe there existed one perfect piece of the puzzle, one that completed the picture. Without the challenge, how would she be enlightened as to her character’s life? Would that remain true no matter how absurd the answer was?

“Perhaps later,” Victoria said.

She winced in pain from standing up. She reached into her pack and pulled out a map and compass while thinking over the mnemonic for reading a map.

“Red in the bed, in the door, up the stairs,” Victoria repeated several times until she found where she was and where she would need to be.

“About another hour and it seems that…this trail leads most of the way,” Victoria said.

The pain in her foot vanished with evidence of reaching her goal. There was only a short walk left before she reached the abandoned quarry where Victoria would take samples and return home. Her foot, as yet, seemed unaware of this return journey and was sure to protest on her way back.

The image of a nice warm bath surrounded by scented candles gave her a warmth that seemed to distract her from all of her discomforts. The luxury of a perfume-scented bath never previously exhibited such a reaction before. Was this related to her lack of comfort thus far? This concept opened her eyes to the realisation that even the simple things in life were to be cherished.

When it came to such matters, could she draw a parallel between her life and her character’s? In their early years, both seemed trapped in a life that did much to prevent them from blossoming into their true selves. Both went through a life-altering event before they took on paths of their own choosing. Yet Evelyn took to her new life more easily.

Victoria was still discovering her renewed freedom. Was the death of her parents not drastic enough a change as compared to the rescue of her character from the life of prostitution? That may have certainly been a factor, yet the fact that Evelyn had a dashing young gentleman along on her journey certainly played no small part.

“Perhaps I should get going,” Victoria said, unsure of the answer.

Was she envious of Evelyn for the opportunity of spending her experience with another? There would be time for pondering such matters down this path, knowing that the only company she had at the moment was within.

Victoria’s thoughts swayed more and more to the young Parisian’s saviour. This was a man of a proper bloodline, one who chose to serve King and Country through his distinguished career in the military. Perhaps he had done so in some misguided attempt to spite his father? Was this man an heir to those who sought to overthrow the Crown in support of Cardinal Richelieu?

It must have taken a great deal of courage to counter the wishes of one’s father. More so, to swear allegiance to the Crown as atonement for the sins of his progenitor. Despite the potentially misguided reasons for being the King’s gauntlet, he flourished and reached a prestigious rank.

“So why had royalty chosen to rescue a woman such as Evelyn?” Victoria wondered.

Meanwhile, she was disappointed that another question floated about. At that moment, the image of a woman never seen before materialised in her mind. This was the vision of a lady, stunningly beautiful with distinctively Italian features in both dress and décor. She gazed upon the woman’s features and noticed a peculiar aspect of the dress, which Victoria noted during previous research on the fashions of the period.

The answer was at the tip of her tongue, and she could not force it out.

As though on command, the answer came out in a brilliant flash and Victoria slurred the word aloud for the world to hear, “Courtesan!”

This woman wore the clothes of a courtesan, designed for the ease of removal and worn without the assistance of a maid. This meant the soldier came into contact with courtesans well before he crossed paths with Evelyn, which was not exactly an earth-shattering revelation.

Victoria sensed the answer to the mystery was related to how this Italian beauty influenced Marc. Was this similar in nature to the change Evelyn underwent with her liege? Surely, a soldier would have a strong sense of honour and was perhaps paying back a debt? Far too simple, too clean for the story; there was something else hidden from her.

“This man’s change was paralleled by my character, yet they both lived different lives,” Victoria said.

A Parisian whore and a French blue blood were not exactly synonymous with one another. Were they bestowed a divine gift?

“Or was it a curse?” Victoria asked absentmindedly.

After those last words were uttered, the journey continued, aided only by the comfort of silence. Nothing new came to mind, so this author dwelled on the depth of that question. An answer would be formulated in time, of that she was certain. It was a matter of both faith and time for the truth to surface.

* * * *

“A few more minutes now,” Victoria said, comforted by her words.

The thought of a warm bath became more vivid with every step, and she imagined feeling the silky, warm water against her soft skin. There was no doubt as to her first undertaking when she got home.

Her pack, now full of samples for her to analyse and catalogue, seemed light as a feather. Victoria found that her thoughts of the warm, soothing bath and flashes of insight on future works made the pain bearable. Perhaps she should attempt to be productive and concentrate on a new scene for her book? Or should she move her focus away from this singular point in time as she did with the progression of her artistic prowess?

Victoria thought over what to do with her samples. Perhaps creating a great horned owl or a dire wolf would prove to be an appropriate move away from her fixation. Then again, these ideas did not have the pull Evelyn had, and Victoria was left with the distinct impression that attempts to expand her horizons would end in disappointment.

“Perhaps another time,” Victoria said.

She made a note to tack on another item to her to-do list. This led her to think about that old key and how it must be covered in a thick layer of dust. She thought back to the day she found it, a day very much like today but with a very real nightmare to motivate its discovery.

Could this be the reason she had a lingering sense of dread? Perhaps this was the manifestation of her empathy for Evelyn? Was it too simple a solution for an immersive set of emotions and circumstances?

“Imagination carried me far. Why would this not be the answer?” Victoria asked.

This would hopefully be her final question as her car came into sight. Now, to head home, take off her clothes and these infernal boots, and relax.

“I wonder if I have any scented bath salts left?” Victoria asked while taking note to pick some up on her way back home.

CHAPTER 26

INVESTIGATION

Just a few more minutes,” Victoria said.

She had been waiting a while for the solvent to work. She was in awe of the time dedicated to this key, the one found hidden within the steps of that home. How many would have scoffed at such work for no reason other than time being wasted on an anachronism? Was it likely better left to those who worked the antique racket? Was it more efficient to simply feed it to her garbage shoot?

Nonetheless, this key remained a challenge, yielding fewer clues than originally thought. Perhaps it was a case of gaining a fresh perspective to feed her resolve, go beyond the visible, and seek answers long forgotten in time.

Victoria could not interact with the object during this process, so this initial round of study was restricted to the naked eye. Slowly, the solvent worked away the accumulated layers of filth, and she was soon able to see some hidden detail. Markings appeared at the top of the key along the central rod. At first, she believed them to be nothing more than imperfections in the key’s creation. That assumption changed once the grooves deepened and its etchings grew more deliberate.

She had to admit that this key, weathered as it was, held an artistic quality rarely seen today. The base was scratched and worn from use and still possessed those distinctive oversized teeth. Despite the usage, this key would presumably function today if she married it to its lock.

The rod, which joined the teeth with an ornamental fixture at the top, also showed signs of wear and tear. At first, she noticed the tell-tale signs of repair work. Perhaps this key had been a child’s toy or seen abuse by drunken owners? Though, this might have been nothing more than a side effect of prolonged use. Seeing that this investigator did not know how long the key had been in service, there would be no way to form a conclusion.

This habit of finding reasons to account for the state of things was not new to Victoria. She had done this so many times when preparing for her court cases. Yet, this skill was applied differently in relation to story crafting, as these little details—such as the key repair—might end up woven into the main arc. This proved to be a part of writing she found enjoyable.

The young author returned her attention to the unusual indentations near the top of the shaft. These markings were marred, making it difficult to identify their true nature. Were they a manufacturing stamp? Perhaps it was a serial number? Or was it something else completely?

Victoria wondered why the crest affixed upon the supporting rod was fashioned with so much detail. At first glance, the crest seemed unimpressive, looking like a ridged design captured within a solid silver circle that encompassed the crest itself.

This proved to be another false assumption. Once this researcher ran a nail down the stem, she found that the area near the markings and crest gave way to the pressure. Her fingernails disturbed the smooth surface, showing that filler had been used to cover up the markings. From that insight, she grabbed a sculpting tool and attempted to clean up the area further but made little progress.

Impatient, Victoria sought the use of an acidic compound. After fifteen minutes, she was able to remove the key from its chemical bath. Victoria washed it under cold running water, seeing that the key had given up more of its secrets. She bit her lower lip in anticipation and continued her study.

Victoria pulled out her magnifying glass from the desk drawer and examined the object from under her desk lamp. The stem of the key did, in fact, show signs of having been stamped during the manufacturing process.

Initially, the letters were hard to discern from the rest of the stem. It required time and determination to recreate each letter inscribed on a piece of paper until the message itself became clear. Once her transcription was complete, she could tell it was Joseph LeClaire et Fils who manufactured the key and, she assumed, the lock that went with it.

“Perhaps the crest will reveal more detail,” Victoria said.

She hoped the end product proved more interesting than this last discovery. She even wondered how she could include a locksmith who lived centuries ago into her story. Surely, there was something more to the key? More meat to the tale? Something with which to possibly compose an epic?

The author picked up the key and, with the magnifying glass, went over every detail. It seemed the ridges from the crest had deepened but, from this vantage point, the key revealed no more detail or insights on its existence. So why did she feel as though something eluded her regarding this key?

When she examined the stem in more detail, Victoria discovered the ring had been threaded into place. Perhaps to create the illusion of being one piece compared to two? For what purpose, seeing that keys were not normally a fashion statement?

Victoria put down the magnifying glass and turned the object counterclockwise against its base. She found it provided little resistance, turning freely until it came loose. Now she had the silver ring with an embedded design in one hand with the remnants of the key in another. What good had all that effort accomplished?

Without having time to consider the depth of her question, the ring slipped through Victoria’s fingers and fell onto the desk. It seemed like a scene from a poorly scripted horror movie, one with stereotypical plots that moved the story arc along with unbelievable ease. After all, was anyone really dumb enough to enter a dark home in the middle of the night while a homicidal maniac was known to be on the loose? Especially when the door was forced open?

What had been nothing more than a careless act unleashed a chain of events that revealed every secret. The force of the impact broke the ring apart into three separate pieces. The ring itself rolled for a distance before settling near the base of her typewriter. Only then did she realise how the dimensions of the outer ring were befitting that of a lady’s finger.

This ring was designed to look as though it were made from an exotic flower. The design integrated a long central stem and a myriad of small bell-shaped flowers that drooped away from the centre. The flower’s floral pattern was beautifully imprinted onto the ring with intricate detail. While they looked harmless, Victoria was reminded of Our Lady’s Tears and wondered if these were the very same deadly creations from legend? It was odd to discover such detail after so clumsy an act. Perhaps she had been too shortsighted in her initial studies to catch this deceptive detail?

Her attention then turned to the two pieces of silver that broke free from within the ring. These silver plates were separate yet bound at one edge with a hinge. Lastly, there was a clasp on the other edge with which to fasten. Victoria picked up this final object and turned the concave inside to face her. The author’s eyes widened at the discovery. This must have been some sort of sick joke. What she found inside was unmistakable. Staring back at her were the eyes of a woman possessing the most entrancing smile…

CHAPTER 27

HEART OF DARKNESS

When Evelyn awoke, she looked out into the heart of darkness with no memory of where she was or what happened. She vaguely remembered a crowded room filled with people who all wore morbid masks. It appeared as though the evening’s theme was centred on predators with a penchant for the macabre, given the bloodied fangs and feral stares. All it took was a remnant of a memory for a shiver to shoot down her spine. How could mere masks seem so visceral?

Was this all she recalled? Evelyn closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought back to yestereve’s events in an attempt to recover more memories. When she relaxed, her mind became supple and quickly yielded its secrets by bringing forth imagery in flashes of disconnected scenes. At first, these blurred images provided little to go on, and she wondered if there were answers to be found.

Her first true recollection came in the form of a whisper, one that chilled her to the bone.

“You see those masks?” the voice asked in a cold and calculated tone. “They represent their predatory natures, but what lies beneath is much more telling.”

When she turned around to see who spoke, Evelyn saw no one in the vicinity. She was uncertain of many things, but such a disappearing act, or illusion, was certainly disconcerting. Additionally, she was agitated since her captain was nowhere to be found.

Evelyn soon learned how these guests mimicked the animals represented by their masks. This was especially pronounced when the men retired to the smoking room to enjoy the taste of cognac and pipe. Evelyn was left with the opportunity to interact with the other women, though she felt like a hen guarding her eggs from a pack of wolves. These ladies reacted strongly to Evelyn’s presence and openly dismissed her attempts at being sociable, so much so that she felt like a child. They clearly prescribed to the notion that all good children, as the saying went, were to be seen and not heard.

Her memories shifted to another lady with a sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones. Her bronzed skin, raven-black hair, and eyes as black as a moonless night shone through her mask, giving her an exotic look. To Evelyn, there was a stark difference between her feminine form and the mask that portrayed the Egyptian god of Seth.

While Seth and his history were unknown to Evelyn, the woman’s accent and chosen dress seemed equally baffling. Instead of wearing a multi-layered dress complementing the fashion of the season, she wore a dress of light fabric. It was a long, flowing white dress that was perhaps made of two layers and revealed much more skin than would have been customary in Louis’ court. What was more telling was the tattoo of a serpent on her arm. Too bad she did not recognise it as being an Egyptian Cobra or an Asp.

The image of this particular woman faded, leaving Evelyn frustrated, given how she wished to know more. Her mind was stubborn, preventing her from seeing a complete picture. Instead, it fed her crumbs to follow, yet she hoped persistence would pay off.

Evelyn remembered that the evening first began with her attending a ball. She was so proud of the dress she wore, how it fit her perfectly and made her feel like a lady. After hours of fabulous dance, she was escorted away just before the last waltz and whisked aboard an awaiting carriage. It seemed peculiar to her that it bore no particular crest, considering the purple-lined interior, beautifully crafted exterior, and stunning white steeds used to pull the carriage along. Surely, its owner must have been wealthy and powerful to possess such things.

The ride was luxurious and should have been somniferous, given the constant clip-clop of the horses, but it proved to have the opposite effect. Evelyn was anxious, seeing this was the first time she strayed from the city. Those feelings melted away when her captain took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers in a loving fashion. She desperately needed that human contact to confirm she was not the only one feeling anxious. Without his company and the comfort of his touch, she was no different than a lamb lost in the wilderness.

Her memories yielded nothing of the destination or any other details of the evening. While the night sky was filled with stars, they offered her no assistance as she never learned to navigate by them. All she remembered was the hour-long trip eating the precious night away, and all for a purpose that eluded her.

* * * *

Victoria finished committing the last few words to paper, then yanked the sheet from her typewriter. She placed it on the growing stack and, in all honesty, was frustrated with the absence of her muse during this session. She knew there were more details to set on paper, yet the words simply did not wish to flow. Did this have something to do with the discovery of that locket?

That one phrase echoed in her mind, enhanced by the eerie manner of delivery. Unless she deciphered the meaning of those words, the message would haunt her dreams. If her inspiration would return to her, would it renew her with the motivation necessary to complete her masterpiece?

While the written form was her initial goal, it seemed clear now that her experiments with different media aided her in getting where she was. By understanding the reasons behind her character’s choices, she seamlessly applied her experience to her prose to create a more realistic tale.

There were still missing factors. It was obvious to this writer that Evelyn underwent a massive change in lifestyle in a very short time, yet the transformation applied in this case was still a mystery. Did the masks have more meaning than originally thought?

Then there was the darkness in which Evelyn awoke. Victoria sensed she missed an opportunity to dwell on that situation, and there was something left to be discovered if she pursued that topic. Was the heart of darkness a reference to her character’s change or no more than a mundane detail of awakening in a dark room?

While all of these points applied, there was something else that lingered in the back of her mind. Why was it that Victoria did not remember an instance of Evelyn basking in the light of day? Even her original written short story referred to a candlelit chamber serving as the home for this Portrait of a Woman. Could her character have chosen to shy away from the light? Given this was her creation, what exactly did that mean for the author?

Victoria sighed as her character grew in complexity with every passing moment. She needed to analyse what she committed to paper, work her way through the chapter, and perhaps even rewrite it if necessary. There seemed to be no point in using something that lacked the quality she expected.

“I need a break,” Victoria said.

She hoped her muse would return to her after some rest. She had probably been at it too long and needed to wait for the tide to return before setting sail on the seas of creativity. With a smirk, Victoria made note to use that analogy later.

“This is just a minor change in wording, but probably something that will add to the whole. Now…” Victoria added.

Victoria took out a long, fine-tipped pen and wrote down the new line. She did not realise how these words would haunt her for days.

“Look at their masks closely, for they reveal a great deal of what lies beneath,” the voice said.

“How odd,” Victoria remarked.

All the while, she wondered what implications were embedded within those words. Perhaps her character would speak to her through this writing and reveal the truth behind the words? Then again, perhaps Victoria should simply broaden her scope and ask why Marc did not wear a mask that night?

“Wait!” Victoria exclaimed.

Was that detail included in her writings? Victoria sighed and picked up the last few pages from her stack to see if it was. If it turned out not to be the case, then Victoria was determined to make that happen.

CHAPTER 28

CONTINUANCE

Time passed by as always, unaware and uncaring for those affected by it. Time was a harsh mistress, one who walked hand in hand with death. They were inescapable and forever present within the recesses of one’s mind. Many throughout history have sought to escape the grasp of these lovers by seeking answers through divinity, religion, arcane texts, and even science. Those who followed such paths always discovered that to escape time, one had to embrace death.

Occasionally, some became blessed by a change of perspective so they no longer perceived these ever-present shadows. For a moment, these manifestations were held at bay by a beacon of light, shining whenever someone experienced meaning or purpose in their lives.

Victoria gained purpose in life when she embarked on a new path to pursue her dreams and abandoned her assigned path. Her skills as an author would come first, followed by her rapidly expanding repertoire of artistic expression. None of these advancements compared to the correspondence she had with her secret admirer, the one who still clung to that anachronistic title, le Marquis.

The choice of name still puzzled her, given that such a title would have brought about his death a few centuries ago. Could that perception have changed so dramatically from a society that tore apart its legacy so violently? Was the choice based instead on the charm associated with such a title?

Victoria knew there was no way to tell what this officer thought of or felt for her. There was no certainty as to what he wrote. Victoria associated the attraction with the idea of being in someone’s thoughts every waking moment. It was something she related to, given her own complicity in the matter, at first with her character and now with her admirer.

At times, she imagined the two of them fighting for supremacy of her affections. At one corner, a military officer prepared to risk life and limb to lead armies with the noble goal of protecting liberty and freedom. At the other corner, a lady, barely old enough to order a glass of wine at a local bistro, who commanded a crowd with nothing more than a smile. There would be no competition. Evelyn would quickly overrun the young man’s defences and steal his heart before he raised a finger in protest.

This made Victoria smile, and after putting down his latest letter, she picked up a cup of coffee and sank deeper into her chair. Like a ritual, she started by taking a sip of the warm elixir, then let out a peaceful sigh. She closed her eyes visualising her admirer, seeing him in a sharp uniform, full of medals and accoutrements, completely at ease with himself. Victoria sensed, however, that he would appear overly rigid or serious to those around him.

His words gave her the impression he was bred for war. Such crafts were surely not for everyone, yet she was assured he was more than apt at handling any situation. Risks were always there, present in all aspects of life. Would the risk matter if one considered they were more likely to be struck down by a moving vehicle than killed from a well-aimed shot?

Her vision changed in perspective, permitting her to see a wooden frame bordering the image. On the side of the picture, she noticed a single red rose in full bloom, delicate and beautiful. This turned out to be a stark contrast to the cold formality of the subject.

As the scale of her view continued to change, Victoria began to visualise new items around those already in clear sight. At first, the large tri-coloured cloth covering the surface did not make sense, seeing that the colours were peculiarly ill chosen for such a setting—that is, until she realised it was a national flag draped over a casket.

She snapped out of her vision and nearly spilled her drink all over the floor. Such imagery was not something she desired, considering the scars of her parents’ deaths ran deep. Would another death devastate her? Could she be involved in a relationship that potentially led to so much pain and sorrow?

Victoria put down her coffee and, with shaking hands, picked up the letter. She read over the words as though she were committing them to memory. In truth, she was simply trying to see if any of the words rang hollow or were out of place. In the back of her mind, she hoped for a way out of this game, one that grew more serious with every passing minute.

His words yielded no such defence and seemed more sincere with every reading. His offer appeared straightforward, but after almost a year of correspondence, a chance to meet this gentleman in the flesh seemed desirable, though that played counter to all of her doubts, fears, and previous encounters. Funny, when compared to previous relationships, his words seemed to be the most genuine.

“Welcome to my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” Victoria said.

Victoria was thinking of a phrase her character would say whenever she started games with a man, words that applied just as well in this circumstance and formed the basis for her decision to meet this admirer, but only on her terms.

Now to respond, insisting first on a name and only then would she yield to his demands and invite him here. He already knew where she lived, that much was clear from the first correspondence, but there was empowerment here that would be hard to strip from her. This was her parlour, and he was indeed the dashing young fly…

CHAPTER 29

SAMPLES

Victoria opened the door to her storage room and watched as the light washed over its contents. The young woman scanned the room, looking over the dust-covered boxes and wondering what was inside.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Victoria said, acknowledging the truth of that age-old wisdom.

So what was she looking for, exactly? Victoria furrowed her brow, feeling silly that she went into the basement for no reason at all. Something must have brought her down here, so what was it? It came in a flash when the writer looked toward the door and noticed a dusty backpack she dropped off months ago after a long hike. Why was it that she left items to be forgotten when at the time they seemed so important?

Victoria shrugged and picked up the bag, struggling from the weight to get it over her shoulder. Memories of the journey came flooding back, along with the bubble bath that followed, and she remembered how a local art supplier had told her about the quarry. Given how she had been experimenting with carving, it seemed to be a novel idea that would expand her horizons. So, she had gone on a hike.

She dragged herself up the stairs to her apartment. She was winded from the task. Victoria opened her bag and dropped its contents on the floor near the fire. It seemed to be the best place to start with the samples, seeing the damage they might inflict upon her furniture. During her research, it turned out this particular quarry had been abandoned long ago as the yields were no longer of any commercial value. Perhaps there was no commercial value for construction or architecture, but was it applicable to an artist?

Victoria spread out the pieces on the floor, pushing dust and smaller fragments away so she would be able to sweep up the cruft at her convenience. Truth be told, her selections were random, bypassing certain pieces in favour of others based on nothing more than how she perceived the completed work.

One piece in particular put a smile to her face, though it was nothing more than a composition of white marble with iron-ore veins running through the piece. Victoria envisioned a beautiful wood nymph with the ore representing vines growing over the nude body. Was there a better way of representing nature’s own defiance over linear thinking than making use of her creations?

That vision of her finished work seemed so real she was tempted to start carving right away. Alas, other pieces awaited her attention and would need to be catalogued before she could have some fun tonight. She grabbed a pen and paper from her desk and wrote a rough description of the item, followed by what she envisioned the work to be. Though a dull process, it permitted her to focus on the task while keeping her mind open for new and fresh ideas. How many ideas would she lose if she just started carving the first sample found?

The process continued until she picked out a small round piece from the pile, a sample she did not remember bringing back from the quarry. Unlike every other piece, this one spoke to the primitive depths of her mind. The stone bore the most unsettling colour of red, one that instantly dredged up imagery from a nameless horror flick Victoria saw as a child. She remembered the poorly directed scenes, needless gore, and gallons of freshly spilled blood that relegated it to a work of comedic wonder.

Nothing else in the quarry matched this composition and that left her with the impression it was not native to those geological formations. Research into the existence of the quarry revealed it was primarily mined for limestone, though this information led her away from the answer. Did detail on the site’s origins yield answers when she did not have all the facts?

There were other oddities Victoria had yet to consider. One peculiar aspect was its lack of jagged edges, especially for something located in a mined quarry. Without exception, all of her samples were broken free from the outlying rockface or left behind in the debris of the abandoned worksite. Where was this item found on the site, precisely?

The bloodstone was smooth with no edges to speak of, no visible flaws on the surface. There were no bumps, nicks, scrapes, or cracks. Victoria knew perfection was not a trait of nature and recalled that diamonds required both a sharp eye and a steady hand to cut away the imperfections. How much skill would be required to turn a raw diamond into a prized possession coveted by royalty?

The most disturbing aspect of this sample was the consistent opaque colouring. There were no hints of discolouration with every side looking the same. The sun and rain must eventually take its toll on all of nature’s creations. Surely one side would be lighter in tone than the other? How long had this discovery actually been at this site?

Victoria sighed as a slew of questions came pouring in. Once again, she was faced with an item that pushed the thresholds of her knowledge and left her to wonder what it all meant. First, the statuette, then the key, and now, some sort of bloodstone taken from a quarry long abandoned? She never could get a straight answer but was shown glimpses of an ever-growing puzzle. For one, she was beginning to find this pattern of discovery irksome. How many times could she be led about with a proverbial carrot without feeling like an ass?

Sometimes answers came in the most unusual of ways. In this case, she assumed that only through the rigours of the scientific method would revelations be unearthed. Would she need to apply double-blind tests on the object to get at its true identity? Would she need to enlist the help of a Nobel Laureate and an electron microscope to break this object down to the atomic level? In truth, all that would be required was a quick toss over her shoulder.

The object’s surface not only gave way to the impact but disintegrated into a thin, red dust. When Victoria realised what happened, she blushed, ashamed at having lost her patience and destroying something so precious. Even from this distance she saw something atop the mound, something ivory in colour that drew her attention.

Victoria considered using some sort of tool or implement to get a better view of the object. She even believed it to be a good idea to use a cosmetics brush in a similar way that palaeontologists did to clear away sediment from fossils. Still impatient and seeing that she needed to sweep anyway, Victoria leaned closer to the mound and blew over the dust. She watched as the layers of particulate blew away until all that was left was an object universally recognised by prey.

The sight of this fang conjured up so many questions that it made her head spin. All of these ideas centred around one notion, yet seemed so farcical. She picked up the fang and compared it against her own canine only to realise what type of predator this was. While a little longer, and obviously sharper, it proved to be a perfect fit. Memories of black-and-white movies portraying vampires surfaced, where they fed from their prey in melodramatic poses that formed the hallmarks of her youth. Some had seemed so comical back then, but now these same images sent a chill down her spine.

Victoria got up and placed the piece of ivory atop her desk. Chilled, she picked up a few dry logs and tossed them into the fire, watching as they were consumed by the flames. Soon enough, the fire would grow and warm up the room, though Victoria doubted she would ever be warm again.

“Why?” Victoria asked.

She actively questioned her line of logic. Surely this piece was manufactured as there was no way such a thing existed. Unless she mysteriously crossed some sort of mirror that brought her to a world filled with creatures from legend, there was little point fearing it. After all, her name was not Alice Liddell and there were no mirrors big enough for her to crawl through.

This was probably a prop or prank designed to generate interest in local lore. If this was something like pictures of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster, then she better get to work on disproving it? How would she go about the task? Victoria doubted she could research Van Helsing exterminators in the phonebook to get a straight answer. Either they would think her mad, or she would come across the Mad Hatter’s tea party. She was certain neither solution would yield an answer.

Would a university professor or undergraduate be interested in such a find? Could Victoria expect the truth from academics? How about unbiased advice from the acolytes of modern religion? Scientists, doctors, scholars, and men of the cloth all possessed abilities to aid her in this discovery, yet at what cost? Could Victoria cope with the answer? Who was worthy of trust?

Victoria was at her wit’s end as there were too many questions and not enough answers. She left the item on her desk, pledging to move it to a more secure location in the morning. For now, a distraction was called for, so the sculptor reached into the pile and walked off with that marble-and-iron sample. In the back of her mind, she heard the nymph calling out, and it was time to release this mythical creature from her prison of stone.

CHAPTER 30

REDEMPTION

The sweet smell of death lingered in the air. Visible in the scene was the corpse of a man, naked and bathed in his own blood. This remnant possessed glassy and vacant eyes which stared out to its executioner. It was unfortunate that this former shell of a man never grasped the sheer beauty of her plan, one executed to perfection.

Revenge was sweetest when prepared by a master, and this murder would stand as a testament to her masterpiece. For months, she watched from a distance and observed the prey for signs of weakness. His bravado, carefree nature, and unassailable craving for young women were the trademarks of his life. If only he had known his vices would be turned against him. Perhaps God should have given him an omen, a chance to change his ways and seek redemption in life. Now it was too late; he would have to seek forgiveness at the gates of Heaven. Though she had her suspicions that once at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter would not be so easily swayed.

Instead, the hurt he caused with his debauchery served to feed the inferno within her being. She watched him satiate his desires for lust to catalogue every moan, whimper, and scream for reference. These traits would ultimately prove invaluable when luring her prey to the slaughterhouse.

To lure in prey was easy once this hunter knew everything there was to know. She knew this man would first start his rounds by attending a local tavern while dressed in working clothes as to conceal his link to the aristocracy. This ploy fooled no one, given that every regular knew well his relation to the King. How else would an ageing, corpulent man be welcomed to the bedchamber for so low a sum? Fear was his currency, one fed by rumours of what took place at the Bastille.

Every night this miscreant would sit at a corner table and order the same drink from his favoured barmaid. This server had grown accustomed to his incessant womanising and the clockwork precision with which he slapped her partially concealed bosoms. He would wait for her rehearsed response, one which gave him a rise, then he would being to search for this evening’s prize. With his dark-brown, bloodshot eyes, he scanned the room, staring at every woman as though they were fresh meat.

This evening, his choice of lady was far more dangerous than he could have imagined. At first, he paid little attention to this new arrival even as she sat at the bar and ordered a drink. This creature was not his style, or at least not precisely—that was, until he caught a glimpse of another man poised to make his move.

In one fluid movement, this lady was grabbed by the hips and, without hesitation, the man buried his face deeply in her cleavage. Her prey observed the initial look of shock and how it was followed by a gasp. His reward was to watch as this woman’s unreceptive gasp melted in to an innocent giggle.

She knew this simple gasp would be all she required to lure this man her way. She observed early on what he sought most amongst the sheep was youthful innocence. Innocence, and the air of having had a few too many drinks, that is. Fortunately, both were easy deceptions that provided ample reasons to be pursued.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as this wretch rose from his seat to make his move. All the while she would continue to feign shock at being accosted by someone she paid handsomely to set the board. Even with a known endgame, a good chess master knew how to utilise their pawns to distract an opponent, and tonight this one performed perfectly. She watched the rage rise in her prey at the mere thought of his woman being deflowered before he had the opportunity.

This rage festered until it climaxed; he violently ripped the pawn’s face away from her breasts. The force of this manoeuvre sent the other man headfirst into the ground. An act that was nothing more than a show of power, an attempt to seem heroic and laughably selfless. She knew he did such acts to gain trust—only as their saviour could he request payment in flesh. Her response was exactly what he wished; at first, she appeared surprised, then she fell into his arms as though she were saved from an army of invading Norsemen.

Her crony was no fool that night and knew better than to attempt a rescue. He realised that to interfere meant death with nothing more than the wave of a hand. So her pawn slinked away and never attempted to stand until well past the growing crowd.

While a crowd limited her options in terms of escape, they served as an audience. The wretch would feed off their curiosity and get a rise from being perceived as a hero—an aspect that complemented her plan nicely. The lady looked up at her prey and smiled shyly, only to fall back on this melodramatic cry that sealed his fate. After some well-timed periods of sobbing, she pulled away, then gasped as children did when they tried to hold back tears. It was at that moment she gave him an alluring smile that filled him with desire and provided her with an opening to speak out.

To feign innocence, there was a need to weave a tale that would fuel his desires. Therefore, she became a young woman named Marie who ran away from a farm near the outskirts of Paris. She had dreamed of a life filled with adventure, but her father promised her hand in marriage in exchange for a land grant from the barony. Heartbroken that her life would end before it began, Marie packed her things and snuck out to make her way to Paris.

To sell the story, she broke out into tears, as though the story were too painful to recollect—a trick that would enable him to console her. She saw it in his eyes, how he felt blessed with his catch tonight, and knew the rest of the story was irrelevant. Had she mentioned how much she would enjoy killing him, he would have simply nodded as he held her. All the while licking his lips in anticipation for pleasures to come.

She knew this man was as impatient as he was portly and bore the vindictive nature of a Greek god. He reminded her of the filth who once visited her boudoir. This was a man with rotting teeth, acrid breath, and the stench from never bathing. While his wealth afforded the most expensive perfumes, it did little to conceal the odour. If he had not worn his wig, she would have seen his balding head that accentuated his ears in a comedic fashion.

His impatience would play well into her plan, so she looked up to him with a tear beading from the corner of her eye. She then pleaded with him to take her in for the night and save her from this cruel world she was evidently unprepared for. He nodded, took her head lovingly to his chest, and with raised eyes looked up to the ceiling to thank God for the bounty in which he was about to partake.

As expected, her prey avoided the use of his driver, who waited amongst the patrons. Instead, he opted to walk to a nearby residence, one acquired through the prosecution of a local bourgeois. Abuse of power did have its privileges, especially when it came to reaping profits from those he made disappear. Anyone who posed a threat to the aristocracy or got in their way ended up the same.

He escorted her to this home while she kept up her charade as long as was necessary to get in. The walk seemed like it would never end, seeing that she only wished to move onto the next phase of her plan. The lull in events required her to draw upon all the skills honed during her former life. It was surprising how much skill was required to hide the impatience and rage within.

As the door opened, she was carried into his home. The locale was already known, given how she previously explored it as to familiarise herself with the site. The decorations were sparse but well chosen, a remnant of the tastes of its former owner. Regardless, paintings covered the walls in strategic places so guests could enjoy their likeness while seated from anywhere in the room.

The décor was not important for him as he carried her off to the bedroom. She knew this was his modus operandi and that he would seem like a perfect gentleman while doing so. He hoped his women would have more time to warm up to the idea of giving up their virtue in exchange for shelter. It was a sweet pleasure to be certain that this man was in more danger now than he had ever been before in his miserable life.

The predator was gentle when placed upon the bed, permitting the prey to kiss her forehead and listening as he promised to return with a drink. As this ruse, she advanced her plan by grabbing a main-gauche from the fireplace mantel and hiding it under her pillow to give her the upper hand.

She undressed with a skill unmatched by any women of the court. Evelyn tossed her clothing around the bed to appear as though she were too tired to realise her actions. Finally, she spilled perfume onto the sheets using a bottle hidden within the depths of her dress. The aroma was one of his favourites, a detail she was sure he would appreciate.

The rest went off as expected, seeing this nude young lady asleep led him to follow suit. He was such a lousy lover, given that he drooled over her when he kissed her, and his strong smell and rough hands that made less-experienced women convulse. Instead, she was receptive, let out a soft sigh, and turned her head just enough to give him access to her right ear. His arousal grew in response. He pushed his member against her back and felt his seed spread across her perfect skin. He never noticed how she was pristine—an unusual occurrence for a farm girl. Alas, he was too busy getting excited over this conquest.

Still, the time was not right for her to strike, so she kept her hand under the pillow to feel the cool steel blade. Concurrently, the wretch’s hands moved over her arms and onto her bare breasts, scratching her nipples in a manner that necessitated her to whimper. It was then her opportunity came to feign waking up from her light nap.

Her ruse worked to perfection. When she opened her eyes while fluttering those long eyelashes, she smiled, then kissed him softly on the cheek. At first, she appeared as though she were waking up from a lovely dream. As required for her role, she widened her eyes and made her bottom lip quiver to create the illusion that reality had set in. On cue, he kissed her deeply and pushed his vile tongue past her soft lips in some delusional attempt at comforting her.

This would rarely work on women and, for the most part, it was fear of his station that kept women subservient. For Evelyn, this was the opening she needed. She joined her tongue with his. All the while, she pushed against him and rubbed his member between her legs like a well-practised whore. At this point in time, he did not care if she was innocent or not; the pleasures of the flesh quickly melted away any concern.

Stimulation of the senses was key to this event. Here was a man who had given her life then stripped her of it by leaving her to rot on the streets. In truth, her life was forfeited when she turned her back on the world that rejected her. Her revenge on this man required a brief return to her old haunts. A small price to pay for closure, and taking his life during the very act that had served as her genesis seemed most appropriate.

She worked against his body, allowed him inside, then gasped in pleasure. The predator would then proceed to ride him with a fervour that he never thought possible. Soon they were both drenched in a film of his sweat, giving off an odour that would forevermore haunt her. Never had he been so easily drawn in by the pleasures of the flesh. This was a straightforward task for someone who knew the pleasures of the body were nothing more than a form of art.

Evelyn, an artist in the truest sense of the word, also learned another skill prior to this event. She learned to read men in all her years as a courtesan, a skill that permitted her to see when the threshold of his pleasure would be reached. The signs in his case were shallow breathing, stiffening of the body, and the rolling of his eyes into the back of his head.

His bliss was rudely interrupted when she plunged his own blade through his sternum and pierced the heart. The blade cut away at the life-giving muscle and forced him to open his eyes in shock. All he would see from this point forward was the devilish smile upon her lips. Still atop him, she rose her hips just enough to rid herself of his deflating member.

“Well, that is certainly a way to cool a man’s advances, don’t you agree?” Evelyn confirmed.

All the words were uttered in the lightest of notes, musical and cheerful as though the act of taking his life meant nothing at all.

“It’s a shame you never got to know me, Father,” Evelyn said as a lone finger ran across his chest.

She slid it down to the base of the blade where warm blood flowed from the wound. She paused for a moment, fixated upon her task, and relished in his desperation. All the while she smiled, even as she brought a finger to her lips and tasted his blood.

“Perhaps then you would have known to avoid this little spider,” Evelyn said.

With a mischievous smile, she wiggled the blade protruding from his chest, sending waves of pain throughout his body.

“I know you and I will never have time to bond, and you certainly missed the day I learned to walk or uttered my first word. At least you and I will always have this one defining moment in our relationship to cherish,” Evelyn said.

She laughed, knowing his fate was sealed, then added, “Now, Daddy, be good and say hello to Lucifer on your way down to hell. I’d hate for you to make an enemy of him so early in your new life.”

There was nothing more to say, and his inability to respond was cold comfort. She watched as his life slipped away, and thus ended a chapter of her life. This final act in her play freed her to move to the next piece. From this moment on, distractions such as this man could be dealt with in such delicious ways.

Only once the body had stiffened and his lips had blued did Evelyn get off the corpse. Times like this needed to be cherished. Regrettably, the signs of daylight were beginning to show, an indication of how she needed to make her escape before too many eyes took notice. She was sure his lack of presence would be noticed, given the King’s paranoia for uprisings. At least his death was clean, unlike her fate or that of her mother. Evelyn realised then that she had one thing in common with her mother. If she were alive today, they would have agreed this man made a lousy lover.

* * * *

Victoria removed her hands from the typewriter, shaking from the imagery her words evoked. Never would she think it possible to write such a grim tale. She wiped the tears from her face, then left the last page of paper seated firmly in the typewriter and thought about how she desperately needed a distraction.

Perhaps a movie would do her some good, to be a witness to the incarnation of someone else’s vision shown on the silver screen. At least the walk would give her some fresh air and ultimately get her out of this apartment. Yes, a movie was a good idea. She wondered what was playing tonight. She grabbed her coat, gloves, and a scarf. Victoria opened the front door and headed out into the world. It seemed odd this world appeared to be far safer than the one taking shape in her mind.

PART III – LOSS

CHAPTER 31

NOIRE

Victoria’s senses came to life when the wind brought forth odours from neighbourhood restaurants. She looked around for a moment to get her bearings, then crossed the intersection with a casual sway. All the while the glowing, red hand remained solid in opposition.

Was anyone surprised by this act? It was so common to ignore such directions when there clearly was no traffic in sight. This was perhaps a sin, albeit small in stature and one people indulged in daily. Why not? Fines were rarely handed out and, on occasion, she found it pleasant to give the status quo the proverbial finger.

Victoria smiled and wondered how she got satisfaction from mischief. At times, she would ask if the effects of such thoughts faded when they became commonplace. Would the soul grow comfortably numb over minor infractions? In turn, would she require a greater dose to get a rise? Was it simply a product of occurrence, circumstance, or state of mind? Was it possible for someone who grew up to be on the straight and narrow—say, in a convent—to become a criminal mastermind?

“Hmmmmm,” Victoria said.

She pondered how this applied to her character. Based on recent writings, it seemed evident that even one so young was capable of escalating crimes. Yet, this was fiction and Evelyn was not flesh and blood, so why were these questions running through her mind?

“A distraction… Exactly what the doctor ordered,” Victoria added.

She looked over the details of a building. It seemed as though she walked into a film noire. The tall, dark façade reached out into the night. The outcropping filled with rows and rows of glowing bulbs that chased the night away while creating a beacon to entice those who passed by.

While such a display may have been effective during the twentieth century, Victoria was certain such enticements only aroused a sense of nostalgia today. While she looked down the street, Victoria saw other buildings shining in the night with their neon signs and expensive logos poisoning the sky. With their vivid colours and intricate designs effective day or night, it was no surprise this building seemed outclassed. This display, in contrast, made use of white light to outline the block lettering which changed infrequently. In the world where people were bombarded by ads catering to those with short attention spans, how was it possible to compete?

Beneath this outcropping, Victoria saw a booth guarding the larger glass doors behind it. This place had obviously seen better days judging by the dull brass, varnish worn clean from counters, and a cracked glass pane elegantly repaired using duct tape.

On the silver screen, such places often had red carpets where everything sparkled and attendants wore pressed uniforms. They would attend to one’s every desire, especially those who came and went on the road paved with red velour. This world changed a great deal since that era.

She approached the booth and looked up at the show times located behind the attendant. A woman was fervently thumbing at her phone, even though Victoria waited a few moments for the opportunity to speak up, but she may as well have been invisible. With growing impatience, she knocked on the glass and, after a confused exchange, was able to walk inside.

This world was oddly familiar, considering the mix of old and new. She saw how the confectionery stand was modern, serving popcorn with that welcoming scent of molten butter. Yet the carpets were worn to the point of seeing the wood flooring. There was even a hint of urine occasionally wafting in her direction. Given that the walls were also a dull and grimy brown, it was obvious this place was not at its peak.

This was no grand theatre or opera house. This was not even a cineplex with stadium-style seating and cup holders designed to fit drinks the size of garbage pails. This place drew in crowds when air conditioning was considered a luxury, and it suffered from neglect. How was it that so much suffered from the indignity of neglect for no reason other than age?

Owners past and present squeezed every penny out of the business before it was sold. Normally they would find some unsuspecting soul who dreamed of reviving the place before reality set in. This cycle would begin anew until the theatre was permanently closed or destroyed in some accidental fire.

She knew this locale fairly well and visited frequently as a child. Passing through, she walked by another attendant, whose eyes were so glazed over they were probably not aware of her presence. So the author left half the ticket on the counter and passed by the gatekeeper only to be greeted by the darkness.

Within, Victoria saw brief flashes of light containing numbers that counted down in conjunction with a periodic high-pitched tone. She looked about to choose a seat, then noticed the place was mostly empty, the floor was sticky, and the seats seemed uncomfortably rigid. Despite all of these obstacles to her comfort, her focus turned to the screen when she heard the familiar long pulse accompanied by a zero on the screen.

The room came alive as the bright grey light emanating from the burning magnesium rods within the antique projectors did their magic. Before her was a masterpiece that showcased the wonders of camera work. Driven by its use of shadows to induce terror and created in an era that predated colour and sound. Victoria watched a movie she knew scene for scene. The child of F.W. Murnau was beginning to stir!

During her childhood, Victoria often snuck away to indulge in this sinful delight of hers. She had watched one of these classics with their use of shadows, photography, over-the-top acting, and mounds of makeup. These were all aspects of cinematography that existed before computer-generated graphics became the norm. These movies evoked such primal emotions within that it put these big-budget blockbusters to shame. It was her proof that this form of art could be just as chilling and memorable as modern fares; achieved using nothing more than creative cinematography.

Such films, even with the absence of any sound, created an environment that overwhelmed the onlooker by spawning a world taken from nightmares. Once firmly entrenched in such a world, she became a slave to the story and witness to its horror.

Sometimes she awoke from these artificial nightmares and found herself seated in an empty theatre with a half-emptied bag of popcorn in her hands. That was her way of knowing the movie was a masterpiece, a movie to be cherished. She would watch as wild scenes flashed back in her mind then faded as though she woke up from a nightmare. When it was over, Victoria would smile and sneak back to her parents’ home. Despite their best efforts, they never did realise how their iron grip over her had been weakened, even if only a bit.

As the images changed with that familiar twenty-four-frames-per-second flicker, Victoria heard the reel’s mechanical whir. That distinctive sound echoed throughout the theatre and was occasionally joined by snores from the sleeping projectionist. Yet for all the awe and wonder felt for this movie early on in life, it did little to diminish her disappointment now. Could it be that her senses had in fact been dulled over time? Or was it that freedom from her parents reduced the potency of this excursion?

The questions she sought to avoid earlier came back in full force. It was no simple answer, after all, since this was an age-old topic of debate. Why was her question on the origins of Evelyn’s ability to commit patricide her concern? It was nothing more than a novel—and would it make a difference which section of the bookstore it occupied?

What was the essence of a murderer or an assassin? Were they simply children with a harsh upbringing, brainwashed by some forgotten government agency, genetic aberrations created to kill, or did they have a choice? Choice was the answer she feared the most, given that her character chose to commit such an atrocity; an act that tarnished Victoria’s view of her.

She guessed the reasoning for these questions came from the fact that the material made her uncomfortable. Could that little girl who secretly snuck away to watch classic horror films really find what her character did uncomfortable? Was she truly opposed to violence from those bearing no fangs, claws, wrappings, or scales? These were all questions she would need to confront before she got an answer.

“How long would it take for someone to grow comfortable with the idea of murder?” Victoria asked, making note to explore that topic in greater depth later. “How long would it take for the innocence of a child to give way to murderous rage? Does this question even apply?”

Evelyn certainly seemed more childlike after her change. Was that proof of innocence being a state of mind? Was there more to her story than initially thought? Perhaps it was time to look into this matter again before proceeding with her collected works. After all, writing a novel normally called for a planned storyline. Did it not? Victoria remembered seeing documentaries on how entire plotlines were established before a single word was set to page. So why were her works written piecemeal?

Tired from the wealth of questions, Victoria stood from her seat and looked about. She sighed at the sight of being alone and thought how shameful it was for this place to have fallen into disrepair. With that in mind, Victoria walked past the door and made her way to the back office. She would leave the premises once she became the owner—only then could she ensure its renewal. Under her stewardship, this establishment would regain its former glory, even if it served as nothing more than a mausoleum dedicated to her childhood’s mischievous spirit.

CHAPTER 32

DATE

Victoria spent hours fretting over every aspect of the meal. The choices she made to select the evening’s menu had been a drawn-out process, one involving countless recipe books, rare spices, and multiple trips to the market. Every time she went out for a forgotten ingredient, she would swear aloud while going down the stairs. On one occasion she even let it slip while passing the doorman. Would making a shopping list like normal people kill her? Though she felt the effort was worth it. After all, even a simple choice like chicken or beef might play a part in her guest’s perception. He could even lay judgement before they sat at the table.

The hostess sincerely hoped her choices would be well received. Her selection of a tossed French salad, cream of broccoli soup, prime rib au jus, and blackberry tart were carefully laid out. That way each item would be ready at the right time to be served.

Her choice of wine proved to be equally daunting. After intensive research, she selected chilled dry white wine for the entree, followed by an iced red wine. She hoped the choice of drink would permit the meal to go down smoothly and loosen their lips. If anything, it might have permitted them to chat about her selections, assuming her guest would appreciate a fine glass of wine.

Her thoughts shifted to the table setting where the white tablecloth was draped over the round kitchen table. Atop stood three glasses per person with one filled with iced mineral water, one for the white wine, and the last for the red wine. She hoped the later would be served toward the end. She inspected every glass for imperfections or blemishes, knowing that those in the military tended to judge people by such details. It was part of his culture, ingrained into his being and his way of life.

The silverware was intricately placed upon the cloth with the use of three forks, knives, and a singular spoon to complete the formal setting. It seemed fitting, a justification for all the preparation that had gone into it. Why not opt for a bit of formality when setting the table?

Victoria realised her guest might not have been comfortable with such a formal setting, seeing that she was unaware of military mess dinners. Would he take offence and feel as though he were under a microscope? Would he try to fake proper table etiquette by following her lead or prefer to ask for help? This line of questioning made her smile, and she thought her character agreed.

While this was not a test, it might provide insight on his thoughts without having to utter a single word. One learned more from a person’s actions than they could from literature or speeches. Body language was free from the conscious mind and provided an observer with a glimpse at what lay beneath their cultured exterior. How many times had body language given her the insight required to know if someone was lying on the stand? The same applied to nervous ticks or some subconscious movement that told her to push forward on a line of questioning.

From the corner of her eye, Victoria noticed something was out of place. Turning to her left, she spotted silver polish used to clean the candelabra, then cursed under her breath. How silly would it have been for this guest to find things strewn about when so much care had been spent on the rest? This would be the equivalent of her character sculpting a masterpiece but leaving a chisel idle at its base prior to its unveiling.

She quickly swiped the cleaner and rag, then tossed them into a nearby drawer, thus hiding her dirty little secret until there was more time to deal with it. Secrets such as these were fun, like trying to find Waldo or a typo in a manuscript the size of War and Peace despite years of review and publishing. Would he look? Would he chance getting caught and be seen as though he were invading her privacy? Victoria was certain the answer would be a no. Though she doubted he was beyond sneaking a quick peek at her medicine cabinet.

To complete the ensemble, Victoria retrieved white candles for the candelabra and some navy-blue napkins that needed folding before his arrival. The table was taking shape, turning into one found in high-class restaurants. She was sure he was well worth the effort. With a few more moments of preparation, the table became delightfully illuminated by a candelabra containing five long wax candles which burned in the company of her crackling fire. The atmosphere had romance in the air, yet it still felt like home. Her choice of setting certainly made for a more intimate venue.

While dressed in a lovely evening gown, one which clung to her like the gentle embrace of a lover, Victoria felt out of place and uncomfortable. She adjusted her top a bit to show less cleavage and unlaced a part of her dress that opened up her left slit to showcase that leg. Victoria believed this would be something her character would do; to make decisions on what to reveal or hide as to lend more to the imagination.

Dates for her character were a mechanism for control. Her character sought to control men—to pull their strings like a master puppeteer. This was a feat accomplished by leading them to the brink of ecstasy and then pulling back to leave them thirsting for more.

“No, control is not the proper word,” Victoria said.

She considered how her character’s behaviour was much more geared to the teasing and torment of men. So did this mean her use of control was simply a means to an end? Was this an aftereffect of her character’s early years? Perhaps it was simply her love for mischief?

“Now we wait,” Victoria added.

She sat and took the opportunity to give her feet a rest. The waiting game was afoot, leaving her heart to race in anticipation.

* * * *

The candles were burned out, having consumed the last of their wicks. Nothing had been moved or touched since Victoria decided she needed to rest her eyes hours ago. All was quiet, devoid of sounds from clanging wine glasses, passionate conversation, or even soft wet kisses against a lover’s lips.

The warmth of the fire had been her only comfort that evening. On the counter, food that was to be served had long ago cooled to room temperature, leaving the soup clotted, which made it an unlikely candidate for leftovers. With the bottles of wine now immersed in a pool of water, her choice of vintage would not come into play tonight, given that the cork seals were intact.

In the living room, one could see a lone blinking light, red and unwavering in both intensity and frequency. Upon closer inspection, one saw it emanated from her phone to notify her of a voicemail, pleading her to pay heed. Victoria fell asleep before the phone rang and would only get the message on the following day.

“Are you there?” The question was followed by a short pause. “Victoria, this is Marc. Sorry for the short notice, but the flight got cancelled, so I am still at the airport in Orleans.” There was a long pause devoid of background noises normally associated with airports. “Look…it seems like they may cancel leave. Perhaps another time, okay?”

CHAPTER 33

DELAYED REACTION

As the sun rose over the city, the towers of glass and steel gleamed like diamonds. These beacons of civilisation represented for many the ultimate achievement in human progress. Perhaps there were more important discoveries left to uncover? Would they discover ways to rid us of death, pestilence, famine, and war? Did the greatest minds in history possess a way to rid her of this wretched feeling in her heart?

Victoria had been in a mood since she missed that call. The room was as she left it. She was not up to the task of tearing down the setting for a night that would never be. For now, she was content in letting the food go to waste, comforted in the knowledge that famine would not be slowed or even halted by her inaction.

Inaction suited her as she simmered over her fresh dose of betrayal. Surely, she must have done something to deserve this? Perhaps it was a sick joke? The laughs were indeed on her, not including an ample dose of humiliation or the fact that her greatest fear had been realised.

She did warn herself this would happen! Now it seemed the world was laughing at her. She even picked out the voice of her character chiming in. A reminder of how the disease of love blinded her from the truth. What had love ever done for this old girl? What had love done for most?

That was a question to which there was no answer. Throughout time, love was seen as a vivid emotion, one that brought about the good in life and was perhaps solely responsible for the greatest artworks. Was not an artist’s love for their work a guiding factor for such creations as the Venus de Milo? Were there other ways to drive a person to greatness? Had any emotion done so more than love?

Her character, intent on voicing her opinion on the matter, screamed out. The normally musical voice reverberated throughout Victoria’s mind and forced her to devote all her attention to it. Like a springtime storm rolling over the coast, the words approached under the guise of light weather only to hit the unsuspecting vessel with gale-force winds.

“Hate.” A simple word, associated with much of the world’s troubles. Yet it, too, drove people to achieve the impossible, overcome the odds, and be the last one standing. This emotion acted as a shield, protecting people from the effects of love. Anyone guided by hate wielded the same destructive forces as that storm, while freed from any moral intervention.

Where love perhaps created works that enchanted untold generations, hate conquered nations and overcame the strongest of foes. No wonder hate was so easy to succumb to, since so many paths of love ended with betrayal, loss, and ultimately, loathing.

In many ways, love for her parents was a path fraught with betrayal. Her life had been carefully moulded to fit in with their lifestyle and their desires, leaving her devoid of personality. Why should she need to express herself through art when they would rather she exist within their shadows?

Love led to comfort, and Victoria grew accustomed to such emotions as she received more of those letters. It made her susceptible to his trickery, leading her to believe that this time she would be in the spotlight. Perhaps such tales were better served for her writings, as these were clearly works of fantasy.

Victoria’s senses were routed when she felt something roll down her cheek. She mechanically reached for the pearl-shaped tear and wondered why it seemed so alien. When faced with this bottled-up rage, why should she cry? She was mad!

With a quick flick of her fingers, the tear flew off her reddened cheek. She shrugged off the part of herself linked to her emotions, those that were pure, simple, and the embodiment of innocence. Though innocence seemed like such a precious thing to lose. Would she cherish it once it was lost?

“I need out,” Victoria said.

She stood for the first time in hours, then moved toward the closet. She looked through her coats and settled on a long, flowing item that concealed her evening gown. She would remove it when she was good and ready. Besides, why waste the opportunity? From now on, life would be on her terms.

Perhaps hate was an unhealthy emotion, but for now it got her out of that apartment.

“A walk through the park sounds nice,” Victoria thought aloud.

So she grabbed a pair of sunglasses from a bin at the top of the closet before slipping on a pair of shoes. Victoria took a deep breath and walked out into a world hellbent on rejecting her.

CHAPTER 34

SANCTUM

The day was young—the perfect time for a break-in; a time when people least expected such brazen acts to occur. Though, in this particular case, there was little choice, as his target defied all attempts to find a pattern to her life.

To wait for an opportunity, he watched in the comfort of a coffee shop across the street. It was enjoyable to pass the time by sitting comfortably in a soft chair, while hitting on the waitresses and sipping on expensive lattes. He was posing as a poet who sought to experience the world as it moved by, a cover which even provided ample reason to appear distracted.

When his target left the block, dressed like some starlet hiding from the press, he knew this would probably be his only opportunity. Chances with this one were rare, though he had been told to expect an opening today and was surprised to see it materialise. In the back of his mind, he wondered exactly how they gained solid intelligence on a recluse.

He got up, stiff kneed, a punishment for sitting on his ass too long. With a casual flick of the hand, he dropped a wad of cash on the table and gave his signature smouldering smile to the waitress as he walked out. This man showed skill. While navigating his way through the myriad of people, he drew no more attention than a simple nod.

This city’s population rarely noticed unusual activity. Around here, one could run down the middle of the street half-naked and would barely get a passing glance. Though that dynamic changed if said individual happened to be a celebrity—then a mob would surely follow. The fact that he was an unknown granted him the freedom to access her apartment without as much as a raised eyebrow and gave cops the daunting task of identifying him.

The hardest part of this operation was getting past the doorman. This watchman could foil the breach with one blow of his whistle or identify him in a line-up at the local precinct. To evade detection there was a need to blend in; enter the building without arousing any suspicion. Fortunately for him, he had just the ticket.

This was a situation where information in the right hands paid dividends. In this case, knowing the background of a target was not enough, you needed to know everything about them and more. For that, a few tricks of the trade were necessary to shake loose any straggling skeletons. These details were crucial when dirty work was required, like fetching items during a messy divorce without being traced. People were always concerned about their self-preservation and could be coerced into doing almost anything. This was especially true when someone was pushed into a corner.

In this case, he had to look beyond friends, family, and former co-workers, casting a wider net to include all tenants. This was an expensive apartment complex located on prime real estate, and people naturally assumed there would be little to go on. Yet, expensive homes meant expensive tastes, just like one neighbour who harboured secrets he leveraged for just this kind of circumstance.

While this Miss Frost was white as freshly fallen snow, a credit to her name, one of her neighbours was another matter. That woman had expensive tastes and slept her way up the food chain to get them. That is, until she managed to sink her claws into a serious breadwinner, one who could feed her habits for years.

It seemed peculiar that his employer got his hands on some illicit pictures from that woman’s past. While they were not Playboy quality, they would easily topple her house of cards if she were uncooperative. Men who sought such women did so because they were after trophies with no desire to be reminded of their tarnished past. With a simple threat of exposing this secret, the operation became a cakewalk, and all it took was a call to set things in motion. He smirked as he thought about getting past without a second glance, knowing his escort would never report him for fear of being exposed.

As the man exited the shop, he called his contact and soon met up with this trophy wife by the doors. She seemed nervous, a trait he came to expect; they always were when their secrets were on the cusp of being exposed. The woman smiled meekly, then took his hand as they passed by the doorman unnoticed. When they parted, he made his way to Victoria’s door, then used a bump key to enter the inner sanctum. In the back of his mind, he thought the plan was working out wonderfully, so far.

CHAPTER 35

WORLDS COLLIDE

Something felt off from the moment Victoria left her home. She could not put a finger on it, so she sought to focus on something else. Nonetheless, these feelings simmered in the back of her mind, then worked their way down her throat until they settled into the pit of her stomach. This, in turn, made her feel queasy, a sensation worsened with every step taken until it could no longer be ignored.

Victoria leaned against a concrete barrier in the hopes things would settle. She no longer heard the sounds of the street, not the countless car horns blown in impatience, nor emergency vehicles that flew by. The author did not even hear the sounds a mass of people made when living within the confines of a city. Victoria wondered if she should try to return home or consider calling for help. In the back of her mind, the latter seemed wrong as though some force were compelling her to go home.

She pushed against the barrier, then took a moment to find her balance before taking a few steps in the direction of home. Instantly, she was better. With Victoria thinking the worst had passed, she attempted to make another run for the park. That choice brought about the full wrath of the nausea, leading her to question the existence of fate. How was it that an outside force seemed to be pushing her back to her home? The author closed her eyes in defeat. She sighed, taking a deep breath before heading home.

* * * *

Entry was without resistance, given that homeowners in monitored blocks often relied on door locks alone. For those born to this trade, locks and deadbolts existed to prevent the honest from entry. People who showed talent gained entry regardless of protective measures—it merely slowed them down.

Time was normally not an issue for such jobs, since he ransacked the place to make it look like a robbery. Such a tactic had its perks, given how quickly he rifled through the contents of a home and found items. That manoeuvre also permitted him to get away with an on-the-job performance bonus. Yet, his employer stipulated that the home remain undisturbed. While they were adamant this item be found, no trace of his intrusion was to be left behind. In fact, several cash bonuses were attached to the job for nothing more than remaining undetected.

“So much for pillaging the place,” the man said.

He was disappointed there was no way to let off some steam, though the large upfront payment certainly helped. Stealth had not been the only stipulation he agreed to. By far the most daunting clause was that he leave the city once done—self-imposed exile from such a large market, one he was born to and called home for his whole life. Now that would have been hard to justify by anything less than a seven-figure payment.

He walked from room to room, examining every item to get a feel for this home. The man was honestly a bit surprised to find an absence of stacked garbage or an army of cats. He knew once he established her norms that anything out of place would become a clue to the whereabouts of this item.

When he reached the bedroom, he froze with the nagging sense of having forgotten something with the answer lingering in the back of his mind. He thought back to the briefing where his mind ran through every monotonous word in an attempt to remember what escaped him.

“Pffft,” he uttered.

His secondary objective popped into his head, and he reached into his pockets for a piece of paper. It was crumpled and faded from being stashed away for so long, and he was surprised he had not tossed it. On the paper there were three numbers representing a setting for her radio.

It was pointless to ponder why someone would pay this much for a job that a street punk could pull off without a hitch. That is, until the familiar sound of a key being driven into the deadbolt echoed throughout the apartment.

* * * *

Victoria turned the key and was left puzzled when there was no resistance. She was normally diligent about locking her door, considering the city’s crime rate, and found it unsettling that it was not. Did she just happen to forget? Besides, it was the middle of the day, and the doorman normally monitored all arrivals. Victoria closed her eyes and tried to relax. Nothing was going well today, and now this? Surely, this must have been some sort of sick test of faith?

She thought back to a friend who was assaulted and spent her last days sedated. It had been horrible to witness her friend oblivious to the outside world and unaware that the end was near. There was no need for that type of imagery today, and certainly nothing would be gained from jumping to such conclusions.

“Go on, Victoria, everything’s all right. Now, calm down, you know there is nothing to worry about,” Victoria said.

She found those words to be hollow. Either way, staying by her front door—afraid of her own shadow—did nothing to help the situation since she needed something for her stomach.

Her needs eventually overrode all fears, so she turned the knob, then pushed the door open cautiously. At first, she looked ahead as light crept in and revealed nothing more than the long shadows of furniture. This further relaxed her and infused her with the courage to take one step inside.

Her foot landed lightly, while she kept her eyes affixed to the floor as though unsure of her footing. She breathed in deeply to calm her heart, looked about, then walked inside. With each step, her movement seemed less pained, more confident, and her stomach settled to a mere rumble.

“Perhaps it was just hunger,” Victoria said, given she had nothing to eat since yesterday.

There were always valid arguments to explain away such a phenomenon, with this argument preferable to other theories. Before Victoria could focus, the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened.

A little voice on the inside of her head screamed out, “Someone else is here!”

To Victoria, it seemed as though this voice was mocking her, doing so in a similar fashion to a children’s taunt during recess.

Frightened that her initial instincts were correct, Victoria froze and tried to find it within herself to run or face the invader. The voice inside continued to pester her as though this were a game. The words clouded her mind so she was no longer able to think straight.

“To your left,” the voice shouted, causing Victoria to jump.

She turned instinctively left, but her head went numb before she completed the motion. As Victoria hit the floor, her eyes opened, and the last thing she saw was her empty living room fade to black. All the while, that voice giggled in the background, sounding diabolically sweet in its tones, something like the tinkling of glass when struck.

CHAPTER 36

COLD

Victoria was chilled to the bone as a draught swept over the floor. Her head throbbed incessantly, leaving her to barely notice how she was jumbled in a foetal position. Was this the reason her joints ached so much? The author struggled in vain to open her eyes, then noticed the room was eerily quiet. Not even the familiar sound of electric lights could be heard, though it was possible the high-pitched whine in her ears muted her hearing.

To describe this as a bad hangover would have been the understatement of the century. Victoria pushed against the floor weakly, then forced her stiff body into a sitting position. With Herculean strength, she managed to pry her eyes open and scan the room. Victoria sighed in relief, finding that she was at home and not in someone’s basement. Her imagination ran wild with ideas of being bound to some mechanical contraption designed to inflict unimaginable pain.

She stared into the hearth—normally set aflame, now cold and silent, with ash as the only evidence that it had ever hosted a fire. The young woman rubbed her arms briskly to get circulation going. Her breath came out in a fog. It must have been at least a day, given how much her apartment had cooled. She wondered just how much of the world passed her by without as much as a glance. A trivial fact compared to the invasion of her home, yet some part of her still cared and longed to be a part of that world.

The throbbing pain in the back of her head broke her chain of thought. She reached for the pain, then felt coarse blood clots, thinking it similar to sandpaper. She tried to run a hand through her hair, feeling the familiar sting, and winced. When she realised there was blood, Victoria looked down and saw the bloodstained carpet with a matching log at her side.

“At least it was not the poker,” Victoria said.

She shivered while conjuring images of countless movies featuring the poker as a murder weapon. She was grateful she needed only to worry about the constant hum in her ears, a headache, and a bit of blood to clean up. When she looked about, she noticed her home seemed undisturbed, leading her to wonder why someone had been here.

Victoria felt her legs going numb and sensed that now was the time to get up, no matter how much her body protested. Besides, she needed some painkillers, adding that to a list of reasons to go through with the task.

Slow, deliberate, and pained were her movements, requiring her to draw from her inner strength to get to her feet. She then wobbled, stepping unsteadily as her vision swirled, so much so that she was forced to balance herself using the fireplace mantel. It was then she realised the need to turn on the electric registers, taking note to light a fire at a later time. For the moment, she needed to warm up and was too weary to master a fresh fire.

“Heat,” Victoria said.

The word reassured her as she trekked deeper into the living room to where the thermostat lay. She looked upon the unfamiliar device with blurred vision. Victoria eventually managed to set the temperature to a comfortable level.

“And now for pills,” Victoria added.

More words of reason that renewed her focus. She took one step at a time, using the occasional chair or table for support while inching closer to the medicine cabinet. Upon reaching her goal, she withdrew a bottle and quickly dropped two capsules into her mouth. Not finding the strength to swallow them whole, she poured herself a glass of water and downed her pills in the hopes it would take effect shortly.

Suddenly a wave of fatigue washed over her. She struggled over to the front door to ensure it was locked and secured. Thinking it prudent, she leaned a chair against the doorknob. Victoria’s attention then turned to her exhaustion, so she collapsed onto the couch. Before the smell of heated metal and the sound of pinging registers came to her senses, Victoria was well off to dreamland.

CHAPTER 37

MURMURS

Throughout her dream, Victoria stared out the window and watched as people passed by. Everyone would turn to face her and speak, yet their lips moved in slow motion with no audible sound, just some incoherent mumbling.

Reminiscent of some poorly directed flick, she attempted to force open the window only to find it was sealed shut. Panic stricken, Victoria ran to the door to discover a brick wall welcomed her on the other side. She searched the room and sought alternate means of escape, but she was greeted by failure at every turn.

Panic grew, along with the feeling of being trapped. Her breathing constricted and she was hyperventilating. Forced to sit, she wondered what they were trying to say. Why was she ensnared in her own home? Why were the murmurs still there? When she looked up to the ceiling, Victoria discovered it was absent. Greeting her instead was a clear glass pane that prevented her escape.

More horrific was the gigantic camera lens pointed directly at her. Had this been a movie, one would have seen the image of her screaming toward the camera. In proper horror fashion, the camera would then zoom out until the world faded to the size of a pinprick. Instead, she woke up and was welcomed by the familiar silhouettes of her living room set aglow in the pale moonlight.

Victoria’s breathing steadied when she realised it was nothing more than a vivid and clichéd dream. Yet something was off. She could hear the same voices that haunted her dream. At first, she attempted to block out the voices, assuming it was just a lingering memory, yet they persisted in both volume and tone.

She stood and felt faint from hunger, making a mental note to order up a pizza. To seek out the source of the murmurs, she moved away from the living room and down the hall. With every step nearer to her bedroom, the voices became clearer, more pronounced, and permitted her to make out a few words.

K…J…Y…favourite radio station.

Victoria raised an eyebrow at hearing the announcer from a local radio station. Why was a radio playing in her house at this hour? Carefully, she opened the door and peeked inside, noticing her radio alarm clock in the corner—gathering dust since she quit—was chiming away on the tuned frequency.

Do not forget your booties ‘cause it’s coooold out there today. It’s coooold out there every day. What is this, Miami Beach?

Victoria moved in closer to her bed and looked annoyed at these announcers’ antics. Her thoughts quickly shifted back to the break-in, more so on what had been taken. Victoria looked about but found nothing out of place. In the meantime, that station continued to spout out information about weather and warned travellers to bundle up.

“Seems like a storm is brewing,” Victoria said as she heard the advisement to avoid heading out this evening.

Now onto international news…

Her ears perked a bit, but she quickly dismissed the idea of listening to this station for any tangible news, especially after that Godawful weather report. She approached the clock and was about to silence it when she looked to the top of her jewellery chest. Present were her gold bracelet, sterling-silver earrings, and pearl necklace, all of which were collecting dust. What kind of assailant breaks in and leaves all the valuables?

Authorities have confirmed some thirty civilians were killed today in a rebel attack on the airport of…

Victoria stopped cold and turned all her attention to the broadcast.

Local news agencies have also reported that several military personnel were killed in an attempt to retake the airport. While the names of the civilian casualties are being withheld in respect for the families, it has been leaked that some of the casualties include Captain Marc…

The image of a tricolour flag draped over a casket came back into her mind. The name and rank agreed with what she knew of him; even the city to which he was stationed nearby corresponded. Victoria was unable to describe the emotions going through her mind as these feelings simply overwhelmed her.

Other names were mentioned, such as Lieutenant Joseph LeClaire and a sergeant with a name that was incomprehensible over the radio. All of which had been killed during the assault, yet none had the same effect as that first name. With the words still echoing in her mind, she collapsed onto the bed, barely able to breathe as this was the last thing her mind could cope with.

* * * *

Sunflower seeds littered the floor of the apartment in the block opposing Victoria. The man nibbled away at his snacks while he intently observed his target. Long he waited, as evidenced by the weeks-old beard and the stack of empty pizza boxes sitting in the corner.

Upon seeing this woman collapse, he looked at his watch and confirmed the timings were right on the money. He reached for his phone and, for the second time tonight, pressed the speed-dial for its only programmed number. He waited for a second before hearing the characteristic dialling followed by the ringing of the line.

The phone rang once, twice, and a third time before the line was answered with an eerie silence. In anticipation of this, he cleared his throat to give him enough time to recall the code word.

Ivory was the keyword he said before he hung up, while he used Discovery to initiate the artificial news broadcast. Without as much as a second glimpse, he tore down the tripod along with the high-power telescope. Everything was packed neatly into specialised carrying cases. He also wiped down all surfaces that may have been touched during his stay.

Meticulous and careful, he took his time to clean up the myriad of sunflower-seed shells left upon the floor, thus dissuading any potential crime scene investigator. One could never be too careful in this day and age, considering how technology advanced by leaps and bounds. Technological shifts reduced the most competent of experts to the rank of novice in the blink of an eye through ignorance alone.

After triple checking the room was cleared, he picked up his case and left the space. He exited through the back door, going down a long, dark alley to find his car parked by a dumpster. With a quick press of a button on his fob, the car unlocked. He stepped in and drove off into the night.

* * * *

Meanwhile, Victoria remained perfectly still on the edge of her bed. Her eyes were puffy and red. By now, she was too numb inside to feel the tears rolling down her cheeks. Given time, tears shed would ruin the expensive fabric of the dress, the one she chose to wear for their first date, not that she cared anymore.

Her thoughts shifted to a vision of her parents and their empty caskets being lowered into the cold, unforgiving soil. The author shivered at the memory of that relentless freezing rain pouring over her. A memory that oddly provided a measure of comfort compared to the sheer weight of this latest wounding of her heart.

* * * *

Later the next day, this man pulled alongside the curb. He stepped out, left his gear in the back seat, and skirted around the grass onto the walkway that led up to the front door. Before he could dig out the keys from his pockets, the door opened, and he was provided with a great reason to smile.

“You’re home,” the woman exclaimed and fell into a hug.

He held her in his arms as though it had been a lifetime since they last saw one another. He held her tightly. The man kissed his wife on the cheek and watched her squirm from his tickling beard.

“Where are the kids?” he asked.

He pulled back and looked at his wife, still in pyjamas. Only then did he realise it was early morning, the start of a great day. With this job out of the way, they would have no problems affording mortgage payments for a good long time.

CHAPTER 38

DESPAIR

The room glowed from the crackling fire, creating an eerie show as shadows grew against the walls. The uninviting room dredged up memories of a schoolmaster’s office. A room that, when mentioned out loud, sent the hearts of students to the pits of their stomachs.

There was a peculiar odour hanging about, clinging to every room like a blanket that covered a child in deep slumber. It was a rather repugnant aroma, often found around the city during garbage-collection strikes, and one that screamed of neglect.

Yet this was not a crack house, a squatter’s residence, or the location of some unfortunate death. Instead, this was a home of someone pushed to the limits of her psyche and who failed to return. For days now, Victoria barely lifted a finger or showed any zeal for life, nor would she be remotely inclined to.

Her bed was her kingdom. The phone, her only contact with the outside world, lay on the floor ripped away from the wall jack with a matching impression embedded in the opposing wall. Windows were shuttered and curtained to prevent any light from entering; it seemed as though she believed it would sear her flesh.

Victoria was a mess, unable to think or feel anything but the pain within. She was numb from stimuli, thinking neither of food nor comfort. Instead, she concentrated on prolonging her suffering, stretching out her pain and torture, as that was all she had left.

From time to time, she would venture into the living room, oblivious to her surroundings. On one occasion, she stumbled into the table with such force that it immediately left a bruise, yet she barely reacted. Instead, she mindlessly started a fire and maintained it with motherly care. In a sense, the fire became her sole companion through this ordeal, oblivious to her present state of mind or how she relished in pain.

In the kitchen, everything was left as it had been nearly a week ago. Flies flew around the feast and multiplied at a fantastic rate, spreading their filth throughout the home. Seldom would Victoria venture to the kitchen, ignoring the decay. Instead, she picked something in the fridge. Be it a slice of cheese or some stale bread, it mattered little as to what it was, only that it prolonged her anguish.

On occasion, she left the window open without care of letting the frigid air inside. It seemed pointless to worry about day-to-day household chores when life had no meaning. Her novel suffered, as did her visions of Evelyn and the colourful life that came with it. Like everything in the author’s life, these images faded entirely, then left her with nothing but a bleak outlook on her failed life.

Her art no longer had any meaning. Even her work—entitled The Portrait of a Woman—did nothing to inspire. Instead, it remained covered to keep the dust away, preventing a casual glance at the woman’s intriguing smile, representing all that she would never achieve. Gone were the flurry of questions that normally surrounded her character, even the ones that might have questioned where the musical voice went to.

Oddly enough, Victoria never considered taking her life as a means to end the pain. Something in the recesses of her mind kept tugging her back from such dark thoughts. It was as though she was hovering over the abyss while glancing into the welcoming darkness without actually making the final plunge. How long would this force hold her at bay?

* * * *

During the night, Victoria heard a crash that startled her out of her nightmare. Her eyes darted about, searching her room while her heart was trying to leap out of her chest. All she found were the familiar long shadows of her bedroom. She sighed, thankful there were no immediate signs of another break-in. It seemed so long ago that Victoria felt anything other than the darkest emotions. She welcomed the sense of comfort, and it seemed as though she were rescued by a passing ship from the frigid North-Atlantic.

Victoria attempted to slip out of bed, recoiling from a pain that washed over her arm. It made her entire body come alive. She would have yelped if not for the fact that it occurred in the blink of an eye. Instead, she looked down and saw an inky, dark substance flowing from her hand onto the sheets.

While she remained fixated on her arm, Victoria noticed something glittering from the pale light of her alarm clock. She reached with her good hand, sliding her fingertips over her skin until she felt the cool jagged edges of glass. By grasping the most visible edge, she slowly pulled it from her flesh as she clenched her jaw, leaving behind a nasty gash.

Victoria rose from the bed and stepped onto more broken glass. This time she swore and hobbled hurriedly to the bathroom. Distracted by the physical pain, Victoria darted past the chaos that was her home and went into her bathroom. While wincing, Victoria closed the bathroom door, ripped open the cabinet’s doors, and spilled its contents onto the counter and adjoined sink. The next few hours were spent removing glass shards from her feet and dousing the wounds with alcohol.

Upon Victoria’s return to her bedroom, she noticed her window was broken. The hole in the glass allowed the cool air inside and sent a shiver down her spine. Despite the fresh air, the smell of decay reached her senses and caused her to wrinkle her nose. She was left to wonder how bad her state of mind must have been to remain unaware of such a pungent odour.

On the edge of the bed, Victoria noticed something sitting as though placed there as a gift. This time, she wore slippers and was able to carefully pick up this object from the debris. Already her bandages were starting to stain crimson, and she wondered if stitches were needed. However, her thoughts swayed to the item, and she went as far as to move into the living room, turning on her desk light so she could get a better look.

The item turned out to be a box—and an old one, by the looks of it. There were signs it was carved from a solid block of wood, and it showed many layers of varnish covering an intricate floral pattern throughout the top and sides. She moved in closer, smelling the faint odour of cedar, thankful that it took her mind off the nauseating smell from the kitchen.

One third of the way to the top, lined with wrought iron, was the separation between cover and base. The iron was free of rust and had been well maintained, leading her to question, once more, how old this artefact was. Victoria found a singular opening on the front, one that would fit an old-fashioned key, and she noted there were no visible hinges on the outside to be forced.

“Too bad I don’t have the key,” Victoria said, never thinking of her discovery from months back.

CHAPTER 39

RECOVERY

This act was taken straight out of a cheesy Hollywood movie. A comedic scene where clothes flew through the air, along with the odd trinket, teddy bear, and toiletries as Victoria searched for the key. Thinking back over the last few months, she swore she had placed the item somewhere safe, yet she must have immediately forgotten.

On occasion, Victoria would forget her window was broken until she heard the distinctive crackling glass underfoot. The noise and risk of renewed injury did not bother her. Nothing mattered other than her reinvigorated sense of curiosity. In her haste to locate this object, she flew past chests and cabinets, stripping every shelf bare.

Unfortunately, the key was nowhere to be found. Victoria dropped her weary bones onto the couch, trying to think where she hid it. An object of that size could be hidden in thousands of places—or had it taken during the break-in? Her instincts told her to keep searching, that pushing forward would yield the secrets she sought.

“Later,” Victoria said.

Her home had grown too uninviting to ignore. With a groan, she got up and transited into the kitchen. It was there the daunting task of cleaning up after her neglect would begin.

The first step was to toss the prepared food, plates, and all contents of her kitchen sink into an oversized bag. The thought of cleaning dishes entirely fused with the food made her nauseated. The decision to rid herself of their presence entirely simplified the matter. She dragged the bag down the long, winding hallway and into the garbage shoot.

The next few hours were a blur as Victoria cleaned up the broken glass, washed her linens, and scrubbed the kitchen. It was here she paid the most attention and polished it to the point of meeting a surgeon’s exacting standards. Tired and famished, she found her fridge bare and wondered where all the food went. It could not have been more than a day or so? In truth, she had no idea how much time passed while she flirted with the abyss.

* * * *

It was half an hour later before Victoria heard someone at the door. She opened it after removing the chair and noticed the pizza delivery boy standing in the hallway. She smiled shyly, hoping he would not notice anything peculiar related to her appearance. The dress worn was the first she found that smelled clean enough and her hair was a tangled mess, despite how much she hacked at it with a brush.

Such thoughts quickly melted away when her eyes fell upon his muscular figure with long, dirty-blond hair that imbued him with a sense of being wild and untamed. To add, he had a day-old beard, sharp jawline, and piercing, steel-blue eyes. Those strong eyes made her wonder how happy she would be if she became the last woman on earth with him at her side.

No sooner had her vision ended than she realised he was gone. She stepped out a few feet, to look down the hallway, but finding no traces of this young prince and nothing more than his pizza as a consolation prize. Victoria was disappointed she did not utter a single word during the entire exchange. In the end, she was consoled by her vow to order more often from this place, as long as her knight continued to make deliveries. Was it considered poor form to request a specific delivery person?

Victoria sighed, sat in her chair, and flipped open the lid. The aroma was simply divine, especially to someone who barely ate anything at all during the week. Quickly, she grabbed a piece, watching the cheese stretch out from the pie, then took a bite out of its tip. As the warm, gooey food slid down her throat, the author smiled, closed her eyes, and pushed deeper into the chair to force out the foot support.

“Bliss,” Victoria uttered between bites.

Victoria giggled upon realising how impolite that would have been in public.

“Damn the public,” Victoria thought aloud.

She was finally coming to terms with the fact that there were appropriate times to break out of her shell and let her hair down. She served her time in purgatory, so why not relax when the opportunity arose? It was not like the world cared if she was always prim and proper.

Moments passed and the pizza slices dwindled in number, extending her stay in this urban paradise one bite at a time. There was much work to be done, with her room still in tatters which needed to be dealt with before she retired for the night. That duty worked against her mood like an anchor left a scar on the seabed to halt a ship’s advance. In a similar fashion, the weight from that nagging sense of duty forced her mind back to reality far quicker than hoped.

Her smile faded, as did her appetite, so she dropped the fourth slice into the box and closed the lid. With a sigh, she reached for a paper napkin and wiped clean her hands and lips. She crushed it into a ball and, with a well-aimed shot, threw the soiled paper into the fire, which saw it transformed into a flash of bright-yellow flame.

Her attention turned to the fire, still striving to consume the last vestiges of a log she placed in its hearth hours ago. Fire was unforgiving in its venture, even going to the extremes of consuming all its fuel. In the back of her mind, she wondered if there were parallels between this chemical phenomenon and the life of a martyr. Both were consumed until nothing was left, and yet a well-defined mark would remain within our collective memories.

“Interesting,” Victoria said.

She was in awe of how dramatically her outlook on life had changed. Thoughts swirled in her mind on the discovery of fire, the most primal tool in humanity’s arsenal against nature. How odd was it for her interpretations to change based on mood.

With that thought in mind, she reached to place another log in the fire as a reward for her enlightenment. When she picked up a fresh log, the basket containing her firewood shifted unnaturally. This puzzled her, so she pushed it aside, finding a small metallic object underneath. Victoria smiled and wanted to slap herself for having forgotten the safe place chosen to safeguard the key.

“Let’s see what you will reveal, shall we?” Victoria asked.

She dropped a few more logs into the fire as another reward. It was always polite to repay one’s closest friends, especially when they granted your wishes.

CHAPTER 40

LOOSE ENDS

It had been a little over a week since he returned from the city and that Godawful surveillance gig. The watcher sat comfortably on the couch as a football game played on the TV. Life was good, now that his job was complete. He was free to enjoy the simpler things in life. There was nothing better than ice-cold beer, a good game on the television, and a wife to keep the bed warm.

In all honesty, it surprised him there were no complications from the job. Those of his profession tended to be peons in a larger game of chess. They saw only a small portion of the playing field, never knowing if the payment would be in cash, blood, or worse; he shuddered at the thought of being attacked by an army of lawyers. Though such a straightforward assignment, while inherently illegal—unless you worked for the government—rarely drew heat.

This job differed from the start, seeing how the detailed briefing reminded him of troop deployments to Afghanistan. He knew exactly what steps needed to be done, including detailed timings for every phase. This gave him very little to think about, a sharp contrast to the guessing games he was normally involved in. This became especially pronounced when he dealt with the volatility of divorcing couples. When all was said and done, it seemed as though he was nothing more than a spectator of a well-choreographed play.

The game reached half-time and brought about the usual mundane commercials which aimed to create the illusion of need. When he saw a beer commercial, he instinctively reached for a can, only to find it empty. So he did what any other God-loving citizen did on a weekend when watching his game—he yelled to his wife to get him another.

There was no response, so he waited, all the while his impatience boiled over. Now clearly irked, he yelled out a second time and left out any disguise of his irritation. This request was also greeted with an eerie silence, so he slammed the empty can against the end table. The act of crushing the can did little to soothe his temper. It dredged up memories from his time in that empty apartment watching the target. Where was that woman?

He got up from the couch and tossed the can into the corner, joining other trash accumulated from his day of bingeing. For the first time, he called out softly, guessing that she was in the corner fuming at his being an ass. Sometimes it was prudent to eat crow, especially if it saved you a night in the doghouse.

No replies came and this time he was starting to show alarm. She had no plans, and he was sure she would have told him if she did. So where had she gone to? Was she in the bathroom taking a shower? No, there were no sounds of running water, nor were there other household sounds, except for his game.

Once he stepped out of the living room and entered the kitchen, he heard a click and the television silenced. With the television out, he heard nothing, not even the hum of the electric lights in the kitchen. It was as though all the power had been cut to the home. Yet when he flicked a nearby light switch, he discovered the lights turned on cheerfully as always. Now he was certain something was up.

He turned and ran to the living room to investigate, only to be greeted by the most gruesome sight. On the couch where he had been warming his ass all evening sat his wife. Her head was twisted at an unnatural angle, her throat slashed to prevent her from making a sound. The couch and her clothes were soaked in blood, while her eyes were nothing more than glass.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins and clouded his mind. Should he run or hold his ground to find this bastard who dared trespass on his property? These thoughts came too late, as he felt pressure against his back, followed by a sound he would never forget. A sound made when a blade punctured clothes, skin, and muscle to eventually penetrate the heart. His eyes grew wide as his heart was pierced. He froze in place. If it were not for the strength of the assailant, he would have crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

“I hope you enjoyed the money while it lasted,” the words faded away as life drained out of him.

With his final sight being that of his murdered wife, he realised lawyers were not necessarily the greatest threat out there. Why was it he did not recognise this voice? In the end, he would not care for an answer, nor worry about the fate of his children. Corpses tended not to care for the human condition.

* * * *

The thief’s employer had not been at the rendezvous point, and it showed all signs of being a trap. There were reasons such things happened, with none of them being good for his health. Consequently, he moved from the site using every darkened alley, concealed overhang, and even avoided crossing streets in fear of being tracked.

Many a scenario ran through his mind on getting out of this city in one piece. He wondered if there were still some strings left to pull. Over the years, he formed loose alliances and there were people who owed him their lives. Yet whom could he trust in this circumstance? He thought of old acquaintances from high school and even the colleagues he knew from his short time at the university. The same place that kicked him out for pushing drugs on the trust-fund kids. No, none of them would do, since he needed to expose himself to seek assistance. Besides, chances were those avenues of escape were under surveillance.

Former girlfriends would not do. The odds were better on surviving a wrestling match with a grizzly bear than a former lay. That left very few people on his list and none he trusted with his life. With no options left, he was forced to a hotel in the deepest, darkest corner of the city. There, he would hole up for the night before moving to the next. Yes, a hotel would do nicely, and he knew just the one.

It took him well over four hours to cover the distance of ten blocks. He avoided crowds, mass transit, cabs, or crossing anyone’s path to evade any potential tails. Anyone he came across were potentially snitches or a hitman on the take of his estranged employer.

How unfortunate for him that there was no honour amongst thieves. There existed nothing more than a cold professional courtesy extending no farther than the amount of money waved in front of them—the same bloodstained money he used to pay the clerk in one of the most cockroach-infested hotels in town. As he was signing an alias into the ledger, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was in sight.

Hotels like this were perfect for those who needed to stay under the radar. They dealt in cash, never checked up on your room unless you did not pay up, and everyone here was John or Jane Doe. He began to relax once the door was locked and even began to think he managed to shake off any potential tail. Now came the hard part, waiting out the dangers outside and staying off the grid until things cooled.

“One day down,” he said.

He lay on a twin bed that was torn and ragged from ages of abuse. He did not care about the mattress, diverting his thoughts to the times he dragged hookers here for a few hours of mindless fun. Sure, they were as cheap as the bed, but at least they knew how to take it up the ass, like any good woman should.

It took moments to slip into a deep sleep. The hours of evasive tactics, shadow games, and constant stress left him exhausted. It seemed as though no more than a moment passed when he awoke, though he must have been in a dream. It was not every day, or ever, that he found himself staring into the eyes of the hottest chick his mind could conjure up. Though, fantasising of someone who straddled him like he was some sort of submissive? Normally, he would knock her to the ground for trying to play that dominance crap with him, but he decided to let this fantasy play through just a bit longer. There was no sense in wasting a good wet dream.

She was hot, probably an amalgamation of supermodels he saw on the television a few days back. She was a thin little thing, with tight tits, soft skin that put silk to shame, and not to mention that smile screaming fuck my brains out. She moved down his body, finding it convenient that in this dream he was already naked, with a rock-hard cock ready for this filthy little bitch’s mouth.

She sensed what he wanted and progressed further down his body while her hands explored his chest, stomach, and eventually to the base of his penis. Once at his package, she fondled his balls with a skill that showcased just how much of a pro she was. Right before her lips reached his eager cock, this chick looked up, winked, then parted her lips to take him in. His member slid past her lips, and he discerned her stone-cold tongue gliding down his shaft, followed by a sharp pain that ripped throughout his body.

As though from a dream he attempted to wake up, but he found he was very much awake. With blinding speed, he was pushed down against the bed and left to stare right into the eyes of that bitch! She held his mouth shut with one hand, discovering her incredible strength in the process. He saw the thick, red blood dripping from the corner of her lips, which filled him with a sense of dread.

She placed a lone finger across her lips to signal him to be quiet. When he nodded, she moved in closer and closer, kissing him lightly at first. Her lips stained with rich blood, she spread her own, pushing her tongue beyond his clenched jaw.

He tasted the iron in the blood, making him want to puke. Then he realised there was something else in his mouth that moved with her tongue, something warm and rubbery. His eyes widened in realisation, then he promptly fainted.

“I guess this little boy was not into cock,” the girl giggled.

She got up and rubbed the gore all over her body. She enjoyed taking a life in such a provocative manner, an indulgence that was rarely permitted. The messy kills were her favourite, her choice of execution for those who deserved retribution the most. She often thought of the long-lasting effects a visceral murder created, haunting detectives throughout their careers and even driving some of them mad. The cherry on top was, of course, the crime scene photographs and how they were perpetually maintained in some folder to be revisited by cold case detectives. The joy it was for her to imagine these new sets of eyes taken aback by her masterpieces!

“Scrumptious,” she said.

She licked her lips as she let the man bleed out, watching as the jet of blood lessened until it became nothing more than a trickle. She had dealt with his kind many times before and knew how they thought, hence why she came to this hotel. Without a second thought, she found his belt and broke apart the buckle. Concealed within was the fang that got the ball rolling for Victoria

With the object in hand, she opened the room’s door, finding that her partner was waiting for her, as he just returned from his own excursion. Though she was still naked, he seemed not to even notice, a trait expected of a man of such proper breeding. Instead, he directed her to the exit where a car awaited them.

“You think this will make the front page?” the predatory woman asked with that devilish little smile.

“No. Not in this country,” was his response, which turned out to be precisely the case.

CHAPTER 41

CREAK

It came as no surprise when the key slid neatly into the tumbler. Victoria hesitated as her heart raced in anticipation while she wondered what would be found within. Was it some sort of jewellery? An item forgotten by time? Or something better left to the crows?

The questions would only be answered by turning the key, yet her imagination was running wild. It was like a Christmas from her childhood, remembering the big, toothy grin, wide eyes, and an air of innocence that dotted the occasional family photo album.

Just like pictures from her childhood, Victoria stuck out her tongue while she turned the key. She heard the lock’s mechanism creak as it gave way. Once the key hit home, Victoria withdrew it and took in a deep breath as she placed her hands on each side of the box.

“Here goes nothing,” Victoria said as her anticipation grew into impatience.

She gripped the lid to open the box, discovering that the well-oiled joints made no sound. At first, all she saw was the purple satin-like material used to line the interior.

Purple, the colour of royalty because of the expense incurred in making the dye. She felt sorry for the countless shelled animals sacrificed for that colour to be just right. Red dye, in contrast, was far cheaper to produce and had been used for applications ranging from the British uniform to painting barns. Victoria giggled, realising these factoids were a sign that she should get out more often.

Victoria ran a finger over the outermost edge of the fabric, feeling the soft material. She admired the artisanship, from the seamless look to the intricately laid buttons holding the padding in place. It was obvious at first glance that care and attention had gone into its craftsmanship.

Yet, during this time, one detail stuck out more than any other. Where were the contents? Normally such a lavish box would be used to conceal something more tangible than thin air? Anticipation tapered off and Victoria was left with a sense of loss, as though she opened the biggest gift under the tree and found it filled with socks. What was missing from that break-in? Perhaps she should just give up and call the building supervisor to have her window repaired—that was a productive task, at least.

Victoria sighed and tossed the box out. This must be habit forming, more out of disappointment than frustration. It was then she observed the box being flung open as it flew through the air as if in slow motion to eventually collide with the floor. The collision echoed throughout the room. Something white floated back and forth, carried by a draught until it came to rest at her feet.

“Odd,” Victoria said.

She wondered how much of an understatement that was. She picked up the paper and, after a cursory look, found it was white, rectangular, and made of rigid material. Victoria spent far too much time shaking hands with the business elite to ignore what this item was. People from that social stratum always carried these as part of their rituals.

“A business card?” Victoria asked.

This surely took away the mystique given she expected something more exotic inside. Business cards seemed to be a fairly recent innovation, so this seemed to be out of place for anything within an antique box. Or was it? In the back of her mind, this young writer imagined her character giggling at the prank she pulled. The author smiled at her character’s return and wondered if she would find courage to push aside her anguish and write again.

Victoria found that the glow from the fire was hard to read by, so she turned on a nearby light to get a better look. From the white light she saw a blank card, with no specs, indentations, or marks. Frustrated, she flipped the card, which yielded more insight, though perhaps these revelations were more enigmatic than she hoped.

The card had an artistic design composed of swirled lines of varying width that, when viewed from afar, formed the striking portrait of a woman. When she got to within inches of the card, the lines themselves melted and gave way to text.

“Optical illusion,” Victoria uttered.

She wondered how expensive such cards were to produce, considering the precision required and associated costs of high-end printers. She thought back to the designs on all the cards received in her life. None of those came close to matching the illusion or were so deceptive in nature.

She assumed it had something to do with how human eyes focused, changing her perspective based solely on the mind processing the image. Victoria gazed at the card from a distance, took in the fine details of the face, finding this woman’s smile to be the most striking detail. So alluring was her smile that it drew Victoria in, entranced her, until she snapped out of it minutes later.

With the use of a magnifying glass, Victoria was able to note that some of these lines added up to form an address. It was in a part of the city she seldom heard about and never visited, nothing more than an address to the warehouse district. Who established themselves in the dredges of the city when more affluent neighbourhoods existed?

Upon closer inspection, Victoria found one line that differed from the others, written in a smaller font that sparkled when she moved the card. The effect made it harder to identify, but she eventually managed to decipher the words, finding it odd how everything about this card created more mystery than truth.

The unknown artist, were the words she translated from French. Victoria closed her eyes, trying to think of anyone she knew who fit that profile. No one came to mind, other than someone who existed within the depths of her imagination. Even then, only if she existed during modern times. Nonetheless, no viable name came to mind, doing wonders to revive her curiosity.

“Let’s see where this card leads us,” Victoria said.

All the while, she grabbed her coat and was ready to take on the world. It had been far too long since she faced the world. Would this be the perfect opportunity to do so?

CHAPTER 42

TAXI

Victoria stepped out of the lobby dressed in a light coat, scarf, and leather gloves. The first thing she did was squint from the blinding light outside. How long had she been cooped up in her apartment? The cool morning air brushed against her cheeks, so she wondered if lingering outside would chill her to the bone. Fortunately, the doorman easily hailed a passing cab.

It was good to be outside, with the warmth of the sun against her exposed cheeks and the cool wind chilling her body. It invigorated her senses. The sights and sounds of this city made her smile, given that it seemed like ages since she last experienced them. These were moments where she really loved her city, from the myriad of taxis, to the mixed architecture that spread out into the sky. A design implemented because there was nowhere else to build, not because it attracted tourists, though she was sure it helped. Despite the hodgepodge of construction, it all seemed to fit together nicely, even if it appeared a bit chaotic on occasion.

Victoria stepped into the cab, provided the address, then got comfortable in her seat. She was certain the cab fare would be expensive, given the distance and the neighbourhood. She noted the inquisitive look on the driver’s face, so she reiterated the address. When she was content he knew where to go, she turned to watch the world around her move with a blur.

Every so often, the cab slowed to a crawl, cut through stalled traffic, or dodged the odd pedestrian. These were elements of driving that filled her with untold amounts of dread. Victoria respected their skill and their ability to deal with the constantly changing traffic. Despite that, the mere thought of driving within the metropolis made her heartrate rise.

She wondered how her character would deal with living in such a chaotic world. Victoria imagined it was quite a change from baroque France to the modern marvels of concrete and steel. In a locale where buildings routinely dwarfed the greatest French cathedrals, would a young woman of the streets encountering such sights be defeated?

No, was the word that came to mind, thinking that Evelyn saw it as a game. She would discover a way to hail a cab, navigate freely through the city, then remain long enough to be crowned Queen.

From the corner of her eye, Victoria noticed the cabby looking at her oddly, then she realised she had spoken aloud. She blushed, looking up bashfully to apologise. The driver chuckled at her spectacle, only to return his gaze to the front to evade a double-parked fire truck. Victoria observed the firefighters darting about, trying to contain the fire that had engulfed a newsstand.

“Always something to see in this city,” Victoria said under her breath to ensure no eavesdropper caught what was said.

This time he did not look up through his rearview mirror, which left Victoria content to have her secrets. Thinking aloud helped her concentrate since it freed her to flow from one idea to the next. So why should she care if anyone noticed?

“Because my character knows there are times to be quiet,” Victoria said.

She considered Evelyn’s interactions with others as a medium for her art. Her character bent the will of an individual to suit her needs, doing so with nothing more than a few choice words or a well-timed smile. Truly, such talents cut through a man’s heart quicker than the sharpest blade. Did she have the capacity to accomplish what Evelyn so easily did? Victoria’s hard swallow was proof of her doubts.

Her attention returned to the road when the driver stopped at a toll bridge, paid out his pound of flesh, then moved on. She was sure her fare would reflect this additional delay but found the view of a long, winding river worth it. There were countless ships floating upon its surface, with some heading to port while others went out to sea and beyond. It was breathtaking from this vantage point. So why had she never paid heed before?

Victoria’s gaze moved further downstream to the symbol of her city, clichéd to the point of abuse. It seemed to glow in the early morning sun that imbued a heavenly hue to its silhouette. She was reminded of her youth, specifically the first time she laid eyes on this structure, in awe at the wonders that determination and drive created.

“Something this city has a lot of,” Victoria said.

This was her way of daring the driver to turn around, but she saw no reaction. That made her smile. With her social defiance left unchecked, it marked a small victory for her while she ventured further down her own path.

Victoria turned to look over her shoulder when the curvature of the bridge brought the cityscape into view. It was a truly awe-inspiring sight to see that cluster of tall buildings reaching for the stars. It created a formation that seemed oddly similar to a mountain range as seen from the prairies.

“How we strive to overcome Mother Nature and simply end up emulating her,” Victoria mused.

She faced forward to watch activity fall off as they moved further away from the central nexus of her city. Smokestacks and industrial complexes began to taint the view and gave the occupant time to wonder why she was being led so far away from home.

It was true Victoria left home on occasion, but this was different. A part of her seemed concerned, but she was unable to pinpoint the cause. Should she heed the call of this voice and return home afraid of everything? A woman whose sole comfort in life was the warmth of a fire? Or should she continue down this unexplored path to see where it led?

There was comfort in what was known; she learned how to be a lawyer and knew how to keep her parents happy. Blind obedience was an easy mantra to follow. While travelling her own path, Victoria had grown as an individual—innocent, perhaps, yet significantly altered from the creation her parents envisioned. Was not the bust created after untold amounts of failures? How often did she want to quit and just move on? This fork in the road might end up bettering her, even if it proved to be nothing more than another stumbling block.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the cab slowed to pull up alongside an oversized and nondescript warehouse. Under its shadow, she looked at the building for a moment and was surprised at its lack of uniqueness when compared to its surroundings. Where was the great architecture? Where would she find the stunning artwork? How about an artistic vision? Perhaps her expectations were too high? Or perhaps she did not grasp how much the title of Unknown Artist played a part in the choice of locale.

Instead, she double checked the address and paid the driver before exiting. Moments after closing the door, the car pulled away and darted out of the block like a bat out of hell. How exactly would she get home now?

She took a deep breath and walked about to look for an entrance to this monolithic building. Eventually, she found a set of double doors secreted away in the far corner. For minutes, she looked through the glass doors and saw nothing that would lure in an artist. Instead, it reminded her of a sterile environment found at the local doctor’s office. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. She began to wonder how foolish her pursuit of this clue had been.

When Victoria turned away, intent on finding a phone, her eyes caught the glimpse of a carving that featured Our Lady’s Tears. Victoria’s mood lightened. She was certain this was the right place. These deadly little flowers adorned the ring set upon the key that opened the box containing the card which led her here. Hence that symbol was there for her to find. With one question answered, the author decided to see if more would be revealed within.

PART IV – REVELATION

CHAPTER 43

GALLERY

Walking into this office was no different than any other, given that it was mundane and without the hint of creativity. There seemed to be no correlation between the genius that went into the business card and the workplace greeting her. It was not the calendar marking shipment dates, nor the marker-drawn shift roster that made this locale stand out. There was no originality to be found amongst the numerous file cabinets, desks, and chairs that made up the reception area. All in all, there was nothing that would sway her opinion.

Surely, she must have been misled? Was she duped? Led to make this journey for nothing more than a farce? Was this to be her fate? Toyed with like an ass, condemned to eternally follow a carrot strung on a stick? Would she, like that animal, be forever denied the taste until her cruel master sealed her fate?

Victoria was about to leave when a young lady entered the room. This was not someone she would describe as stunning. Instead, Victoria defined her as decidedly normal. Victoria sensed this was someone who slipped in and out of a crowd without leaving a trace, a skill the author desperately sought at that moment. Oh, how she prayed for the ability to talk her way out of this one!

“Good morning, Miss Frost,” the woman said in a distinctive dialect that Victoria would find hard to forget.

The receptionist looked at the author as though she were an old and familiar face. Victoria, in turn, narrowed her eyes in an attempt to put a name to this face, but she came up empty. How was she so easily identified? Was this simply another carrot dangling ahead? Victoria instinctively reached into her pocket and produced the card. She held it out for the receptionist to see.

“Is this the right place?” Victoria asked.

Not the most elegant choice of words, especially for a writer, but it got the point across. The receptionist nodded silently, smiled, then took the card from the author’s hand. Victoria was led to a door tucked away in the corner with no identifying features other than an old and faded Employees Only sign.

“This way,” her guide said and opened the door while directing Victoria to enter.

Determined to follow her lead, she moved forward but never noticed how the receptionist stayed behind. Once Victoria was inside, the door was shut, thus preventing her from leaving the way she came.

Alone in a darkened room, it took moments for her eyes to adjust to the ambient light. She wondered if this was a trait common among museums and galleries, places where light played a vital part in setting the mood. In this case, there seemed to be no direct lighting, though she saw hundreds of little lights that gave life to the silhouettes and shadows surrounding her. When her eyes focused, the light formed into streetlamps and little windows with light sources emanating from within. Before her eyes, a historical cityscape took shape.

She was a giant to this world. Victoria noticed the ceiling sparkled under a night sky. Below, buildings surrounded her while she stood upon the middle of a town square aglow in evening activity. Victoria marvelled at the intricate detail from the architecture to the cobbled streets and alleyways. Whoever built this model appeared to have done so brick by brick.

Stunning was the only word that came to mind, one that proved to be quite apt. She knelt and looked at the detailed buildings, then noticed tell-tale signs of this being a poor neighbourhood. Some of the windows were boarded up since glass was simply too expensive to replace, and stone structures showed signs of neglect.

Yet one structure appeared out of place when compared to the others, one which stood tall and proud despite the destitute surroundings. She attempted to approach it but discovered it was behind a maze of streets and avenues that formed a natural barrier. Even from this distance, Victoria made out the stained-glass windows, flying buttresses, and long spires that crept up into the sky. There stood a majestic cathedral and, if memory served, such icons of religion often became the centre of a community and stood as symbols of civic pride.

“The young courtesan moved through the streets of Paris with a skill that came to those who grew up around them. No guide or King’s cartographer comprehended the complex network of streets and alleyways she utilised to return home. The woman passed under the shadows of a great Church standing taller than any structure surrounding her…” Victoria said, wide eyed.

She realised how her description corresponded perfectly with this model. She even sensed how this was the locale envisioned when writing out that scene.

Moments later, Victoria stumbled out of the maquette and into another part of the warehouse. All the while this feeling of being led about kept eating at her. This time she squinted from the blinding light, but her eyes quickly adjusted to see the contents of this new gallery.

“Cluttered,” Victoria said.

Meanwhile, she scanned the room, seeing countless trinkets, decorations, paintings, pottery, and busts crammed into this small space. Ahead, she noted there was a thin, winding path that carved through the clutter to terminate at a distant door.

Given little choice on the matter, the author began making her way to the exit. It took little time for her to determine this room was literally a treasure trove of art. Victoria could not take a step without finding a new work that caught her eye.

In one corner, she found a collection of busts that featured women throughout history, with many that were so lifelike Victoria would not be surprised if they spoke. One was a notable sculpture of Marie Antoinette’s neck and head, a very fitting reproduction considering the Queen’s fate at the hands of the French. Another work emulated the classic Greek style, reminding her more specifically of Penelope from the Odyssey, the woman of myth who never lost hope of her husband’s return.

She moved onto the stunning statuette of an Amazonian warrior, crafted using a mixture of stone, wood, and bronze that gave it an authentic look. Victoria saw such works showcased in a prominent metropolitan museum and, in fact, she was certain works of more questionable quality already littered such places.

All of these works paled in comparison to the painting she found propped up against the statuette. At first, she questioned if this was not a photograph printed onto a canvas. Victoria had to admire the rolling waves with the winding, sandy beach. She saw minute details like seashells littering the sand, this artist even managed to capture the night sky beautifully. Even the moon and its aura were so realistic, hanging over the waters while leaving a silvery pathway running over the ocean and onto the sand.

Victoria sensed how this scene was familiar, so she leaned closer over the hoard to get a better view. In the background, Victoria saw a few homes along the water, nothing out of the ordinary for coastal regions. Yet something was amiss, details her eyes, perhaps, chose to overlook. At the end of the silvery path on the edge of the North-Atlantic waters stood a little girl. A girl who was the embodiment of innocence and appeared to look right into the eyes of her older self.

“Welcome to my parlour,” Victoria said.

She considered the ramifications of encountering two random works that should not exist outside of her imagination. It was unsettling to think that these were embodied without having shared any of these scenes with another living soul. On the other hand, it might have been a statistical fluke, something that exemplified the Infinite Monkey theorem? Or was it just a case of seeing these works as a child and fabricating memories to incorporate their themes?

Her memories of the beach were crystal clear as she still pictured that beautiful lady dressed in white. The memory of that moment was burned in her mind. How had she manufactured such vivid imagery by seeing a painting displayed in a random gallery surrounded by hundreds of works? Did she possess extrasensory perception that rivalled the government’s remote viewers? Was she able to draw emotions from art as she did with music?

Done with this line of questioning, Victoria stormed out of the room only to stumble onto another gallery. Unlike the previous galleries, this one was vast. Works here were done on a massive scale, and Victoria was relieved for the change.

Fashioned from stone slabs, these works were etched to create stunning reliefs. One example gave her the perspective of looking out a window and seeing an expansive farmland ahead. She could have sworn the wheat moved with the prairie wind like waves in the ocean.

These works must have been massive undertakings, as judged by the size and weight of the stone slabs used. Victoria guessed it would take years to fashion such works, assuming no mistakes were made in the process.

From another angle, Victoria noticed a work that appeared to have been built into the wall. The sheer size of it was impressive all on its own, considering the female figures within were her height. It was a bizarre scene, reminding her of something taken out of Dante’s Inferno. Of course, that would only be true if everyone sent to hell happened to be shapely, firm-breasted women.

Once she moved to the middle of the room, her eyes shifted to a stunning seaside locale. She saw a mixture of farmland and rolling hills along the winding coastline that gave it a serene feel. When Victoria’s gaze moved closer to the edge, she noticed a charming house with its beautifully curved roof, symmetrical gables, and storm shutters.

She took a few steps back to gain a better perspective, then saw it as a reproduction of a scene she witnessed in person last summer. If these works truly took as long as she believed, then how was it possible to prepare them in time for her arrival? There were no signs of dust or debris or even a hint of recent work. This work was missing a highway. What were the ramifications to such a revelation?

How long had this carving existed? Was this a product of her mind and subsequent proof that she was delusional? Did her vision and discovery of the key mean anything less than a carefully planted lure?

“Am I being led like a rat in a maze?” Victoria asked.

Victoria continued to move deeper down this gallery, giving each and every piece a pause in respect for the skill and artisanship involved. If there were any doubts about this being an art gallery before she entered, they were now completely dispelled. Though she found it hard to imagine the future wonders she was bound to come across while on this journey.

CHAPTER 44

LABYRINTH

Hours flew by as Victoria transitioned from one room to the next, finding that every gallery had a unique flavour. Initially, works were of a more conventional fare with pieces found at any gallery. These rooms were filled with paintings, mosaics, carvings, and statues fashioned from various materials that emulated different eras throughout history.

The flow of time mattered not when considering the way out was undefined. Victoria devoted time to every piece and was constantly taken aback by their beauty. She had never seen such a large collection of works in one place. An impressive feat, considering this was a private collection, though this fact did little to dissuade her from feeling like a rat in a maze. Would there be some cheese for her when it was all said and done?

Victoria noticed her progress into the warehouse marked greater specialisation of the works displayed. In one gallery she found pieces that contained elaborate metal works, which led her to wonder if in-depth knowledge of metallurgy was required to give them form. Did science play a part in the fashioning of such works? How much of the process was precise engineering compared to trial and error?

She saw metal works around the city all the time, there were several within her city, with one standing as a sentinel, while others commemorated darker moments throughout history. Yet, few of those works compared to the quality of those encountered here. She even sensed what went through a model’s mind when they posed for the artist and experienced a sense of fear when she crossed the path of a metal dire wolf. Victoria saw the primal gaze of a predator from behind those cool steel eyes.

Victoria shivered after entering a room-sized freezer that left the cold clinging to her skin. She found this room to be dimly lit and the ice forming in her veins filled her with a desire to seek out the nearest exit.

Such thoughts melted away once her eyes fell on the works within. Victoria was surrounded by ice sculptures sparkling majestically from the strategically placed spotlights. She saw representations of women carved with the steadiest of hands and imbued with a jewel-like glitter. These displays were corporeal, yet translucent, giving these creations a certain heavenly aura.

“All women?” Victoria asked, while looking about to confirm her theory.

So far, all of the works encountered in this warehouse were based on the female form. There were neither generals from times past, nor modern-day figureheads, nor a random painting that featured a man. Not one singular male was represented within these galleries. What was the creator’s motivation for excluding a gender? That would surely limit the inspiration from which to draw from?

Victoria thought back on the life her character had led. A woman rejected by countless men, including her father, who survived the avails of prostitution. Could that lead someone to reject a gender entirely? Was it possible for an individual to hold so much hatred over the opposite sex? There existed feminists who were seen as extremists in society today, yet this seemed fanatical in comparison.

Extremity was a hallmark of her character’s life, given the way she lived prior to and after her transformation. She should have been a child born of royalty, entitled to the life of luxury that came with her lineage. Evelyn was denied her birth right and forced to live her life on the streets. With such a start, it was no wonder prostitution had been a natural step in her survival. Then she had transformed into an artist of unimaginable skill who lived among the cultural elite. Most importantly, she never once allowed the taint of her past to hinder her growth.

“Evelyn?” Victoria asked.

She then noticed how her breath crystallised. Her eyes darted about but found nothing out of place other than a door that would lure her into another gallery. She lingered a moment as though she were expecting someone, then moved to the next room. There she paused, unaware of the presence lurking in the shadows.

This gallery was a long, flowing hallway built up with Corinthian pillars running along its sides that terminated into an arched ceiling. Between each set of pillars lay a stone statue lit by a concealed light source which seemed specifically chosen to bring out vivid colours in the stone.

Some creations matched the styles of the greatest Greek and Roman sculptors, while others fit the Renaissance period. It was peculiar to walk through some nondescript warehouse and witness works worth millions. Despite this fact, none appeared to have ever been displayed publicly.

“Evelyn,” Victoria repeated.

She did not realise she had spoken until the name echoed back. Calling out the name of her character was the answer her conscious mind rejected. The voice within grew stronger and screamed for attention but found no audience.

This gallery reminded her of a time machine in which she progressed forward in time the deeper she went into the gallery. At first, she saw athletic bodies of the Antiquities to the corpulence and seduction of royalty in the Middle Ages and early Renaissance periods. Now, as Victoria neared the end, works changed from the Prohibition-era flapper, to the small-breasted and meagre bodies of a modern supermodel.

“Wow!” Victoria exclaimed.

She stopped cold when she left the hallway and entered a large rotunda. The room contained one work with the walls, whitewashed as to focus all attention to the centre. Victoria took thirty paces to reach the centre, then looked upon the statue, touching the piece to feel the cool surface of the stone. From this perspective, every curve and detail of the work was visible, which left her at a loss for words.

Before her, a sculpture of two women locked in embrace. One was a tall, graceful, and modern woman, judging from her haircut and cross-racial features. The author noted that though striking in character, she seemed to have been caught by surprise.

The other was smaller in stature, but equally beautiful. Like a wood nymph, she took to her nudity as though it were fashionable. This gave Victoria the distinct impression that this was a moment locked in time, as though she were looking at a photograph. To this author, it seemed this embrace for these two had been as potent as feasting on ambrosia. As she looked at their faces with eyes closed during the apex of their passion, it seemed as though she were witness to the original event.

Truth be told, Victoria would not have been surprised to see the women pause for a break. The artist’s rendition of these models was just that realistic, and it felt real to the touch. Victoria could even detect the familiar bumps of gooseflesh and a tell-tale scar, which seemed oddly familiar somehow, on the taller of the two. If this work was not devoid of colour, trapped in the purest white marble, Victoria would have assumed the models used a liberal dose of body paint.

“Evelyn?” Victoria asked again as the realisation surfaced to the forefront of her mind.

She saw that the shorter of the two brought her back to that memory from her childhood. The face was identical, visible even with her features partially obstructed by the other model. It reminded her of The Portrait of a Woman she set to paint then recreated in other mediums countless times.

“What is happening?” Victoria asked.

Victoria was in awe of another instance where her imagination came alive in these galleries. Images of places she saw, memories of her own childhood, and even words that she put to paper were embedded in works that were waiting to be discovered. An impossibility, to be sure. Conceivably, no one knew what another was thinking. To believe in such folly would be like believing in vampires!

Victoria laughed nervously, then scanned the room to find a concealed door ahead. Upon reaching this door, she saw how its design would not detract from the centrepiece and was not used for concealment. Once she pulled a small white lever, Victoria opened the door and walked into yet another gallery.

A painting loomed in the distance; from this vantage point, Victoria saw how the dry and cracked canvas robbed the work of its artistic splendour. Nonetheless, the work still possessed details of the model who posed for this commissioned work so long ago. Nothing could have possibly marred this woman’s intense beauty, nor concealed that most intriguing smile which seemed to haunt anyone who looked upon the canvas.

The poser had obviously been young during its commission, in the early ages of womanhood, though her eyes had the hallmarks of someone who lived a hard life. The most striking detail of the work was the dress she wore, one that women of her station could never afford. With such a slender build and sunburned skin, these were traits common to the lower classes of French society. No, this dress would normally have been tailored for the plump and full-figured women frequenting the Sun King’s court.

The strokes of the artist’s brush used to produce this centuries-old painting still echoed with the artist’s fervour. Even from this distance, Victoria recognised the wild and untamed nature of the artist’s style. At first, the strokes appeared to be chaotic, but they were meticulously placed, which became obvious when viewed from the proper perspective. This passion was reflected not only in the painting before her, but also in how this man had lived.

His life held a mystery, how a man who ill afforded the materials for such a masterpiece obtained a gown that would be the envy of the court. The dress fit her like a glove, but this was not a courtesan’s dress—Evelyn had a dress befitting a countess. The detailed silk and lace, the quality of the corset and the way her body naturally moulded itself to the restrictive clothing prompted Victoria to shed a lonely tear.

The author was bewildered by this discovery, scanning the candlelit room as though to seek assurance this was no dream. Here stood another creation from her mind, the painting that started it all, as real as the world she lived and breathed in. It was then that this young author sensed she was no longer alone.

Victoria quickly turned her gaze to the left while a sense of dread overcame her. In that corner, from the shadows, appeared the silhouette of a woman. With every step, the lady approached while a voice in her mind grew louder until all she heard was taunting laughter.

“Welcome to my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” Evelyn said.

She watched Victoria faint. A grin grew over Evelyn’s face while she knelt to get a better look at Victoria. As she examined the author’s soft features, the artist looked for that one aspect lost to her centuries ago.

“Innocence,” Evelyn said.

CHAPTER 45

PERVERSION

Incense?” Victoria asked.

A flood of memories involving the countless hours spent in Church surged through her mind—time spent in those hallowed halls echoing with the clergy’s interpretation of damnation. Every week, there would be a variance on the same tenets, despite the fact she never recollected any of them; Victoria came to believe that sermons were a maelstrom of words to live by and, for the most part, to be ignored. Of course, the sole exception being Sundays from eleven till noon.

“Where am I?” Victoria asked.

She had asked her second and perhaps most important question of the day, but she received no reply. Victoria tried to think of where she was, but found recent memories were dull. She remembered little more than leaving home in a taxi.

Victoria opened her eyes to find she was surrounded in a radiant glow of soft light. It seemed pleasant enough, enveloped by hundreds of specks of light that filled her field of vision. As her eyes adjusted, Victoria realised these lights were a mass of lit candles, lined up perfectly row after row.

The arrangement was vaguely familiar to her, with the smell of burning incense and the wall of candles normally used in prayer. She remembered having lit such candles in her youth with the help of her mother. The author smiled when a childhood prayer came back to her. By remembering the words, she felt as though her innocence, free from the taint of time, had returned to her.

Curious where she was, Victoria scanned the room and soon found where the familiarities stopped. To her left were these exquisite works of stained glass. Despite the horrors that were portrayed, the detail was astonishing while the craftsmanship required to fashion these was beyond her comprehension. Yet she found it peculiar that no light shone through these works and they left nothing more than the interplay of shadows to twist every portrayal into something monstrous.

Instead of the trials of Christ, she saw horrifying images of death and torture. One work glorified the conquests of Vlad the Impaler, showing fields of impaled dead littering the scene. It was haunting how the blood glimmered from the candlelight and how every corpse was detailed to the last. This effectively created the illusion of a photographic collage or an oddly-styled horror movie. Victoria saw every corpse with their vacant eyes staring out through the span of space and time. It seemed as though they were pleading for help that would never come.

The next work was equally eerie, showing a woman dressed in black while wearing a crown fashioned of blood-red roses with lip colour to match. The woman held a classical pose popular in photographs taken during the Roaring Twenties and looked to be quite the seductress. What was most chilling was not the enchantress but what surrounded her. The room was dark, candlelit, with long shadows that played tricks with her eyes, though nothing hid the multitude of coffins surrounding this beauty. One particular coffin was opened and displayed a particularly well-dressed male corpse, so she assumed the rest bore the same contents. Nonetheless, the most chilling aspect was the inscription plaque below.

Vera Renczi: Loyalty ensured in death.

Another work featured a woman lying upon a bed with her body torn to shreds, revealing details that were not only visceral but horrific. Parts of the body were discarded like trash and blood covered every visible surface of the room. In the background, one saw a lone shadowy figure, with two glowing eyes that looked out over the carnage. The whole work was filled with sickening details, granting Victoria a view of the torn ribcage complete with white-tipped ribs. The most disturbing aspect was how the colour of the ribs matched that of the victim’s vacant eyes.

“Dear God,” Victoria said, turning away only to notice the plaque’s grisly title. “An homage to Jack the Ripper.”

The next one proved to be deceiving, considering the breathtaking scenery, one that indicated the affluence of the person portrayed. In the centre, a beautiful woman was bathing, yet in the light Victoria could tell it was not a bubble bath. Instead, as she judged from the bloodstains covering her face and arms, it appeared this woman was bathing in human blood. The pool surrounding this woman shimmered as though it were alive. Victoria thought she could simply reach forward, dip her hands into that pool, and be soiled by the blood of some poor hapless victim. Victoria assumed that providing a fresh victim to fill her pool would be like feeding a log to the fires of her madness.

“Báthory Erzsébet or the Blood Countess,” a voice said from behind.

Victoria whipped around. In the shadows, there was a lone figure—hidden, at first, but as it moved details in the legs and torso eerily began to take shape.

“Rather interesting woman.” The voice paused, as did his progress, using the time to collect his thoughts. “A countess who believed with all her heart that bathing in the blood of a virgin would grant her eternal beauty.” Again, another pause, and this time he added, “Of course, that is the fiction of the tale. The truth is more ambiguous than one might hope for. Sort of a multi-coloured splotch on the pages of history as you might say.” The apparition seemed to crack a smile prior to adding, “Though I am sure Evelyn would have enjoyed her parties—they were rather wild.”

The figure smiled, though the play of shadows upon his face left her with the distinct impression of looking at the face of a predator. This realisation caused her eyes to widen, and she nearly yelped before he spoke out again.

“No one can escape the chill touch of death, not the wisest or most pious. We are all bound to death as day is bound to night. When all of the stars in our sky have been extinguished, we will be greeted by the cold, eternal night,” the man added.

It was hard to believe someone actually spoke in such a manner. There was no discernible emotion in the words, no variations in the pitch and pace. There was nothing more than a well-planned cadence to the words with no regard for style or structure. It was astonishing that such a manner of speech should prove to be so effective at chilling the blood in her veins.

“Who are you?” Victoria asked nervously.

However, the silhouette did not say a word in reply. The speaker remained unmoved by the question, as though this scenario had been played out before. Silence hung over the room like death did in a crypt and she wondered why a part of her seemed to know him.

She then noticed a large ring shining through the shadows, one used by royalty to seal documents. Like photoflash powder going off in her mind, a name appeared, though she doubted the answer. She refused to accept it as truth, but finally uttered the name in hopes of being proven wrong.

“Marc?” Victoria asked, finding the shadow’s smile grew wide before he stepped into the light and bowed.

“I am honoured that you remembered. Did you like my last letter?” Marc asked.

“Last lett—” Victoria trailed.

The conscious part of her mind refused to consider that potential avenue. The Marc she spoke of was Evelyn’s liege, her captain, the other half of a pair that never strayed far from one another. How could this man be her secret admirer, the man who entranced her with his correspondence and supposedly perished during a skirmish?

“How?” Victoria asked.

She was unable to complete the question as another apparition formed out from the shadows. Only then, when faced by both Marc and the embodiment of her character, did Victoria realise this was no mere illusion. The sensations, smells, and emotions were far too real, too coherent to have been explained as a break from sanity. This meant that this meeting required months of planning, if not years.

Before her stood the pair, starting with the stunningly beautiful young woman accompanied by her liege, a man who showed every sign of a blue blood. Two people she believed to be fictional included in countless stories and acting as a source of constant musings. These figments of her imagination were, in actuality, a part of the physical world.

As the author thought back on her prose, she began to see that the truth was hidden in the words. While many of her tales were centred on her transition, there remained certain anomalies that stretched credibility to the breaking point. Originally, she believed it was her imagination running away on her and how it required some fine tuning to smooth out the storyline. Was that greenstone in that tear-shaped jewel a sample Evelyn brought back from the African continent?

Victoria looked upon Evelyn and noticed an impish smile growing out from the corners of the woman’s lips. Victoria was puzzled, then wondered what brought about this reaction, though nothing would be uttered for minutes. The pair seemed content to stare at her, patient as Jove, with no care as to the passage of time.

“Time is irrelevant,” was the response from the depths of her mind, musical and whimsical in nature.

The voice was precisely as envisioned, so the young author eyed Evelyn as her thoughts coalesced into one clear idea. She saw how none of this had been a creative muse—she was simply being tutored and directed by this perversion of life.

“Not precisely, deary,” Evelyn said.

That reply broke the wall of silence with the same effect on her mind as shattering glass. Her character held off saying anything more, content to let Victoria mull over this revelation. It became obvious that there was some sort of link between them. How was such a link possible? The method was surely beyond her comprehension, yet a faint voice within insisted that this mystery would not remain hidden for long.

Evelyn and Marc turned their attention away from Victoria as though bored with her presence. They knew Victoria would not attempt to run away as she was too exhausted, curious, and afraid to consider that option. As the two looked into each other’s eyes, Victoria questioned their motives as to her being lured here, helpless to act.

Evelyn turned away from her admirer and Victoria watched as he disappeared into the shadows.

“You believe that none of your works are your own, non?” Evelyn asked.

The imp moved about the room wearing the most striking of dresses, form fitting to the point of believing it painted on. This silken dress left little to the imagination, seeing every beautiful curve of her back and sides. Victoria was almost aroused, making her blush, looking at her perfectly shaped hips and silky-smooth legs as they peered through the slits on the sides. She is as comfortable in these clothes as she is nude in public, Victoria thought.

“Yes,” Victoria said while nodding in reply.

She noted that she harboured no ill will for having been cheated. Was something wrong? Oddly enough, she was not jealous toward this woman for cheating her out of personal growth. Instead, she felt curiosity rise within, the thirst for knowledge far exceeding anything experienced before.

“You are wrong,” Evelyn replied with her characteristic smile, each word musical and intoxicating. “You have created every single one of your works, except for that painting and clay bust…”

Evelyn trailed off to watch how her puppet would react. It was not every day that trance-like states were so easily explained away.

“Your sculptures were entirely your creations and your writings populated solely with your choice of words. Some images and thoughts were simply provided as a muse to give light to that dulled mind of yours,” Evelyn said.

“Dulled mind!” Victoria shouted.

She was insulted by such a statement. Her mind was as sharp as any other, capable of dealing with the intellectual wit of top lawyers in the courtroom. So why should her mind be dull in comparison to anyone else?

“You never used your mind to its potential. It was employed when instructed to do so.” Evelyn’s retort was quick and uncaring for Victoria’s emotions. “Every day of your childhood was wasted being the prim-and-proper daughter of two of the most self-absorbed individuals that this world has ever secreted. Your adult life would have continued on the same path, had they not met their end. You would have married whom they wished, bore children when demanded, and lived the most mundane life as dictated by others.”

The Parisian courtesan approached, leaning close enough to the author as to feel Evelyn’s cool breath. So cool was her breath that it sent a chill down Victoria’s spine. In the back of her mind, Victoria thought that this entire scene might have seemed sensual if it involved a beautiful man whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

“Without my involvement, you would still be at their home, awaiting their return. You were destined to rot away, chased by the lowliest samples of men for your fortune, then left for dead at their earliest convenience,” Evelyn added. When leaning closer still, Victoria felt Evelyn’s lips tremble against her ear with a voice so faint that she sounded far away, “A life devoid of creativity and love. Does this sound familiar?”

A giggle followed the question, then the imp slipped out of Victoria’s reach. Victoria considered the words, thinking about her life and what she wrote on Evelyn over the years. Some aspects of her life did seem consistent with that of her character’s and, while not a prostitute, she had been a tool for her parents. Was that truly the case? Yes, was the answer, and she noticed Evelyn nodded in approval.

“I was not given a choice so long ago, in accepting the life handed to me by God.” Evelyn paused, more so for effect. “To accept the life of sin and corruption, to continue ageing until I died and faded away into dust. Yet my impact on this earth would have been recognised by a shallow, unmarked grave. No! I embraced death himself and have since torn asunder all barriers that stood in my way.”

Victoria knew the words well, having dreamed up aspects of the conversation long ago. It still haunted her dreams, remembering that sensation of being trapped in the grasp of darkness. The horror of being unable to move or even speak with only the senses of touch and sound to enhance her dread. Victoria was unable to fathom going through such a trial and doubted it could be considered one.

“I’ll give you a choice: let your mundane life end here and accept my guiding hand,” Evelyn said.

Before Victoria considered what was said, she found Evelyn behind her. The imp grabbed her arms to prevent escape, then she felt two tell-tale pricks against her neck. The imagery created by that sensation quickly set the tone for what would follow.

“Or die here and now. Then I shall return that soul of yours to the embrace of your pathetic God,” Evelyn added.

With the proposals before her, she was left to decide on the validity of such choices. For those who feared death, they would choose the path of least resistance. Would she be tempted by her inability to cope with the unknown? Could she trust someone who manipulated her for so long? Would she be prepared to follow a path that required predatory acts with which to sustain her? Was she able to live with a decision that might leave her eternally bored? On the other hand, did she accept the fact that her value in this life was nearly deficit? Was it worth her time to end the pain and pass through the veil of death? Would God be waiting for her on the other side?

The answer came to her lips as though by instinct. In truth, curiosity led her to the door and the world beyond its threshold.

“I will continue my journey guided by your hand,” Victoria said as her assailant’s grip loosened; though she did not feel the blow to the back of her head rendering her unconscious.

“Excellent, darling,” Evelyn said in a response that would never be heard.

CHAPTER 46

OMEGA

Incense hung in the air, and the burned particles irritated her nose as the smell grew more pronounced while Victoria came to. There was something peculiar about this odour, something that made her think of death and decay. In fact, the link was so strong that it evoked images of an ancient crypt hidden away under a city forgotten by time.

She struggled to open her eyes, feeling as though they were glued together. Was this just a case of fatigue? How long had she been unconscious? Was she even alive? Perhaps this was a dream? No, this felt far too real. Besides, people rarely experienced pain or discomfort in dreams.

Something brushed up against her lips. It was cool, at first, like water trickling out from a frozen waterfall. Victoria struggled to open her eyes but saw nothing more than an impenetrable darkness that filled her with dread. This sensation of cold spread, pushed past her numbed lips, and probed beyond. She considered biting down but feared there would be repercussions.

Only when the tongue withdrew did Victoria gasp for air and find her sight restored. The images that flashed before her eyes were blurred at first, confined to a world that moved with a mind of its own. Her sight eventually settled, but what she saw only confirmed her fears: this was, in fact, not a dream.

There was Evelyn: her character, her inspiration, her role model. This time, she was dressed in a long, flowing gown of white satin. Her face was adorned with a warm smile. Locks of flowing hair hung around her shoulders. This complemented Victoria’s image of an idyllic angelic figure, and she was, without a doubt, the same woman she met on that beach twenty years ago.

This was the woman who blessed her as a child, employing some sort of prayer. Did that mark the moment when Evelyn established a connection between them? Did this imply that Victoria was nothing more than a secondary character in Evelyn’s play?

Evelyn licked her lips as though relishing the echoes of that kiss, and said, “Welcome to the world of the living, ma chère. Have you got your affairs in order? Indulged in your last meal, perhaps?”

The musical highlights in Evelyn’s voice were so familiar. It was eerie how much she knew this person, in spite of this being the first time they ever spoke.

Victoria did not say a word. She was far too lethargic to formulate a proper answer.

“Is there a correct response?” Victoria whispered.

She knew either decision would end in death; only the method of her death differed. Would her death be quick and merciless, or would her character’s sadistic nature come to the surface?

Evelyn’s smile changed to one that stripped away her angelic traits, replacing them with a cruel harshness. Her character was truly skilled at human emotions, an expert on how to leverage them against others. How else could she convey so much based on the shape of her smile? Would Victoria be able to manipulate others like that?

Before the question was answered, Victoria found herself being dragged from the altar. The world swirled nauseatingly as vertigo muddled her mind. Would she have the strength to stop herself from vomiting all over the floor?

Once the world settled, Victoria noticed the pool of dark liquid. The surface was so dark that it reflected back her image. Tired and weak, Victoria lost her balance, dropped to her knees, and instantly became mesmerised by the reflection. She seemed to be looking at an ideal version of herself, one immune to the ravages of time. Did she ever have such a youthful glow about her?

Victoria reached for her chest to check for a heartbeat and sighed once the familiar rhythm registered. She was still alive, and yet her reflection implied she had already crossed the threshold between life and death.

“How can my reflection seem that much more confident and full of life?” Victoria muttered to herself while the shadow of death approached.

As it had been with the Apostle Thomas, doubt reigned supreme in her mind. How was it possible to reflect back an image that differed from reality? At a snail’s pace, Victoria probed her face, seeking those familiar features, and was soon astounded by the gravity of the changes. Her cheeks were sunken and features sharper, with noticeably unhealthy skin. When was the last time she had a bite to eat?

“It’s been a week, love,” Evelyn said, knowing that in Victoria’s current state, the full depth of those words would have no effect.

Victoria turned to look upon her character, her eyes brimming with fear. She then looked back into the radiant pool and noticed an unnatural red hue surrounding her reflection.

“B-b-blood,” Victoria stuttered as her reflection winked back in response.

Why was her doppelgänger mocking her? The same way that her parents would when she did something innocent or amusing. The kind of mocking that was invariably accompanied by a dreadful laugh, which managed to dismiss and ridicule the child. Innocence? Was this an element her character sought? To what end? To destroy for another what had been denied in her own life?

“We are perversions of life. We exist counter to what the Church and the laws of science dictate. We are the embodiment of those who turned away from the light of God in exchange for perpetual existence,” Evelyn rhymed off as though in prayer.

Evelyn circled around the pool, and despite her light step, the motion created ripples in the pool. For a moment, her reflection’s taunting expression was disrupted, which gave Victoria a few moments of peace.

Evelyn soon broke into a fit of laughter and added, “I’m just fucking with you. That was way too melodramatic!”

Evelyn approached the altar, grabbing the chalice upon it. She lifted it to the full extension of her arms while staring up at the stained-glass works above. After the imp uttered some sort of incantation, she brought the chalice to her lips and drank greedily, permitting any excess to spill onto the gown.

With Evelyn’s satin robe stained in blood, she licked her lips and tossed the chalice aside. Now that her little spectacle was done and over with, she looked over to Victoria, the one who would soon be joining her in the afterlife. While Victoria was being judged, anxiety swelled from within, just like those awaiting the Emperor’s thumb.

In the back of her mind, Victoria wondered if her character had a change of heart. Uncertainty would reign supreme until the end, never knowing if she were destined to live or suffer at the hands of her executioner.

Evelyn was silent, either for effect or as a part of the ritual; either way, Victoria did not care. She knew her character was aware of her thoughts, so why the inaction? In all honesty, she found the concept intriguing and frightening. How many wanted someone to truly understand how they felt in times of need? Especially during their darkest hour? Evelyn was, in a way, a kindred spirit, or perhaps some twisted version of the fairy godmother.

What did Evelyn choose? Victoria wondered.

She never realised how all of this had been part of the show, a deliberate period of inaction to distract and deceive, to keep her blissfully unaware of what lurked behind her.

In the background, the smooth and reflective surface of the blood pool began to congeal. This transformation brought about tendrils which began to move in a coherent mass out of the pool. The creature was drawn to Victoria, seeking out that one element lacking in the rest of this room: the spark of life.

Once the creature was within a sliver of that spark, Evelyn’s smile changed. Victoria focused on Evelyn as the empress’ arm came forward. The hand then formed into a fist before extending a lone thumb, which was pointed toward the floor. Victoria gasped, not knowing that this would be her last breath. The thing latched on and dragged her into the depths.

Before Victoria realised what was going on, her vision had turned red. Above, she saw nothing more than a point of light growing smaller with every passing second. Perhaps panic should have set in, which would have left her flailing about like a fish out of water, but this was ludicrous! Left to drown in a pool of blood after a chance meeting with one’s own creation? Surely, it was more likely she was suffering from psychosis?

At first, she saw nothing more than fading light, but as time passed and her need to breathe grew, a black substance crept up from out of the depths. It seemed disjointed, lacking any form, and Victoria wondered which part of her mind had conjured up this apparition.

When the spectre took a definite shape, she realised how literal Evelyn’s words were. The light peering from the surface represented the light of God, while the creature below would assist her in turning away. Turning away? No, those words did not apply. She would not be torn from his divine presence and sentenced to suffer the same fate as that whore!

Victoria tried to break away from the tentacles’ grasp by pushing against the walls, using what was left of her strength. Nothing seemed to be effective, even digging her nails into the rough edges of the wall did nothing more than tear them off. She knew time was limited, and that her life would soon be forfeit unless she broke free. With her body drawing upon the last of its reserves, reality set in: her chance for escape was long gone.

As the darkness reached Victoria, the creature released its iron grip while the spectre embraced her. The spectre’s hold was oddly comforting, like a mother rocking her child to sleep. With her lungs burning for air, Victoria calmed. Intent on leaving this world on her own terms, she took a deep breath which filled her lungs with fluid. At that moment, Victoria found something that evaded her for most of her life. Peace.

Moments later, ripples in the pool settled, permitting Evelyn to see the reflection of her smiling face. She knelt, touched the pool’s surface, and watched as the ripples propagated throughout.

“She put up more of a fight than either of her parents,” Marc said before placing a pair of uniquely crafted rings on the edge of the pool.

Evelyn looked at the rings, scoffed at how ostentatious they were, and kicked them into the pool. Once the rings disappeared from sight, the imp giggled. It was like an intolerable, tingling sweetness of water glasses when played by a cunning hand.

Evelyn moved away from the precipice and found Marc waiting for her. For a moment, they stared into each other’s eyes, and without saying another word, left the pool behind.

CHAPTER 47

MASQUERADE

The Roaring Twenties were at hand, an era that not only engulfed entire cities in its wake but shaped a nation. A country that looked inwards for much of its youth was shaping itself to become one of the most powerful nations in history.

While the populace drowned in ecstasy, darker elements infiltrated the land, those who sought wealth and power at every turn. A task that proved simple once they realised how their ties to humanity atrophied long ago. Was it ironic that the humanity they cherished so much in life became a liability once they crossed the threshold of death?

There were those who escaped the Great War in Europe, pathetically coined the war to end all wars. They sought refuge within a continent that remained largely immune to the effects of trench warfare introduced to France and Belgium. Those left behind were blissfully ignorant of this migration or were too busy mending wounds that would take generations to heal.

No Man’s Land the locals dubbed this place, eerily familiar to the battlefields of the Great War. Perhaps it was the high fences or the shadowy outlines of gargoyles whose eyes followed one’s movements. It might have been the fact that the structure had been erected upon a cliffside or how this site was said to be cursed. Whatever the reason, people from the area knew best to steer clear of it, especially at night.

The lands themselves were no longer the pristine woods the Natives once inhabited. Much landscaping and architecture went into building the Hotel Grand. It was clear someone intended to leave their mark upon this world, perhaps an architect with a grand vision. Or was it a businessman with a taste for grandeur? This place greeted many stars, renowned authors, morbid poets, and the esteemed dead.

There were rumours of heads of state and even the President spending a night within its luxury suites. Secrecy was the staff’s mantra, and none ever chanced breaking their vows, lest they desire a quick death or, more appropriately, to become victims of some unfortunate accident. So rumours became the product of their policy and were often based on fiction rather than fact. In the background, the true horrors of the Grand remained carefully concealed within.

One hardly missed this hotel with its predominantly baroque architecture and high sloping copper rooftop turned green. The white stone edifice stood against a cliff as though carved from the rock itself. This gave it a deceptively modest look from its entryway but granted guests an unsurpassed view of the valley floor, day or night.

When someone passed through the heavy iron gates and travelled over the cobbled roadway next to the gardens, one was led to the Grand’s main entrance, where valets would tend to your every need. There you found the long, flowing staircase added for effect more than function, with a large, beautifully lit fountain and strategically placed lighting. All of these elements gave this entrance a sense of welcoming and left everyone feeling like royalty.

For those guests who were less inclined to be seen, there existed alternate entrances. Some that even made use of abandoned mine shafts to whisk the more supernatural guests to their rooms, sight unseen. Trusted staff knew of additional entrances that no living soul was aware of and were often employed to smuggle in whatever fit their client’s palate.

The Grand was a necessity and was not meant to cater to the comforts of presidents, ambassadors, or men of power. This place was built solely for the pleasure and convenience of those with grave markers in some long-forgotten cemetery. This hotel served as a midway point between two major urban destinations. Without it, they were forced to find shelter wherever possible, an option that came with great risk.

To aid in this function, the hotel was always being renovated to keep the curious from certain wings. The hotel expanded into the rock and created a series of windowless rooms for its clientele. The Grand existed to keep the truth from the masses and excelled at hiding things that went bump in the night.

They also served as hunting grounds, featuring one of the most elaborately designed hedge labyrinths in the world. Guests enjoyed soundproofed rooms and secret passages to avoid any living soul. Beyond the inner garden was a forest preserve for the more untamed clientele. Truly, it was a wonder no one noticed the correlation between missing persons reports and their proximity to the Grand.

Perhaps rumours of the local Sheriff being on the payroll were not so far-fetched after all. Were there as many bear attacks in the region as the coroner reported? Nonetheless, life was good. It was a grand time and this hotel was a tribute to the era’s decadence.

* * * *

“All done!” Victoria exclaimed.

She ripped the page from the drum of her antique typewriter and placed it neatly upon the fresh stack. Her muse was back, and this new material would keep her creative juices flowing for the foreseeable future.

Victoria leaned back and heard the familiar creak from the chair. She looked into the fire as it crackled happily while its flames danced, leaving her momentarily entranced. Victoria thought about the hours spent looking at the beauty of those flames and found it hard to imagine how all of that was about to change.

A lot of things had changed in short order, with more to deal with in the upcoming years. This time, there was a guide, someone to lead her, and Victoria hoped their relationship would grow like it had for Evelyn and Marc. It was her wish that she would not only call Evelyn a friend, but that she would consider her to be a sister—albeit a deceptively older one.

A smile appeared on her face once she heard a knock at the door. She excitedly jumped over the corpse of the building’s doorman to answer it. How unfortunate that he needed to be dealt with in such a manner. He had been far too inquisitive about her return, and his bothersome insistence on calling the authorities only sealed his fate.

At least he was delicious, and she still remembered the ecstasy experienced from draining the life from him. The essence of his life now flowed through her veins. It invigorated her, but that now came with the faint smell of his decomposing corpse. When she opened the door, Evelyn greeted her and kissed Victoria tenderly.

“You have been naughty, non?” Evelyn asked with a giggle and licked the last of the doorman’s blood from Victoria’s lips.

Victoria blushed, but Evelyn said nothing more on the matter. One’s first kill was a personal affair, as were the emotional and psychological repercussions. That had been the way for Evelyn, and it would be the same for any of Victoria’s progeny. Corpses did pose a problem, but there were ways to make people disappear. One did not live long in this day and age without having a few tricks up their sleeve.

Victoria turned her attention to the fire before noticing that Evelyn was different somehow. There was something about her attire, which was better suited to a formal New Year’s ball. Her suspicions were confirmed when Evelyn slipped her hand into a bag and pulled out a beautiful porcelain mask. At first, she imagined this mask to represent some wild beast, just like those described in her writings. Instead, it turned out to be the perfect porcelain reproduction of Evelyn’s face.

“Sometimes the truth is far more monstrous than fiction, ma chère,” Evelyn said.

To that, Victoria agreed. Predators did not hide their true intentions; their motives were plainly governed by their genetics. While a growl and teeth could elicit primal fear, people were in far greater danger when such traits were hidden by the thin veneer of civility.

“Now, come!” Evelyn shouted while she glided over the uniformed corpse. “We have to introduce you to the family, and I assure you their masks will not be as obvious as mine.”

With a smile, her mentor walked into the hallway and left Victoria to clean up before following suit. On her way out, Victoria left the fire a well-deserved gift for being her kindest critic and biggest fan. She was certain the flames would happily consume this final token of her appreciation. Just as she closed the door, never to return, the flames spread over the cover page and left only the line The Portrait of a Woman visible.

In the hallway, she heard Evelyn say in musical tones, “In case you are wondering, Marc will be the one wearing a mask representing a dire wolf… Though he will be doing so grudgingly!”

All the while, Victoria thought back to what she wrote long ago, and said, “Remember, what lies beneath is by far more frightening.”

CODA

FRIENDS

Elizabeth sat comfortably at a corner booth and looked over the expansive park just outside. In the distance, high-rises poked out from above the treeline. There was all sorts of activity going on in between: people jogging, buskers performing, muggers doing their dastardly deeds, and those who spent their days feeding the pigeons. In the background, she heard quiet lounge music and the chitter-chatter of people busy with their meals.

What a shame that she could not order just yet, since she was famished. Elizabeth looked down at her phone and saw it had been a half an hour since her arrival. Unfortunately, Anne would be a while before making an entrance. To kill time, she enjoyed the view, thought about her never-ending caseload, and eyed the phone for notifications. This was nothing out of the ordinary when dealing with Anne, but she nonetheless resented that woman for making her wait.

It had been years since Elizabeth last visited this particular restaurant, and truth be told, it was too rich for her blood. Her career as a social worker, one spent dealing with runaways and abused children, did not grant her a membership to the one-percent club. Places like this trendy restaurant, with its breathtaking view, were nothing more than an indulgence. It was unfortunate that to get Anne’s attention, she needed an appropriate venue to lure her in. That, and to pick up the tab.

After an additional thirty minutes and three visits from the waiter, Elizabeth lost patience and ordered a dry martini to go with her chicken Caesar salad. She reasoned that Anne could order once she arrived, whenever that happened to be.

As fate would have it, just as she handed back her menu, a tall, rotund brunette came through the front door dressed in designer clothing. Clearly, that dress had to be couture, because it did a wonderful job of drawing the eyes away from certain attributes while focusing them elsewhere, in this case, that rather generous cleavage.

Elizabeth, in contrast, was a graceful and modern woman, at least when judged by her haircut and mixed-race facial features. She had once been described as striking, a flawless beauty despite that slight scar just above her left eyebrow. While nearly invisible to most, it was a constant reminder about children and the dangerous games they played.

Anne looked around the restaurant until she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth waving. She then flashed a fake smile before sauntering toward the corner booth.

“Lizzy!” Anne exclaimed.

Anne reached out for Elizabeth, who got up in time to hug. Despite Anne wearing heels, Elizabeth towered over her friend, even in flats.

“Anne! Always a pleasure. Was it a busy day at the courts?” Elizabeth asked.

This would give Anne the chance to come up with an excuse for being over an hour late. Elizabeth often wondered why she did not set appointments with Anne an hour earlier. That way, Anne would be on time—at least from Elizabeth’s perspective.

“You know how it is,” Anne said in reply while perusing the menu nonchalantly. “What are today’s specials?”

Anne used that question as a way to change the subject. She also noted that her friend had ordered without her, a trend she found disturbing.

“I can’t, for the life of me, remember what the waiter said,” Elizabeth replied, thinking that the lunch specials were no longer being offered, seeing how they ended at two. “I just ordered a salad and a drink.”

Hopefully, Anne would get the hint that this was not a sky’s-the-limit type of outing, though she feared there might be some sort of penance to be paid for ordering early.

Fortunately, the waiter showed up just in time to break up the conversation. Elizabeth took in a quick sip of her drink and enjoyed how the alcohol burned the tip of her tongue. It had been a while since she last indulged in a stiff drink, and she would need a few more before this day was done.

Nonetheless, she watched with interest as Anne ordered a soup and sandwich special, along with a cosmopolitan. That choice had been appreciated, since it softened the blow to her pocketbook.

“Is that a ring on your finger?” Anne asked, noting the simple white-gold band.

Elizabeth smiled warmly and blushed before replying, “Yes. I got married a few months ago.” Her smile grew exponentially before she continued, “I married a lovely singer-songwriter named Mary Scott. We met a few years back at one of her concerts.”

In fact, this was something Anne should have known. Had she bothered to look at Elizabeth’s Bealzabook profile.

Elizabeth digressed and added, “She’s on a country-wide tour, so we’ve not seen much of each other lately.”

“Hmmmmm,” Anne replied, the look on her face making it clear that she was bored. “Sorry to hear… So why did you want to see me today?”

Quick and to the point. A refreshing change for her friend, but where did that come from? Throughout college, Elizabeth had never known this woman to be straightforward on anything.

Elizabeth began to question if Anne’s discomfort had something to do with her choice of spouse? Or was it the level of commitment and dedication shown for another? She had one sure-fire way to find out, so her eyes dropped down a few degrees and focused on Anne’s ample bust.

“When was the last time you remember seeing Victoria?” Elizabeth asked, all the while keeping an eye out for any tell-tale signs of discomfort.

True to form, Anne shifted slightly to avoid the gaze and uttered a befuddled response, “Not sure. I think it may have been a few weeks before the funeral of her parents.”

That question had caught Anne off guard almost as much as Elizabeth leering. Why was she being asked such a question? Unable to ask without appearing insensitive, she tossed the ball back to the other’s court.

“You?” Anne asked.

“I was at the funeral. Do you remember how dreary it was that day? I don’t think anyone managed to exchange more than a couple of words with her. A handful of us were there for support, but she wasn’t really there,” Elizabeth said. “You know?”

Elizabeth paused to take another sip of her drink. She looked toward the kitchen and wondered why their food was taking so long. After all, salad and cold chicken did not require a great deal of preparation.

“No one has seen hide nor hair of her since…” Elizabeth trailed off.

“No one has seen her since the funeral?” Anne asked with a hint of shock in her voice. “Wasn’t that last year?”

“Actually, it was two years ago. Shortly after the funeral, she moved out of the estate, quit her job, and then—poof!” Elizabeth said.

Since Elizabeth worked primarily with children who had a habit of running away, those actions showed up as red flags. Of course, one had to wonder what Victoria was running from.

“No updates on Bealzabook, her name isn’t listed in the phonebook, her mobile was disconnected, and no one I know has seen her in years,” Elizabeth said.

“Really?” Anne asked.

The waiter brought Anne’s drink. She gulped half of it down as a diversion.

“So why tell me all of this?” Anne asked when she was finished.

Elizabeth sighed, seeing as this would end up being another dead end. Either way, she said, “You’ve known her much longer than anyone else. I met her in college where we shared a few electives. That led to us teaming up for projects, and she ended up dragging me to those horror-movie marathons. Still, you must know something? You’ve known her since high school.”

Anne sensed where this was heading and hated being lured here for this. Had it really been that long since she had last seen Victoria? While they were not the best of friends, the two had followed each other through the academy, college, and law school. She even took advantage of the vacuum Victoria left by quitting her law firm, even though several clients subsequently changed firms once they got their corrected bills.

To avoid the subject further, she deflected once more by asking something in return, “Perhaps she found herself a man?”

Elizabeth scoffed at the idea. Anne was lucky her friend had not been sipping her drink at that moment.

“You remember what happened with Julius back in college? I doubt she ever really recovered from that,” Elizabeth said. She cocked her head and asked in return, “Weren’t you and Julius an item?”

Anne turned white as a sheet and failed to reply. Elizabeth knew Anne had been instrumental in getting Julius away from Victoria, although that was not necessarily a Herculean feat. Julius was known for his fetishes throughout college, and since Victoria was not putting out, the rest was history. Anne was a woman who squirted on command, the least risqué of skills in her sexual repertoire, and that got his attention. In the end, it was a choice between gaining access to a family fortune in the distant future, or a quick lay. Funny how that choice seemed so simple in retrospect.

However, Elizabeth was not aware that Anne and Julius were still a thing, available on speed-dial day or night, with no strings attached. Fortunately, Victoria never learned of the true reason for their breakup, but the way that man left her certainly merited him a special place in hell. Elizabeth had been the one left holding the pieces and spent more than her fair share of time watching horror movies with the devastated woman. Thankfully, the tapes had worn out, which granted her a merciful reprieve.

They ate in silence once the food arrived. Elizabeth was not yet done with this conversation, but she felt that Anne needed to regain her composure. She kept busy by thinking back to her college days, specifically, when her interests in men came to an end and she realised how thankful she was for not ending up with her own version of Julius. Sure, men were fine, but none ever left her feeling satiated.

It was nothing more than a stroke of luck that she met her true calling for partners. Youthful, and full of spirit, a firecracker really, she had piercing green eyes and a smile that entranced. These were all traits typically found in a freshman art student. She was the reason Elizabeth liked women, along with a renewed appreciation for the arts.

Elizabeth had fond memories of that relationship, including one that involved a lot of paint, long rolls of paper, and their naked bodies. That summer had passed by like a dream and she often wondered what ever happened to her.

Oddly enough, the musical tones in Mary’s voice had the same intoxicating effects on her. While a coincidence, it created an immediate bond with Mary, a secret Elizabeth would take to her grave.

“So, I hired a private investigator,” Elizabeth said.

She was about to finish eating the last leaf of the salad. In some cultures, it was seen as a sign of respect to leave something on the plate, and she began to wonder if Anne had ever heard of that particular custom.

Anne put down her fork and sighed, all the while trying to come up with an excuse that would get her out of this. Unfortunately, nothing she thought of would let her off the hook, or at least not without painting her as some sort of monster.

“Why are you so worried about her anyway? People like her don’t just disappear, you know? The media would be in a frenzy if she did,” Anne said.

“I thought of that. Still, it doesn’t make sense that she would just drop off the face of the earth,” Elizabeth said after she polished off her drink.

As though reading her mind, the waiter brought in a fresh martini.

“I asked the foundation looking after her parents’ affairs about her, but they refused to tell me anything. Mind you, this company is renowned for protecting the privacy of their clients,” Elizabeth said.

Before Anne could reply, Elizabeth added more to the narrative, “I came across a car salesman at a local bar. He kept on bitching about some frost queen who almost got him fired. So I flirted a bit, and he confessed that Victoria bought a car! That one nearly blew my mind.”

“No doubt,” Anne said nonchalantly, but she did agree in retrospect.

“Even that was over a year ago. So when I asked the PI, he looked into the matter and found out her car was registered to the foundation. The address also matched the one for their corporate headquarters,” Elizabeth said.

Elizabeth began to question why she even bothered to tell Anne any of this. Could this woman be more self-absorbed? Nonetheless, she carried on because it felt more like a confession at this point.

“That, in itself, is not out of the ordinary for those who are well off,” Elizabeth said. After a brief pause, she added, “Eventually, he managed to break into the foundation’s computer system and found the address for a unit along the park. When I visited, the place looked deserted, but there was a pungent odour coming from a broken window.”

Elizabeth was parched, so she finished half the glass and noted that Anne had made no further progress on hers.

“I tried to tell the doorman, but he insisted everything was fine and not to worry. That’s the most tight-lipped bastard I ever met…then I read the newspaper.”

“News?” Anne asked, this time appearing to be genuinely interested, but Elizabeth found it difficult to be certain.

Elizabeth nodded and said, “Remember a few weeks back, some news about a car bombing in a parking garage near here?”

“That was him?” Anne asked loud enough for most of the restaurant to overhear. Then she covered her mouth, calmed down, and spoke in a hushed voice, “I thought they said it was a gas leak?”

“One of the investigators on the case is a big fan of my wife’s music. So he let me in on some of the details,” Elizabeth said.

To fuck with Anne, Elizabeth began to stare at her cleavage and this time with far less discretion. In itself, that was not a difficult task, since the woman was facing forward.

“To his knowledge, Russian anti-tank mines and ruptured gas mains are not normal occurrences in this city,” Elizabeth added.

This time, Anne said nothing, nor did she move to avert Elizabeth’s gaze. The social worker grinned, finished off her drink, and set the glass down loudly on the table to watch Anne jump. For a moment, they laughed, but it was obvious their nerves were frayed.

In trying to calm her nerves, Anne said, “You can’t be serious!”

“Ah, but I am,” Elizabeth replied. “Two days ago, that doorman went missing,” she added, realising how ridiculous this all sounded.

Anne’s eyes grew wide before she stuttered, “Really?”

She then looked at her own phone and triggered an app that made the phone vibrate.

“Oh look at the time!” Anne exclaimed while she got up and smiled meekly. “I have a very important appointment with a client. It’s been a pleasure. So, next time lunch is on me?”

Of course, Elizabeth knew this was nothing more than an excuse. Should she expect any different from Anne? Truth be told, this had been the fourth friend she sought in as many weeks. Every time she was met with the same detached attitude and nonchalance, always coming up empty-handed.

“With friends like you, why would Victoria need any enemies?” Elizabeth shouted as Anne left the restaurant.

Frustrated, the social worker ordered another drink and dropped her card on the table to pay her tab. With no desire to see the tally, she told the server to add up the gratuity himself. That way, she could avoid seeing the damage until her credit card statement arrived. Bored, she went back to people-watching and nursed her drink.

* * * *

Upon leaving the restaurant, Elizabeth noticed the sun had set. She cursed these short days, since fall would give way to another dreaded winter, and she shivered when a cold, stiff breeze ran across her back. Nonetheless, she soldiered on toward the nearest subway station.

She was frustrated, and who could blame her? Why did no one care? Or even show concern? Was it because she was a social worker? Or had she been a better friend than the rest? It was not like Victoria bothered to send her a message, call, or even mail a postcard to explain her absence. Why even bother when the authorities were unconcerned—

“Lizzy!” Elizabeth heard from behind.

When she turned, Elizabeth was faced with the most coincidental of apparitions. This girl had not changed a bit; she was the very same firecracker she dated back in college.

“Firecracker!” Elizabeth exclaimed before falling into a deep hug.

That girl felt the same—heck, she even smelled just like she remembered her. Their reunion brought a whole slew of good memories to the forefront of her mind.

“So where’s your father?” Elizabeth asked, remembering the rather serious man she came across while fooling around at this girl’s place.

Evelyn beamed her trademark smile and said, “Oh, he’s right behind you…”

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

Evelyn Chartres is the nom de plume for a self-published Canadian author. The writer of seven Gothic fantasy novels, Evelyn released her debut novel, The Portrait, in 2016, and her latest, Dark Hearts, in 2022.

A fan of the phrase “live to eat,” Evelyn shares her recipes on evelynchartres.com. These recipes have a loose focus on French-Canadian cuisine, which feature deep-dish meat pies, seafood, and desserts that are rarely seen outside of La Belle Province.

Evelyn is currently living in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and is busy laying the foundations for her next book featuring Clara Grey.

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ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

THE GRAND

“Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.”

You will find the Grand nestled atop a cliff that overlooks a cursed valley. Surrounded by foreboding mountains, this ritzy French palatial-style hotel is a place where a roaring party’s success is measured by its body count. This hotel does not cater to the rich or famous. Instead, its staff and facilities serve a clientele with a more discerning palate.

The Grand is a collection of Gothic fantasy stories with an overarching storyline that incorporates supernatural themes. The Roaring Twenties serves as a rich historical, linguistic, and cultural backdrop.

Centred on the victims, each story brings a unique perspective to the hotel, the staff, and their esteemed guests. At the Grand, it is best to remember: Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

“A gal has to look out for herself, after all.”

Clara Grey’s parents once said that the world was a dark and dangerous place. There was more truth than fiction in those words. There were things that lurked in the shadows which defied the laws of nature: perversions that fed on the dead, terrorised the living, or escaped the chill touch of the grave.

Clara is a member of the Tower, a religious order of hunters who work outside the confines of the Church. As keepers of the arcane, her order takes an active role in countering such threats. Alas, the life of a hunter can be short, and many go missing before they are ready to serve. So, what does it take to succeed against all odds?

Explore Clara’s origin, a child born before the dawn of the twentieth century. Witness her rigorous education, how she faces adversity, and how she fights in the Great War to become the derringer-wielding flapper she is.

Throughout her tale, keep in mind: No matter the threat, a gal has to look out for herself, after all.

THE VAN HELSING RESURGENCE

“While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.”

Clara Grey was a hunter and part of a secret organisation known only as the Tower. During the Roaring Twenties, she sacrificed herself to destroy a powerful vampire. As a reward, she joined the ranks of Heaven’s army, and for ninety years, Clara yearned to take an active role in the mortal realm.

In an attempt to alter the course of history, scientists trigger an experiment with devastating results. The effects are felt not only on Earth, but in other realms as well.

Clara and an echo from her past are sent to Earth to investigate the case of a stolen soul. For this transgression, Heaven could go to war, but they choose to send Clara—and Edith. They fall to Earth, focused on their mission.

Both had been isolated from the mortal realm for generations. In their lifetimes, monsters were on the decline, but learn how much the modern world has changed. While navigating this alien land, will they adapt to their surroundings to fulfil their mission? Or be swallowed up by the evil that lurks in the shadows?

Before reading on, be sure to remember: While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.

THE VAN HELSING INCURSION

“Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.”

During the Roaring Twenties, Clara Grey hunted things that went bump in the night. On her last mission, she paid the ultimate price to rid the world of a powerful foe. As a reward, she ascended to Heaven and joined its ranks as an angel.

Ninety years after her death, Clara fell to Earth, intent on saving a soul. While successful, killing an old god in self-defence barred her from returning to Heaven. Lost in the modern world, Clara was forced to seek unlikely allies to navigate through these uncertain times.

Four months later, Clara has settled in with Elizabeth, a young woman she saved shortly after descending to Earth. For a gal who had sworn off anything that hinted at normalcy, Clara learns that being average takes more effort than she suspected.

Alas, repercussions from choices made on that fateful mission have not been idle. Her enemies trigger a chain of events that force our fated femme fatale to act. Is Clara prepared to deal with the fallout? Will her allies come to her aid? Or must she stand on her own?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.

THE VAN HELSING IMPETUS

“While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.”

Clara Grey is a fallen angel, one who tried her hand at having a normal life. That experiment came to an abrupt end when werewolves kidnapped her gal. While victorious, tales from that fateful night became the stuff of legend. Now known as ‘the Valkyrie,’ she is a wanted fugitive.

She has been on the lam for months, using a nondescript persona to evade the authorities. All the while, Clara is tormented by voices from a goddess that she thought long dead.

Clara has never faced an enemy that can strike from the shadows, forcing her to align herself with the things she hunted in life. Even with an army at her back, does she have what it takes to defeat her foe?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.

HIGH WATER MARK

“When humanity has been driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?”

Anna is a humanoid mermaid who spends her days with the local timekeeper until a podmate comes to her with a proposal. They hatch a plan to head out into the watery ruins of humanity in search of lost technology and materials. For a young mermaid living in the dredges of society, the promise of riches from such a find is just too good to pass up.

Armed with nothing more than an old map and some rusty road signs to follow, they are soon reminded that adventure often brings forth more than its fair share of rough waters. Her friend gets captured, leaving Anna alone in a world where mermaids are nowhere near the top of the food chain.

Follow Anna as she makes landfall and learns why her ancestors abandoned the surface. Lost in a world that is perpetually covered in a thick fog, Anna must navigate through what remains above the high-water mark. What will she find? An ally? A foe? Or will she find nothing but death and destruction?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: With humanity driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?

DARK HEARTS

“She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf!”

Julia is a werewolf who turned against her pack and saved an innocent life. As a reward for her good deed, she ends up in prison, but thrives while others like her waste away.

On the eve of a full moon, an unknown benefactor arranges for Julia’s release. Faced with the prospect of returning to the city that nearly killed her, she opts to disappear into the surrounding woods.

This is the opportunity she needs to find herself and reconnect with the wild. As her past resurfaces, the supernatural and dark elements within humanity take notice of her.

Before reading on, be sure to consider: She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf.

LICENCE

The Portrait is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to reality are purely coincidental. All images and text herein are copyrighted:

The Portrait

Copyright © 2017 by

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

Draft2Digital — Fourth Edition — ISBN 978-0-9947805-6-0

Table of Contents

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I – INNOCENCE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART II – DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

PART III – LOSS

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

PART IV – REVELATION

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CODA

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE