

### Fallon's Love Letters

### Published by Neva Teal at Smashwords

### Copyright 2015 Neva Teal

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the site and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All other trademarks and brands mentioned in the book are the property of their respective owners.

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Cover images: photo copyright of Khorzhevska/Fotolia and texture copyright of Evelyn Flint/Daydreaming Images

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

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

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

OTHER BOOKS

CHAPTER 1

I saw you, I loved you.

How can anyone dare explain love's nature?

I'm Fallon, I'm seventeen and will I ever send this letter to you? I doubt not my feelings truthfulness for truest is my sentiment. I loved you, Dash, the very moment I saw you, walking down the street, past our coffeehouse. I dare not send this to you. I will not. I'm not brave, others are, yet in me threads a meek soul. Fear is my name. Well, actually is Fallon but you'll never see this letter, so I'm free to reveal it.

My dearest Dashiell Skye, I have never seen such beauty in a man. I'm young, I know, bit I swear I'm positive, even if I live to be a hundred, your beauty is beyond compare. No one is your equal, you stand above all else, being equal only among Gods.

Maybe I'll keep this letter. Yes. For a moment, for a bit (a fleeting sigh). I love you, Dashiell.

I love you. I'll burn these lines in a few days. My heart is yours.

*

A few days passed since I wrote the letter I won't send, mainly because my name is there. I keep it in my tiny safe and walk around all day with the key in my necklace. It's beautifully made so everyone thinks it's an accessory, holding neither other function nor meaning. How wrong they are. The key opens up my heart. There's only one person with whom I can confide, my sister, Sophia. I haven't told her yet though. I'm trying to calm myself. The emotions overwhelm me. How can I find the words? The right ones, piercing through her soul, making her see what I feel, what I felt. But Sophia is too rational and will try to bring me back from the clouds. We love each other, there's no question, and have always been close. Almost like twins, even though she's older. She's my best friend, my soulmate, my confident, the one I'd throw myself over a cliff without a second thought. With no hesitation or regret.

But how can I tell Sophia when I can't even tell myself? I must find the proper words. First, I must recollect vividly that day in all its brightness.

*

For the last two weeks I've been working on TipTapToeing after I've dropped out of high school. Not a glamorous job, I admit. I wasn't even a waitress. My parents were mad at me and after only two days of having left school for good, Mom talked to an old friend and she got me a job at this trendy coffee shop - as a dishwasher. Or, more accurately, General Glass Smasher. Every other cup would slip out of my hands and shatter on the floor. I'd freeze. Actually, most of the time I froze and felt out-of-place, almost like an alien stranded in a bizarre planet. What am I doing here?, was a non-stop question revolving around my confused, dazed skull. Why am I here? What the hell am I supposed to do with my life? Is this it? Am I a high school dropout, dishwasher now? Is that my Full Title? Should I introduce myself as such from now on?

Oh, my Lord, what am I to do with the rest of my life? Who am I supposed to be? Who, who am I?

I shared my fears with Sophia.

She brushed my hair aside, hugged me and said she loved me. Then gave me a smile and took me out for gelato.

I'm shy, an introvert. I am an ordinary type of girl. No one would do a double take on me. I'm rather invisible. Sometimes it's nice; you can watch others without being caught. I like it. The stuff you find out just by observing people attentively is staggering. It's wonderful being invisible then. What I don't like is being thought as stupid or being underestimated.

Never - ever - undervalue a Scorpio.

Seriously. You'll have the surprise of your life. My Sun is tucked away in the twelfth house. A colleague, who is into astrology, told me that meant I really "liked privacy". Yeah, absolutely right. I admit I like to know about people and not share myself as much. I keep myself secret and, at the same time, discover all that I can possibly can about others.

So, here I am, TipTapToeing into life, quietly and sadly, breaking stuff (not on purpose), being invisible, living in an ever growing silent despair, when suddenly my heart is awaken and I'm sure it will never fall asleep again, even if I live to be a hundred.

My heart burnt in an everlasting flame, set alight by only seeing Dashiell walking by.

I saw him, a mere glance and in the same instant, my soul broke in two, one part stayed in my body, the other half flew away.

"He's a new ballet dancer," Gary the barista informed another colleague. Both were oblivious to me as I listened, quietly and discreetly, while I put the glasses away and left.

"Oh my, isn't he a peach?" How they laughed.

Before he left my sight I imprinted in my brain his exquisite figure: a tall young man, very pale, with dark hair and I swear with dark, glittering eyes, as if light piercing through darkness. The pure paleness and blackness made for a powerful contrast. I looked around, after I had the first impact (love at first sight is no joke, it resembles an imploding universe inside you). I was relieved to see no one had noticed. And nobody else but I and the two baristas seemed to have noticed him either.

"Dashiell," said Gary as I walked into the kitchen and resumed my duties, "Dashiell Skye. It suits him. Looks like a fallen angel."

I remember everything about that day. He had dark jeans and a white shirt with long sleeves. Dashiell glided, not walked. I remember the day's scents: an overwhelming minty aroma on the kitchen. Gretchen, the cook, loved to burn peppermint oil. "I have allergies. It helps me breath better." Every day her clothes and hair were drowned in this minty odor. I rather liked it. I remember the sound of our juicer, squashing together oranges and mangos. The temperature was constant, neither warm nor cold, however outside a soft breeze would lift at times the air on passers' by necks. The coffee odor filled the room and although I never quite liked the taste and never had drunk it, it was a pleasant sort of smell, comforting and comfortable, surrounding me. That day, when I left, in a daze, I had broken half a dozen plates and cups and, miraculously wasn't fired. The manager, my mother's dear friend, pitied me and was bound by friendship, so I ended up staying on that job more time than I ever expected. Outside a soft, light, magical and momentary gust of wind caressed my skin with a sweet-smelling rose scent which perfumed the air. It only lasted a second - but I felt it. It was as if my guardian angel was confirming that he, Dashiell, HE was the One.

The rose aroma penetrated my skin, accompanying me on my way home - as a sweet-scented armor, surrounding my spirit, guarding my soul's essence.

CHAPTER 2

I haven't yet revealed to Sophia I've fallen in love. I fear her tender judgment. I can see it clearly: she'll sigh, brush my hair aside and hug me. Even cry a little and then whisper heart shuttering words: "Oh Fallon." I'm not mad but have always been considered special by my family. "Fallon's special" others would whisper as if such words held a sort of frightening, evil magic. My imagination, my sensitiveness. Everything in me is in excess. I exaggerate, I feel too much. I have no desire to hear those pitiful and softly spoken words ever again. So, for the time being, I'll keep my love private, locked away in my heart, sharing it with God, my diary and these letters. Oh Dashiell, I'll send one eventually, this I swear upon my heart. I imagine sometimes you are already expecting them and it might hurt not to receive them. I imagine I promised you, in heaven before the Descent, I'd love you no matter what and I'd write you - no matter what. I envision a flaming sword above my chest as I write the oath: I'll send a love letter, hoping you'll hide it, read it, cherish it - and feel the overflowing abundance of adoration I'm sending you.

I saw you again, pass by. My shift was soon to be over but I left early, Gretchen screaming in my ear:

"Where the devil you think you're going?! Fallon, Fallon! Oh, that girl..."

And she let me go, that girl, carrying the feeling of some sort of specialness which could not be touched, for fear I might break. Many times I used it to my advantage. It allowed me to get away with things many "ordinary" people could not. Oh, the privileges of being considered singular.

I put my coat on, grab my bag and quickly follow you. The sky was blue and I saw angel feathers, bright and clear, encircling me. I frantically searched and then I saw you in a corner speaking to a young man, a fellow dancer probably. It was too far away to hear. I waited, hidden, leaning against the wall, pretending to read emails on my phone. I covered my face with a scarf and round cap. From the corner of my eye I saw you leave. I waited, my heart pounding, and followed you. Then you stopped and got on the bus. So this is your normal route. Good to know.

Tomorrow I know just what to bring.

*

I left work, hurriedly; no one said a word, watching me with commiserated eyes. "That girl", I heard a whisper but pretended not to notice. I run after you. You walk quickly. Your legs are longer, you're in better shape than me, Dashiell, and I've always hated gym class. My heart palpitates as I shadow you. You run. Have you seen me? Is this why you run? My body receives a jolt of fear. No. It's impossible. I'm never seen. It can't be. Not now, when I absolutely need to be invisible. No, I cannot be seen! Suddenly you stop running and look behind you. I freeze. I turn my back, pretending to be looking for something in my bag. A different one of course. Today I also have another hat and scarf. You cannot recognize me, ever. My heart beats, my body trembles. I decide to take a peek. He's no longer there. Suddenly a bus passes near me. As it drives away I see him, I see you, seated near an old woman.

It's a different bus. Where are you going? I didn't even have a chance to take your picture. I'll wait. I can always wait.

*

Two days have passed.

This time I'm prepared. I came in early so I could leave early and find you on your path, instead of chasing and running after you (though it makes me feel like a bee, chasing the fairest of heaven's flowers).

And then, in a magical moment, a stillness sent from paradise enveloped me as you passed by. You were inches away, on that enchanted moment; if I could touch you my heart would be whole, I would be complete and could finally die happy. However the spell cracked and I saw you moving away. It took all my might to grab the camera and take a hidden picture. It was only of your back, but it was the very first of my enchanted album. Soon I'll fill it with thousands of images. Well, hundreds at least. Oh God, I carry your scent in me. It latched upon my skin when you strolled by, as if it knew we were meant to be together. Your skin, your scent recognized me as your soulmate, I'm sure of it. Even Mom noticed something strange. She submerged her noose on my hair, sniffed deeply as a Momma lioness does with her cubs, and said:

"You smell different. Were where you?"

I shrugged, replied I was in the same place as usual, my job, and went to my room before Mom could pose any other question. I love Mom and she, like me, can have a very pesky sixth sense about people.

I printed the photo and put it on my secret album and hid it away, somewhere no one could find. Afterwards I spent the rest of the day daydreaming about you. My body shaking as I imagined your soft fingers slightly caressing my pale skin, as pale as yours; your lips, full and red, though unmistakably masculine, touching mine tenderly as if a butterfly resting there, flipping its wings. I pictured my fingers going through your dark hair and sniffing them, noticing a strange, husky aroma. Finally I fell asleep visualizing you, Dashiell, kissing my closed eyes, my eyelashes and eyebrows, while your hand moved towards my body's deep secluded mysteries, breaking free my soul's desire.

Oh, how I love thee.

*

I saved.

I worked overtime.

I padlocked my daydreaming nature; my imaginative spirit is locked away in a faraway dudgeon, allowing me to be "practical", "grounded", "down to earth", all those terrible expressions. I needed money to go and see you dance, Dashiell. So I worked overtime and got my paycheck. It was nothing to write home about but allowed me to buy three tickets to go and see you fly.

I saw you dance Sleeping Beauty three times. Every time the house was packed, the audience enthralled; I was delighted and captivated by your lightless figure, how you jumped in the air! How you flew! You flew higher than eagles and birds of paradise; your wondrous looks held me prisoner of your talent and charms. I wish I could fly and dance as you. Or with you... the two of us together, sliding across a deserted hall, occupied only by us. There we would hover, straight into the sky, joining the glittering stars. You delight my senses, you excite my soul.

Oh dear lord, the more I see you the more I wish I could be with you, held in your arms, Dashiell.

I went home and dreamt of you. I dreamt of us dancing together, needing no one else, the entire world was us; the planet was empty and filled only by us. We reigned over Earth. That was how big our love was. It took the whole Earth to contain and held it. I dreamt you embraced me and my scent lifted your spirit and, thus inspired, you kissed me with passion and a shamed lust, though impossible to repress. Our love was pure. Will be pure. Is pure...? Mine is. I love you. Will you love me too? Will you see any beauty in me? Or will you, like all the rest, set your eyes upon me and decide that I'm weird, calling me "Fallon, that special girl"?

I'll die if you do. I'll die and never reach heaven for everlasting pain will be my shroud. Better to remain invisible than to be seen in such heartless manner.

*

One month after I saw you dance, your company held an autograph session. I sneaked in and, hiding my face with a gigantic headscarf (borrowed from my sister's closet) and a pair of old sunglasses my mother used to wear, I presented a stub. You looked at it funny, lifted your cute brow, signed it and handed it over with a sincere smile. My hands trembled as I took the stub and noticed you thinking me weird for practically running off and not even taking a glance at the other company dancers.

I didn't care about them.

I cared only about you.

You filled my world.

My perfect world, the one I slid to every night, where you and I were together, happy; that realm was bigger and brighter than the so-called "real life".

My real life was filled with dirty dishes, unpleasant stares, coffee fumes, uncomfortable noises, and long hours occupied in menial tasks, to which my very soul objected. I felt trapped and only this platonic love set me free. Every time I contemplate your magical face or I remember your scent, I am free; I am liberated by you. Your mere existence delivers me from servitude. Within my dream world we reign, we are kings. We are sovereigns! Even the colors are brighter and sparkle with joy.

My album already has twenty five pics of you, three stubs (one of which contains your signature) and a gum wrapper you tossed - strawberry flavored. I smelled it, put my lips on it, and imagined your mouth and tongue filled with strawberry taste.

A lightning shoot up my spine, I felt my face warm and walked home fast, fearing someone would guess why.

Every night, before I sleep, I open my picture album and gaze upon your exquisiteness. I'm getting better at taking good pictures without being caught. Last time I was six feet away and you didn't even notice I was there. Your face looked perfect. You were drinking jasmine tea. I know it's your favorite. And I know you have a brother, not as handsome as you. He's older and possesses a sort of self-confident look which at times appears more like cruelty. I don't much care for him. I don't believe he and I would ever get along. Eventually we'll meet and have to construct a sort of relationship. But I don't, I can't like him. In fact I sense I'll detest him and he'll feel the same about me. How we'll ever get along, for your sake, I dare not imagine. I suppose we'll get out of each other's way.

CHAPTER 3

«Dear Dashiell;

This is my first love letter to you. Still I have no idea if I'll ever send it. I know your address, where you live. It's not that far away from me, though we've never met, I promise. I'm the sort of girl no one wants to look at twice, so appallingly common. My own mirror returns the image of a plain, uninteresting girl. I am older than you, but not by much, a few weeks. Sometimes I see we, celebrating our birthday together, blowing out the candles, making a wish, seeing it come true together. My wish is you. Oh dear, what do I mean? My wish is to be with you, to be yours. And you to be mine. We, together. I don't know if you already have a girlfriend. I hope not, but if you do, I'm sorry but I will not apologize for my love.

I saw you, I loved you.

I swear, I saw you and fell in love instantly. I never thought it to be possible - until I felt it. Cupid shot a flaming, painful arrow straight into my heart - and there it lies, burning quietly. Its flames shoot up, alive, every time I see you pass by, and I swear, if I was to be longer in your presence, the fire would burn me to crisp.

I saw you, I loved you.

I swear, I promise, my heart broke in two and one part fell off! It fell into some obscure abyss and here I am, half-complete, half a being, half-human, for my heart is no longer whole. You fractured my soul when I saw you. The mere sight of your beautiful face shattered it. I know why: more light needed to shine into it. God and the Angels felt this to be the only way. I blame them not for my pain; my pain broke me, made me less, but, at the same time, made me More, for now I know there is much more to see in the world, you are responsible for tearing apart the veils hiding the world from me, both its ugliness and beauty. You gave me more just by existing and walking by. I looked upon your face and my whole being cracked. I split open like an egg with a chick inside.

Dashiell, my heart is yours, yours for eternity. I gave it to you, bleeding light and love, hoping you tend it as the most delicate, fragile flower.

To you, all my love.

E.»

I lied, of course. I'm not nineteen nor does my name start with an E. I can't chance it. I don't want to be recognized. For now I desire my love to be anonymous, only known by me. Eventually I'll tell Sophia. If I had a best friend (other than my sister) perhaps I'd confide in her. I don't know. I don't trust easily. Not since Clarissa, when I was ten, who blabbed my feelings to George. Stupid Clarissa. Anyway, I'll hide the letter and... and? Oh Lord, what to do? I do want you to know my feelings but not who I might be. Dashiell, if it were you, how would you act? Would you tell? Would you write me a letter? Send me an email, a text? A friend with a message? Or would you tell me yourself? I suspect you're the type who holds a girl's face between your kind hands, retains her gaze, and simply states: "I love you." I suspect also you will never utter those words to me. It pains me, yes, but also fills me with relief. Were we to live a true love-story, like in the movies, or told in ancient fairy tales, one wonders if such affection would survive real life's trials. Or would we end up hating each other? Would love itself be murdered, put to sleep, because we dare live it? Such thoughts! Too much thinking, not enough living, Sophia says. Sophia is wiser than me. Already has two children and is absolutely happy with being a mother. What sort of mother will I be? Too scattered-brain? Not practical enough? Will my kids be like me, relying too much on imagination? I pictured two babies, a boy and a girl (or two girls, so I can dress them up like porcelain dolls), born one after another. I see them as beautiful, quiet and full of wisdom. I also picture them looking like you. You, my Dashiell, who will never read these secret texts and not even the letters I do address you.

I took my letter, kissed it, and burnt it in a most sacred ritual, pleading send your dreams of my most heart-felt words of love.

And after a day I regretted having burnt it. I should have been brave. My meek soul shrieks in fear. There's no courage in me. I love, yes, but prefer keep my love to myself, within me, secured in my heart, burning bright, like rose oil.

So I sat, lit a vanilla scented candle and wrote a short note:

«I'm thinking of you, Dashiell, kissing me. Your kisses and caresses melt my absent soul. I ponder your sweet lips touching mine. Feeling them is like tasting from the fountain of youth, whishing you'd go further than this charmed moment.

An Admirer»

An Admirer, I signed. Maybe I should have made it clear I'm a girl, not a guy. Oh, perhaps, he'll see it in my handwriting. It's clearly feminine.

Before courage left, I wrote his address on an envelope, stamped it, sending it that very night.

When I woke up in the morning my heart beat like a thousand drums and I felt sick to my stomach. I didn't go to work, Mom didn't let me, and she made chicken soup. It helped a bit. I regretted so much sending that first letter but now it was done and nothing could undo it. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I wondered if he, Dashiell (if you, my love), couldn't sleep either, imagining his secret admirer passionately kissing the envelope before having it sent out. I hope I fill your heart with joy. I hope my love warms you, as it caresses, secretly, your ivory, beautiful, perfect skin. I hope you fell asleep with the thought of my lips closing in on yours. My sweet knight, my sweet Prince, sleep in peace while my soul nests in your spirit.

*

I returned to work and at three p.m. you and your friends came to TipTapToeing. I froze in panic. From my viewpoint I observed you undetected. Nothing in your appearance or figure denounced any manner of emotional turmoil. Haven't you read my note? Or do you receive so many, superiorly written, that mine pales in comparison? These thoughts sent my head spinning, my heart diminished in size and my spirit hid in a dark corner, crying. Is this a sign he knows who I am? Is this a clear demonstration - such indifference of behavior - of his rejection of my love? No. I'm interpreting his demeanor incorrectly. Maybe one of his friends picked the place. And, indeed, one of them was a regular - always drank orange juice.

Unexpectedly his eyes glanced around and met mine. I dropped a plate and it broke. "That girl!" I heard shouting. My heart pounding, I sneaked a peek and understood he never saw me. He was reading the menu, directly above the little window which opened to our cozy kitchen. I felt instantly relieved. Thank God. He hadn't seen me. And, while I cleaned the mess, they quietly left. When I looked again only a scarf was there. His dark green scarf. No one noticed. My shift was over anyway, so I leaped over to the seat, as I was leaving, and quickly hid the scarf on my purse. After I had put quite a distance between me and the coffeehouse I rapidly took a sniff. Oh Lord. His smell. His scent! Pure delight! It was young, happy, male, with a hint of ease. My head spinning, I headed home. All day long I barely left my room. His scarf surrounded me, I held it close to my nose. After dinner I retired to my room. In the middle of the night I took my clothes off and enveloped my naked body in his scarf. I felt ecstasy. Pure delight.

It was the happiest day of my life.

CHAPTER 4

On my way home, still sensing the detergent's aroma harassing my delicate nose, looking at the tall, grave and imperious oak trees lining up as I descended the street, someone bumped into me.

"Oh sorry," said the rude young man, barely looking at me before quickly running away, shouting "Robyn!". I turned my face to him, irate, intending on saying something. Something rude, harsh words he could carry to the grave. I was amazed, bewildered, when I discovered Dash to be the young man. My body was paralyzed in the middle of the street, people were bumping against me and I hardly noticed. Fortunately he had not seen my face. At least I hoped not. I couldn't move, though I tried.

"Young lady...!" said some passersby but it was as if I'd been glued to the pavement.

And then I saw Dashiell grab and easily lift a tall red-haired girl, kissing her passionately for what seemed hours. They saw no one else, the world disappeared, the very fabric of the universe collapsed - only the two of them and their ardent embrace existed, filling God's void.

In my chest my heart shrunk, poisoned...

He thinks she wrote the love note! She! How can someone so beautiful write something chock-full with heart-felt passion?! How can Dashiell be so blind! How can he?! How can he betray me like that!

Slowly, I walked away, refusing to keep witnessing their stupid embrace. I realized all my thoughts were paranoid and dumb. Only one kept revolving around my stunned brain: he thinks she wrote the note.

In my room I collapsed on my bed and wept. My sorrows and sadness filled the space, bounced the walls, hid in the lamps and took refuge in my closet. I thought I was alone; Mom and Dad still at work, Dad worked long hours and Mom sometimes arrived past nine p.m. However, suddenly, I hear the front door open and in came the laughter of children (which I recognized were my nephews) and the familiar voices of Mom and Sophia.

Swiftly I recalled: it's Saturday. I had to work but they didn't. Dad was out, busy with some new hobby, incomprehensible to anyone as usual. Lately was something to do with flying airplane models. Or drones.

"Fallon! Fallon! Come here, I have something for you! Fallon!"

I couldn't speak. My grief tied my tongue so I lay quietly on my bed, curled up. Suddenly the voices and laughter and all joy ceased. I heard murmurs. Mom was talking to Sophia, for sure. After I heard little, tentative, steps approaching my door and then a smooth whispering:

"Fallon, it's Sophia. Can I come in?"

I didn't reply. Whatever I say, she's still going to open the door and enter. I waited and heard:

"Fallon, I'm coming in, all right?"

She did, my wonderful sister, my guardian angel. God sent her first before he sent me, I was sure. I needed a protector and she had always been one for me.

"Oh Fallon, your eyes!" she uttered, worried, as she sat by me. "What is it? Is it your job? Are they treating you well? Are they being kind?"

Kindness was always the worry with my family, fearsome the outside world would not be kind to me. Perhaps they were right: unkindness pierced through my soul, leaving bleeding gashes and soaking me with unbreakable fear. I was so fragile. I cannot deal with lack of gentleness, as well as many other things (such as impoliteness) the modern world seems to view as "old-fashioned". As if goodness of heart could ever go out of style \- like a seventies sweater.

"It's fine. Everyone is good to me. Very good."

I lied, of course. Mostly they were indifferent and many times I heard half-whispered "that girl", words covered partly with pity and badly veiled resentment. They resented having to be "good" and forced to be "kind" to some strange person. I suspected many wouldn't even make the effort towards their loved ones.

Unlike Sophia. Sophia was always kind. With no effort whatsoever. Her love demanded no struggle.

"Then what? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying anymore."

"Why were you crying, then? What happened? Surely something most have happened."

Outside slight whispers were heard. Mom and her grandkids were finally talking, but not loudly (never loudly). You see, I was fragile.

"What was it?" my sister insisted. She always wanted me to see things from a different perspective, take the higher view, try a little bit of rationality, just as an experiment \- see things in a new way and not engage in an overly emotional manner with events (or people) that (or who) probably didn't deserve such strong attachment. She liked Philosophy, my dear sister (I never quite understood it).

What was I to say? That I loved? That I fell in love with an, then, unknown boy? And today I saw him kissing another girl? Not a girl even. She looked more like a woman. Honestly she looked twenty and I looked fifteen, although I was seventeen. He liked women, apparently - not little girls. If I told her she would want me to describe everything in detail and together we'd analyze what had happened.

No analysis. I won't subject my love to it. I know what happened - I know not why nor do I care to. If I was meant to love Dashiell, I won't question Heaven's decision. The Divine knows best. I'll follow my love, my heart's intent, to whatever dark, obscure ally it may lead.

"I, I... broke a plate."

She was surprised. I couldn't share Dashiell, not yet, though I was sure of what I felt.

"That's it? You broke a plate?"

"Today. I've been breaking an average of five plates and four glasses."

"Every day?!"

"No. Weekly. It's less. In the beginning it was eight plates and ten glasses, I estimate."

"Oh... seems... a lot. Are they firing you?"

"No."

"Are they taking it out of your paycheck?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so. At least no one has informed me. Last month they didn't."

"So... last month your salary was received in full and you weren't fired. And you seem to be getting better."

"Yes. I'm smashing less stuff."

"You shouldn't worry. If they haven't fired you yet I think your job is safe. So... no more crying."

She tickled me and we both laughed.

"That's more like it. Oh, I forgot. I've gotten you frozen yogurt. Strawberry. Come on. Or the kids will eat yours."

Sophia walked towards the door but suddenly came back and leaned near my fireplace (it was an old home. Some rooms had fireplaces. I used mine a lot. It seemed romantic). She fished out some burnt paper. My heart dropped. I didn't quite burn Dashiell's love letter (the one I hadn't sent). I thought I did but apparently a very large piece survived. Sophia read it and laughed. My heart sunk even further. She laughed. I repressed my tears using all my might. Suddenly Sophia noticed my watering eyes.

"Oh no, no, no! I'm sorry, Fallon! It's lovely! Beautiful words! Did you copy it from a book?"

"No, no... " I replied, stuttering, a tear flowing down my cheek. "I wro-wrote it."

Sophia seemed surprised.

"You did? It's lovely. Very well written. Why did you burn it?"

"I, I... didn't think it was good enough, you know, to send... to compete."

Again, I lied. My eyes were lowered, hiding my diminishing tears and red face.

"Compete?"

"Yes. There's a silly literary contest. I saw it announced on the Library. For short stories. I thought: why not? So I wrote one but it, it wasn't good, it wasn't good enough and I burned it."

"Oh, but it seems so good. Really it does. You must rewrite it. Or write something new. It seems to be a... love letter?"

"Part of it, yes. But, as a laugh! Nothing serious."

"Well I believe it's quite good. Quite good..." she said in a lower tone of voice while looking at the scorched paper. Then unexpectedly flashed a big smile and said: "You should have written all my love letters."

"I was eight," I replied.

"There's talent. Even in an eight year-old. I bet in you already existed the heart of a novelist. Here," Sophia handed me the burnt page, "redo it. I'll bet you win. What's the prize?"

"A creative writing course."

"Do it. You'll surely win. And even if you don't, you've created something that didn't exist before. The world needs more love letters. Now come on, wipe your eyes. Time for frozen yogurt."

CHAPTER 5

«[Love Letter Number TWO (2)]

Those were the words I wrote on top. I wanted Dashiell to know these letters were from me, an unknown admirer, and nobody else! I was still incensed with fury at the notion the red haired woman might have had taken credit for something I wrote. I was having none of that. No sir. These are my letters.

I continued.

"Dearest Dashiell;

This is my second letter to you. The first one was a little love note I sent a few days ago. Actually it's my third letter. The first one went up in flames. I was so ashamed. Of what? Of my feelings for you? Their strength? I don't know. Maybe to tell how strong they are, to make you aware of my feelings marked a point of no return from which there was no turning back. That was - and is - frightening. To make it clear: you don't know who I am. You can't possibly possess the tiniest clue. I'm invisible. No one ever sees me, however I see everyone all the time. I can look straight into a person's eyes and see their true nature, blinking, flickering through the looking glass - their eyes. Eyes are never lying, I promise you, and their sparkle is the purest reveler of truth. Indeed they are the soul's gateway.

So, no, I'm not the red-haired whom you kissed passionately nor am I anyone you know or even seen. But I've seen you.

The moment I saw you I fell in love. Or I fell into love. Love was always there, at my feet, it took one look at you, passing by, at your beautiful face, your figure, to marvel me so much that I missed my step and in I went - into love, into cherubim's Fire and delight.

I saw you, I loved you.

I made the decision of keep writing you love letters. Each one will be numbered. Oh, and yes, I am of the female persuasion (if that was one of your doubts). I won't tell you my name nor my age - I will tell you only of my love. I love you, Dashiell, I love you. I love your tall, slender, pale figure; I love the way you walk, so carelessly; I love the way you move, as if gliding through the world, not touching it; I love how you dance, you are an angel of delight, to Earth sent by God to show such beauty is possible and exists amidst all ugliness.

I love you, Dashiell Skye. I have told you of your lips, how I wish they'd touch mine, glinting as my soul sparkles whenever I see you pass by. Now let me tell you of my nest; my nest is inside your chest, every night I nest inside your heart and there I safely sleep.

Your heart, beating beating, is a warm blanket, its tepid scent a dream, a dream colored in vanilla bright... bright as the sky.

Lord, I love you. You are my reason - one of them - to be alive. I was sent from heaven to earth because of you, because you existed here. I'm so glad I saw you pass by. I'm glad you've awakened my heart - and nobody else. It was a privilege having been awoken by you, Dashiell.

Sometimes I feel like I should say "thank you", should I? No. It's silly. One isn't thankful of love or for love - one lives it, in all its pain, joy, sorrow and heaviness.

Please know I love you.

You.

An Admirer»

I photocopied the letter and stashed it away, somewhere no one can find. Then I put the original in the envelope, stamped it - and went out to mail it.

Back home I got a bunch of envelopes, put the print on and all of them came out with Dashiell's address, perfectly printed (this is a second-hand printer I bought on a garage sale. I bought it cheap when mine croaked).

Outside I saw birds chirping, flying around, and chasing each other, collecting food. The breeze turned into wind and the tree tops leaned over. Happiness felt within my reach, so close, so very close.

CHAPTER 6

Dashiell Skye, I googled. Not much to find about him (about you). Hum. A private person. No twitter account. No Instagram. No email (that I can find). No anything of anything

Except.

Wait.

He has Facebook! Oh, thank God, what a relief. Not on his own name, not with his portrait. Some weird avatar from a 70's sci-fi movie. And... it's not open to public. Damn. No use sending a friend request - all of his friends either are real life friends or colleagues from the ballet company. Damn it, what can I do?

I can be sneaky (Scorpio Sun). Oh yes I can. So after creating a new Facebook account, with a new email, I friended some of his friends (and many other people whom I don't know either) and followed him through his friends.

I know this is creepy, stalk like behavior but I'm not a stalker. I'm not. I just desire to know everything there is to know about Dashiell. Pretty soon I began to find information. I hit the "mother lode"! What I was discovering was gold. I read comments from his circle of friends, I investigated each picture he was tagged in, where they were taken, and every tiny bit of information satiated my thirst as if I was a lost man wandering in the desert. Everything was important and of note. All night long there was I, glued to my laptop screen, in search of him, in search of you, Dashiell.

One of his friends, Thomas, had a blog. I started reading it and sure enough, after a week of having sent letter number two, Thomas spoke of it. Apparently, I, the Admirer, was a laughing stock. Dashiell not only had read the letter, along with the first note he forgot had been sent to him (he had put it on a drawer somewhere and it slipped his mind), he had shown both letters to all of his friends. And family. Even distant cousins.

How they laughed at my expense.

And there it was, on cyber world, a mouse click away, for everyone to see and join the mocking party. He thought it was funny. He thought it was a friend's prank. Apparently "Jester" was copious on pulling pranks. Everyone suspected him. He, of course, denied it, said it to be too "flowery and romantic" for his "style". So, of course, Dashiell (and by now two of his friends, Thomas and Jenny) tried to find out who had been the joker. There was only suspicion, not hard evidence. Some poor bastard was subjected to a calligraphy test. And passed. "Clearly it wasn't him," stated Thomas on his blog, "his handwriting was way too girlish."

Too, too girlish?! What the devil does he mean by that?!

More than hurt, I was fuming. Livid. Irate. How could he, how could he mock me?! My feelings were heart-felt, genuine - and he takes them and trashes them as if, as if they were garbage.

I cried tears of rage. If my family would see me now they'd lock me up again. I was so altered. Now I understand the importance of being kind, as my sister insists. Kindness keeps others alive. I felt like murdering them all. Crushing their skulls, break their bones and dance on their bloody, naked, bruised bodies. My rage was so intense I couldn't breathe. I caught a glimpse of me in the mirror. It scared me. It was petrifying. I was red, my eyes popping out, my teeth clenched and my lips parted in the most horrific way. Rapidly, as it came, the image faded. I peered down on my shoes and after I lifted my head, I saw an altogether distinct figure: me, again, and not that enraged beast. I glanced over Thomas' blog and, covering the anger, I discovered fear and hurt.

I wept.

I wept in silence, my body shacking, unable to control the pain and desolation from coming out, though I was quiet. Mom and Dad couldn't hear me. Best not disturb Mom and Dad (and nobody else on this Earth with my inconvenient pain and frailty). The world is harsh, one must be harder to survive.

However I couldn't stop myself, I had to read the comments. There were forty-one in total. They all ventured ideas, possibilities, in order to discover the "secret admirer". Maybe it's a guy, someone said. No, was the answer, the letter stated plainly it was a woman.

Maybe he was lying.

Yes, somebody else replied, that is a distinct possibility.

There were a million ideas floating around: it was a group of people trying to have a laugh, but they got the address wrong, somewhere there must be someone else named Dashiell; or the letter was indeed sent to the right person but, maybe, by an older woman...? Perhaps a... senior citizen? A little old lady? An eighty old geezer, ready to quick the bucket (an inch away from pushing up daisies), trying to relive her youth? Who writes love letters nowadays, anyway? Surely it must be someone older. Much!, much!, older. No, no, you are mistaken (someone argued), love letters still exist but now are being sent through email. They're electronic love letters. Or little skype notes (skype! Must search to see if he is there). No, the comment continued, maybe it's from a very ugly girl. Think about it. It makes sense. She writes beautiful letters but doesn't dare show her face. She must be as hideous as a dog.

A dog?! I couldn't take it anymore. I closed my laptop violently and crawled, furious, into bed.

A dog, a dog. I'll show them the dog.

*

Finally I'm calmer, my temper has subsided. I feel better and am able to take, as Sophia calls it, the rational point of view. How would I behave had I been the recipient of a similar love declaration? Would I feel the same? Or would I choose to be kind and generous, not trampling on some innocent's feelings? I suspect I'd prefer not to make fun of it. My imagination would overpower me and probably take me into the arms of some imaginary Prince, whose heart fell captivated the moment he laid eyes on me. No. This will not do. My heart is hurt but I have to hide, to protect myself and give no hint - to him nor his social circle - that I follow on social media everything they say. I must keep it to myself, a secret within a secret (wrapped in mystery).

So I relax. I close my eyes and count my breaths, as Sophia has taught me. It helps. My mind clears up and with clarity I see my true intent: to reveal in all their purity, my affections to Dashiell. I expect nothing in return, though I'd feel overjoyed if that were to happen. The greatest miracle in my monotonous life. A never-ending miracle, a never-ending joy. However it won't happen. I just want to tell Dashiell: look, you are loved. From a distance, but it doesn't matter. You are loved and will always be treasured. My love is upon you, constantly, and it will never cease to exist. You are loved by me. That is my intent - to inform you. Though I'm hidden, the truth is out. You are as treasured as the rarest jewel. Forever. It doesn't matter the value placed on my feelings by you (by him - again I write as if my diary was a long love letter, a book I'm reading to him while he sits by my side). My love is my love and that is all. I will not silence it again, no more. I must be true to myself, to you (to him).

I decide to breathe. I count my breath one hundred times before I read Thomas' blog or any social media comments. I'll take the high view, the mountain top, and not engage emotionally on any event.

With that I take my leave and catch the bus for work. As I descend my foot gets stuck and I twist it. It's only three minutes walking to TipTapToeing. I limp my way there and start my shift until someone notices my pain.

"That girl! Fallon, what are you doing?!"

"I twisted my ankle."

"I can see that, you can hardly stand. Have you taken anything?"

I nod my head signing no.

"Silly girl. Here's an aspirin. And water. Now come and sit. These oranges need peeling."

Today I was no dishwasher. I peeled oranges, pears, apples, all sorts of fruit. I helped bake chocolate cake and rolled up chocolate croissants. It was rather a pleasant day, even though my ankle kept hurting. Someone called home and at the end of the shift Dad came and gave me a lift. They gave me two days off and I was afraid they'd give my job to someone else. Dad frowned and stated, in a matter of fact tone:

"Foolish thoughts. That job is yours. Waste no time dwelling on it."

Sophia took after father. I... I didn't quite know. I suppose I took from some crazed old-aunt, locked away in a mental institution.

Dad was a doctor. At home he took a look at my ankle and prescribed another aspirin and ice.

"There. You'll be up in a jiffy."

It took four days. Doctor Dad's never think their kids are sick.

CHAPTER 7

So they liked my croissants. And Dad was right: the job was mine. No one took it from me.

From that point on I was given much more responsibility, all connected to food, more precisely pastry, cakes and anything and everything to do with sweetness. Sweet was my life indeed. And everyone seemed to notice my different disposition, altogether more bright and joyous. I was happy. Baking made me happy. I think it was a mixture of finding - finally - a sort of vocation and being given responsibility in the kitchen. "Responsibility makes one grow, be mature, become an adult," father assured. Perhaps he was right. The more I was given, the more people were dependent on me, the better I performed. Plus, it didn't seem difficult. I was doing something which brought me joy and happiness, it was sweet and creative. How can anybody be unhappy at the sight of a marvelous, delicious cake? It's impossible. Sophia said I was cheerful all the time and smiled for no reason, "as it should be." I didn't even recall I was, normally, such a strange young woman and didn't hear "that girl" whispered for quite some time. Blessed twisted ankle, it revealed to me a true life calling.

But of course nothing could have make me forgot about Dashiell, my true love, the one who brought bitter-sweetness to my life, every second of it, like a backdrop, a secret scenery of my life's stage. No chocolate cake perfection could ever make me forget him. I kept writing love letters. Sometimes I would send love poems, mine or verses from romantic poets, dead long ago, whose words still lived and lingered on our hearts and minds. How quaint one can still survive even though the bones are long gone. That's how I want my love to be. I want it kept safe, somewhere, by some sorcery or act of willful magic, because if it survives it means Dashiell, you, my love, you survive as well - somewhere your memory is preserved.

In my last letter (number 9, I believe) I quoted William Wordsworth.

"And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes."

I wanted my words of affection to be air to him. I wanted Dashiell nourished by my words, my thoughts, my feelings. I don't want - myself - to be oxygen filling his lungs; I desire my love to give him breath. I want my love to be the very air he inhales.

Madness, many would venture call my whims. No. They are not mad. They are mine - and in full I must express its nature. I cannot keep them forever swimming around in my chest, trying to escape. I must release them - I must always confess the magnitude of my love towards Dashiell.

"Fallon? Have you finished the peach pie?"

"Oh? Oh, yes, sorry! My head was somewhere else."

"In the clouds, as usual."

"Yes, sorry. I need to finish the decoration and it's done."

"It smells deliciously! Your pie is different, what do you put on it?"

"A bit of sherry. My grannie's recipe."

"It's like having a piece of heaven swirling in your mouth. Hurry up. I swear, this pie will be gone in minutes."

"Here, it's done."

"Oh my goodness. I could eat it all alone."

And with that he left the kitchen. Within ten minutes the pie was no more. That day I made three more pies, two chocolate cakes, croissants, tarts, orange pudding and scones. The days passed quickly. This one was no different, with one exception.

It was Sophia's birthday and I had promised to bake her favorite cake. Vanilla, nuts and cream. We called it "vanny-nutty-creamy". She'd absolutely devour it. I loved anything with strawberry; she loved anything with nuts and cream.

When Sophia arrived the cake was cooling off.

"Dear Goodness, Fallon! It looks... delicious! Well done. Can I...?"

"No, no," I said. "It's not finished. I need to decorate it and put the buttercream on."

"It looks fine to me."

"No," I said. "After dinner."

Dinner went on nicely. Everyone was relaxed around me.

"You've found your calling," said Mom, happily, her mouth full of "vany-nutty-creamy" cake. "Another one, please. To hell with diet. Thank you, dear," said Mom to Sophia. "Don't you agree, Soph? Fallon has found her calling!"

"Humm, yes, yes, I agree. Oh my goodness, so yummy."

Maybe I did find my calling. Though my other calling was Dashiell. To worship at his altar, so to speak. Lord, that makes me sound so weird.

But worship I do.

I went to bed with a poetry book.

I rather liked William Blake.

"I thought Love liv'd in the hot sun shine,

But he lives in the Moony light!

I thought to find Love in the heat of day,

But sweet Love is the comforter of Night.

Seek Love in the Pity of others' Woe,

In the gentle relief of another's care,

In the darkness of night and the winter's snow,

In the naked and outcast, seek Love there!"

This spoke to me for I care neither of sunshine nor of "heat of day". Love to me is best lived hidden, in the dark, that is its sacred place, where it thrives and grows, developing, increasing its natural sacredness. More and more I believe one shouldn't speak of love - it withers, fades, loses its godly roots, its emotional, sensitive inner thunder exhausts the freshness by simply fading away into the distance. How true love survives in the light of day?, I wonder. Does it not become stale and sour? Does it not stifle and wrinkle? Love needs the unknown, the "moony light", the comfort of the night... Its sacredness is gained, with added strength, in mystery. Perhaps these are, again, silly ideas, foolish notions, and yet something in me desperately murmurs: Protect it. Protect thy love.

My sister says I have more confidence now but I don't think it translates to every aspect of my life.

On my way to work the scent of rain covers the air. Autumn leafs, their racket, gather around my feet as I walk. Some trees are naked, others, though, defiantly wear all leafs, as if this cyclical death was of no meaning to them. Proudly they remained who they were, no matter the changing seasons.

I am equally defiant - only on the inside, hidden from prying eyes.

I wanted to tell Dashiell how much had changed in my life, how happier I was, but I couldn't. The slightest bit of information about me could give away my identity. If he knew, I suspect, though my love would certainly carry on, I could no longer express it, which would rot my soul inside out, I'm sure. In order to thrive it needs to be concealed. Oh but sometimes (sometimes) I wish we could be together, snuggling, sharing each other's dreams. Kissing, hugging... my heart hurts however I know it can never be like that so I must as well accept it.

I nourish my soul with Dashiell's pictures, every day, before falling asleep; I gaze upon his ivory beauty. I've learned to be sneakier. I can now take innumerable pictures of him without being noticed. No one sees my camera; I've devised cleaver ways to hide it. Many times I'm near and he doesn't even notice. I change my appearance with makeup, different hairdos, I even paint my hair with easily wash away colors. Sometimes I wear high heels; in other occasions flat shoes. I even periodically alter the way I smell by using different perfumes and different body washes. Sometimes I take a dog for a walk: always a different dog. I volunteer to take care of my colleagues dogs. Once, I admit, I even stole a rather docile canine and took it with me on my little after work expeditions. I suspect I'm almost as good as a real life spy at camouflaging myself.

And thus a year has passed. I am now eighteen.

Eighteen and in love. Still I haven't confided with Sophia about my feelings. I don't know if I ever will. For now they linger in the dark, undisclosed.

CHAPTER 8

The sky's color was a dim blue. Paleness cut through the day.

Today I had a bad feeling. It was splitting my torso, almost cutting me in two. I hate those feelings, from time to time I get them. They warn of bad events. The beautiful cakes on display on TipTapToeing seemed to have a dimmed shade, the burgundies less strong, the reds presenting a ghostly soft color, and the yellows not as bright as usual. From time to time your dear friends, Dashiell, grace with their presence our humble establishment. Dashiell (you, my life), seldom comes. Why? I don't know. At first I thought maybe he suspects the Admirer to be one of us, the workers, he could even suspect me (though I believe he hasn't actually seen me, I'm always tucked away safely in our minuscule kitchen, the only thing connecting it to the room where the clients eat, drink and talk is a tiny window. No. he has never seen me), Dashiell, I thought for a brief moment you could have suspected me to be the Anonymous Admirer, but quickly I chased away the idiotic thought. No, he doesn't and he never will. When I do see him here, having a nice cup of lemon tea or, even more rarely, an expresso, he talks to his friends, he smiles, but quickly leaves. During the last ten months he has been here a total of four times. My heart races every time I see his friends and colleagues from the ballet company. They are all so beautiful, so imperial. They carry themselves, their bodies, as every human being should - but have long forgotten how. I wish I could walk like that. I would feel almost an equal to Dashiell.

They seemed sad. Strange. They didn't talk much and made very little eye contact to one another. They stayed five minutes and left, somber and defeated.

What was going on?

I shrugged it off. Maybe a colleague had been fired. A quiver pierced my flesh. Oh no, not him. Please God, not him. Fallon, I thought to myself, many times you're paranoid for no reason. Quit it.

After my shift, I walked to where Dashiell caught the bus - and didn't saw him. I did see all the regulars, however not him. Whit a frighten feeling I visited three other places where I knew he could be - there was no trace of him. For two days I searched in the usual spots - and nothing. I did not see him come in, in the ballet company, in the morning, nor did I see him come out. I was trying desperately to ignore the menacing feeling, increasing the more I dismissed it - but I could no longer pretend it wasn't there.

At night, in my room, I went straight to Thomas' blog and some of Dashiell's circle of friend's Facebook pages.

Immediately the reason for such sadness was clear.

Dashiell had had a very serious lesion, during practice. He was training for a new part in "La Bayadere" when he didn't fell right. He was still in hospital, having tests done.

I cried, I was so sad for him! I'm in distress, Dashiell, I feel your pain, I know it. It resides in me. Your agony is mine, it lives in my heart. Oh dear Lord, you have to heal. You have to keep dancing. I know your soul will shatter into a thousand pieces if you cannot dance anymore.

I will pray for you.

With that I decided to write another letter. As usual I numbered it.

«[Letter Number (11)]

My Most beloved Dashiell;

My heart goes out for you. I hear you are hurt and might not dance again. I can't believe it. I know you will always dance, always. I have seen you fly many times on stage. Such splendor cannot be taken away by God. God cherishes your dancing in the most profound and revered manner. Why else would He create you? Why else would He take one of His brightest stars, pluck it away from Heaven, and place it on Earth? It would make no sense God not allowing you to dance. God knows how joyous you are when you're flying, when you're twirling around, like the most perfect bird. Such bliss translates to Him, to us, to the whole world; it causes ripples of contentment piercing through the ugliness of mankind. We cannot see those waves, but they exist, they are there. It is unthinkable the creator would take another source of happiness out from the world. Soon enough we humans would start considering there is no sense in living. No. I cannot believe it. God wants you to keep on flying. You must fly, for your sake, for our sake, for the sake of God Himself, because if not for us, there'd be no use for God's existence.

Forever Yours Amorously,

An Admirer»

I hope my letter gives him faith, builds his trust, a trust in an obscure divine reason. Perhaps he will dance more divinely than ever after the scare. Perhaps...

The next few days I spent on a daze. My mind was somewhere else and twice I mistook salt for sugar.

"Fallon! What is this?! Taste it, taste it!"

I did. My face got deformed.

"Ghastly flavor! What the devil is in the pie?"

"You've made it, you tell me!"

"Oh... wait... gee, I think, I believe I used pepper instead of cinnamon."

"You think?!"

"I'm sorry, I'll do another cinnamon pie."

"No. You come and sit and, and... peel the oranges."

"But..."

"Just peel the oranges, Fallon. Silly girl."

Gretchen walked away, mad. The clients were mad as well. I couldn't focus. The whole week I couldn't focus. My family noticed. Sophia tried talking to me but I said my head hurt and locked myself in the bedroom.

Finally, exactly ten days after his injury, a final verdict came.

I was happy as I began to read Thomas' blog post however the brightness quickly faded away.

Dashiell could never dance again. His lesion was irreversible. He would no more be a ballet dancer.

"No...!" I cried, hastily suffocating my tears and horrified gasp. "No! Oh, Dashiell... oh my love."

I cried myself to sleep, wrapped around his dark-green scarf. How I pitied his soul. How I pleaded God to give me his suffering.

CHAPTER 9

Two weeks passed and I forced myself into "normal gear", so to speak, yet my heart had a hole the size of the moon, a crater unable to heal, for my love was suffering and his sorrows were my own.

I managed to do my work and slowly they allowed me to bake and do some pastry, however I could see them silently praying every time a client would take a bite of a delicious looking cake. I could sense my colleagues silently begging: "Please, let it be sugar, let it be sugar." One occasion I used cayenne pepper by mistake. I was called by the boss, my mother's longtime friend, to her office.

"Another incident," she warned, "and I'll have to let you go, Fallon. Do you understand?"

I nodded yes and my dear colleagues, to protect me (which I did not expect), supervised, along their own chores and duties, every baked cake, every pudding and pie I did. I felt guilty. Gretchen said:

"Shush. When your head isn't up in the clouds you bake the best cakes I've ever tasted. So shut up. We don't want to see you go. No, that's not flour, Fallon. It's rice. Put it back."

So it took me two full weeks to have my mind "back on the game" (so to speak), and still I needed everyone's help.

During that period my ears ringed, they buzzed in a constant, rhythmic way. That buzzing sound accompanied me even in my dreams. It diminished and finally ended when I decided to take a more spiritual approach to my life. Well, not exactly my life but it affected me so... part of my life, one can argue.

I decided to build, in my room, near my bed, a little shrine. However not for me. No, it was devoted to him (to you, my beloved Dashiell). I had angels, all sorts of delightful, beautiful colored crystals (citrine, rose colored quartz, amethyst, others), candles, incense, angel tarot cards. And, hidden away, in a secret spot on my drawer, a picture of him. Every night I take the picture out, place it at the center of the shrine, surrounded by angels of light, little angelic statuettes, colors and gemstones, and I pray to Archangel Michael: Please, please, Michael, heal him. Heal my Dashiell! Help him dance again, help him fly and glide like a bird of paradise! Return his happiness once more! I want to see him perform yet again!

I felt instantly better. Praying for Dashiell made me feel glad and joyful. I felt he should know others are praying for him; that above all medicine there's the Law of God, mightier than anything in the Universe. God and the Angels were healing him, I was sure, and so should he. So I wrote him, letting him know. In the letter number 12 I enclosed a printed pic of the little shrine I had erected in his honor, for his wellbeing and happiness. This will make him glad, I am sure. It will restore him some joy. At least that was my hope.

My heart was lighter. After that I worked as a true professional. My colleagues were relieved and my family smiled again, easily, whenever they saw me.

After a few days I checked Dashiell's twitter friends' accounts. Some spoke of "a crazy chick", stalking a "poor dear ill friend". What? What?! Maybe it's not me, I thought. It's some other person. My heart jumped as I opened three of his friends' Facebook accounts. The same, obscure, narrative. But without a doubt it was about me, Me, the "crazy chick"? How dare they! My heart was bursting in pain when I saw Thomas' blog. "D. was so distraught," I read, "he burnt all the anonymous letters. This person is too insane."

I was livid. All blood left my face. How... could he? How could he?

I cried and cried all night long, and two days in a row after that, Mom called TipTapToeing and they gave me four days off, as a vacation.

"You need it," said Mom, trying not to cry herself. I never told her or Sophia what aggrieved me. I just wept and shivered.

It took me long to recover, more than four days. By the time I went back to TipaTapToeing I was once again a mere dishwasher. I saw in their eyes pity and mistrust. How could they trust an obviously crazy person? What if she - I - put poison "by mistake" next time a pie was baked? What if, what if, what if. "That girl", the half-muttered whisper, returned, and I swear it was even being murmured by the walls, the corners, the ceiling, even the furniture - all of them whispering about me, my foolishness, my mental distress and palpable madness. I saw it, I sensed it. My heart shrilled a little further, digging a deep hole on my chest. My confidence, easily gained on the merits of sweetness, flew away, for it was a caged bird and it belonged in the wild, not inside me. My previous confidence was no more than an exquisite, exotic lie. A lie I told myself - unconsciously - and other believed it for they wanted to feel better.

That girl. That girl. THAT GIRL.

I couldn't take it anymore. I broke the last dish, the shattering sound was so loud it jolted me. I trembled. Someone screamed: "Fallon, what have you done this time?!" The words were so loud, rude, grotesque and so full of anger that I could not take it any longer. I flew away, I took off, like that caged bird. I ran to the street, didn't take anything, my bag, my coat, nothing, and ran all the way home.

Later I was told they brought my stuff home, along with the last paycheck. The doctor came (my "head doctor" so to speak) and I was sedated. When I began to wake up, after another week or so, my parents and sister insisted I should exercise. Mom would take me to the pool and Sophia would jog with me five times a week. Almost every day I had to endure cricket with Dad. I went along, to please them, and slowly, bit by bit, I pulled myself from hell's pit, a deep abyss of desperation to which I seemed to fall way, way too easily.

My heart still wore that ghastly gash, almost an insignia proving it had loved - and lost (as if love was a battle. Sometimes I believe it is. The most grisly, horrendous type, the kind where I'm never a glorious victor). In love, no, I'm not a victor.

Until finally, after recovering emotionally for some time, I gathered the courage to look up Dashiell online. Though he had broken my heart without even know it - I missed him and cared for him still.

Thomas published a photo of his friend. "On location." Location? I scrolled down and read the text. Dashiell was offered a small movie part. It took three weeks to film. It was a low budget movie. The set was in... Texas. Texas?!

He's in Texas?! Wait, wait. Let's read this better.

Dashiell went to Texas, did the movie and, instead of returning, he decided to stay. Stay?!

Oh my God, he moved to Hollywood!

He got and agent!

Dashiell lives in Los Angeles now!

No, no, no! He must come back! He must return to me! NO, NO, NO! Dashiell cannot stay, it's too far away from me, it's too distant!

I must be strong, I must!

With my heart beating almost through my chest, I sat down and wrote another letter (number 13), pleading, begging him to return. "Please, please, come back home to me, please! I cannot see you every day, my heart breaks and mourns for you. How can I live if I do not see your beautiful ivory face each day? Return to me, I beg of you."

I simply signed it A. (standing for Admirer). But where to send it?

I did a google search and quickly found his agent's name along with a public address. I sent the letter there. And then I awaited a response in the form of Social Media, blog post or whatever.

This time the only answer was deafening silence.

But, after a few weeks (and after discovering who his new L. A. friends were), on a twitter account of some (unknown) actor, I saw a picture of Dashiell and his new friend, raising two glasses of beer. The tweet read: "Meet Dashiell. He's got a stalker and isn't even famous!"

Stalker.

Stalker.

I closed my laptop.

So this is my reputation now: that of a stalker. I've loved you for a year and you call it "stalking". It is not. It's loving expression taking form in a letter. A lost art, an art our grandparents used and is today gone. So we call it by other names mistakenly. I, Fallon, am not a stalker. My love is true and dear, Dashiell. If I could rip my heart from my ribcage and give it to you, still bleeding, to replace the one you've lost \- I would. And I would do it anonymously. No one ever would hear of my sacrifice or of my love. It is pure and it is secret. And it is forever sacred.

Sacred, Dashiell, as your eyes and beautiful face are to me.

All of this heartbreak made my heart put up a concrete wall around it. I have mulled over and, upon reflection, it is clear to me what my actions should be.

My parents won't like it.

Sophia will not be pleased, however I see no other choice, no other possibility presents itself to me with tremendous, obvious clearness. A clear path is open in front of me, and I must follow it. It connects with my soul's way and with its life-long lessons.

That same day I started my preparations.

CHAPTER 10

I have my passport in order, last time I used it was about sixteen months ago, in a quick family trip.

I'll follow Dashiell to Hollywood. And that's that. There's no other course of action left. If I don't see him, if I'm not near him I'll simply perish. It's impossible for me to breathe if I don't see Dashiell. He is my breath, my life, my sight, my skin, my everything. I cannot go on without him. If I were to stay I'd quickly succumb, my body fading away as if it were made of clouds.

I quickly check my bank account to see what kind of money I have. I don't usually spend all that much. Pretty much the moment it's deposited I forget about it and practically don't use it. I have no rent to pay and, when I didn't eat at TipTapToeing, I ate at home. Mom's a wonderful cook. So was granny.

Oh. Better than I expected. I'm not rich but I do have some savings. Plus I have another account Mom and Dad setup for me a long time ago. I'm eighteen and can access it. I have to my name more than ten thousand... I know there's another account but to access those funds I would need Dad's signature - pretty sure that's not going to happen any time soon.

"What are you doing?"

Oh my God. It's Sophia. I didn't see her come in. I left the door open, thinking I'd be alone. Sophia has a key to our house and is frequently here. Why didn't I hear the front door open?

"I'm, I'm..." I desperately searched for a reason in my astonished and choked mind. Just come up with a good lie!

I suppose my eyes were the size of puppies when I faced Sophia and spoke.

"Catering."

"Excuse me? Why are you looking at your bank account? Dearie, I didn't even knew you had so much money."

She looked worried and also a bit mad.

"I'm thinking... I'm thinking... no, it's silly, really."

"Go on. Do tell."

"I'm considering opening my own catering business. Specialized on cakes, pies, pastry. Anything sweet. You know, for parties and such."

My heart was racing, my eyes goggled, I was doing my best to hide the shivering hand on my lap.

"Everybody loves sweets," I continued, my voice stuttering slightly. But I had to keep going with this little \- and essential - charade. If I didn't lie in a convincing way they'd cut all access to my funds and lock me away again and maybe this time for good. Lie, Fallon, lie - or you'll never see Dashiell again. You won't see his beautiful, candid face, you won't be near him and smell his after shave, you won't hear his sweet voice ever again. If you don't persuade Sophia, now, your life and any happiness will end forever. Forever and ever and ever. So I commanded my heart to be calm and faced my wonderful, caring sister's gaze with the most honest smile available to me. I saw her eyes confused for a moment, but immediately after she smiled too and seemed relieved. I knew what she was thinking: that she was being paranoid and she should trust her little sister. So I helped her along those lines of thought.

"I like to bake and... and... I was thinking: what if I open my own shop? I mean not an actual shop, at least not right away. I could start from home and use our kitchen. But there're appliances to buy and the cost of opening up a business, you know, taxes and such. So I was seeing if I had the money. Turns out - I do!"

I faked the happy tone. Sophia was still hesitant but I seemed to have persuaded her.

"That's an excellent idea, Fallon. I praise your enterprising spirit. It's a very good idea. Creating your own job! Dad's going to be pleased. In fact I'll help you. Cook, bake, clean, whatever. I'll be your slave!"

She chuckled. "I mean, I'll be you servant. You'll be the boss. Whatever you say, I'll do."

"Clean those pans!"

"Right away, ma'am!"

We both laughed. Oh God, I needed a laugh. This was going well.

"You have found your path, Fallon."

Clearly she was happy with her little sister. And relieved. "I can see it. You will fulfill your soul's desires."

"Golly, that sort of talk doesn't seem altogether rational" I said, in a jesting tone.

"Oh hush, girl. I'm so glad, so glad for you. My little sister. You always had a creative spirit. This is just the job for you."

And she hugged me and cried a little.

"Sophia..."

"Sorry, sorry. Wait 'till I tell Mom and Dad!" She reached for her purse and grabbed her cellphone.

"No, no! Not yet, I mean. Let me, let me... figure out this stuff better, come up with a reasonable plan and then we'll talk to Mom and Dad, all right?"

"A reasonable plan. You sound so grownup."

And she hugged me once more.

"Sophia, I can't breathe."

"Oh, sorry. All right, when you're ready we'll tell Mom and Dad."

"Thank you."

When Sophia left (after we spent over an hour researching juicers, blenders, mixers, ovens, cooking pans, scales, wooden spoons, spatulas, cutting boards, saucepans and knives), I quickly put my real plan in motion. I had to hurry and do all I needed to do rapidly. Sophia showing up delayed my leaving. I could leave tomorrow instead of today, but no, the longer I delay, the worst it is. Something else might happen, making me stuck here forever. It needs to be today. I had my passport out of sight when Sophia entered my room, luckily. Or else there would be no end to the questioning and probing of my intentions. I took my backpack, put my laptop in it, my diary, the copies of the letters I had written Dashiell, his scarf and the album I made with his pictures; on the suitcase I put some clothes, my camera, a pair of shoes and that was basically it. I grabbed my coat, put away the passport on an inside pocket, along with my cellphone and my debit card. A few minutes ago I transferred all my available funds into my primary bank account.

And with that I left, closing my bedroom door and, finally, the front door to the house I expected not see for years to come. I knew I was hurting my parents and sister. Not my friends - for I had none. It was me and my beloved family. That was it - it had been "it" for years. And now I was breaking their hearts. A shiver of guilt passed through my bones and I felt as if I was a glass breaking, cracking into dozen of pieces, scattered all over the ground. But I had, I simply had to. If I were to stay I'd die of a broken heart myself.

I had to go.

I hailed a cab and said: "To the airport, please," and with those words sealed my fate.

In the airport I bought a ticket to the first plane heading Los Angeles - it was due in a few minutes. I raced to catch it. My heart beating, fearing I would lose it.

I went past security rather quickly and ran into the sleeve leading to the plane. I was the last person boarding.

When I sat I was out of breath.

"Almost didn't catch it, hey?"

The passenger who spoke was a middle aged man with an Aussie accent. I couldn't speak, I was so tired. I just smiled and leaned back. It was the first day of my life. The first ever worth living. Not one before was as deserving - and I am sorry for saying - writing this - the thing is I never felt so alive before (except, of course, for the day I fell in love with Dashiell).

Yes, this is the first day of my life. My dawn. My rebirth.

A jolt runs through my body as I remember something which had slipped my mind, I was so busy leaving home. Before the plane takes off, and with my bags tucked away, taken care off, I grabbed my cellphone, turning it off completely. Then I felt the plane lift off. It was though as if I was on the roller-coaster. It felt like it always feels when I'm around Dashiell.

After the seatbelt sign turned off I went to the lavatory and washed my face. I'd wait an hour, perhaps two, before calling Sophia to tell her about my intentions. I had to make damn sure the plane wouldn't turn back. If it did that was it, loony house for me indefinitely. I was scared of her, and Mom and Dad's reaction, but at the same time I did not want any of them to suffer on account of me, not knowing where I was, going bonkers trying to locate me, thinking the most terrible things, that I had an accident or had been kidnapped. I had no wish to cause such dreadful misery to my wonderful, loving family.

I could not, I loved them too much.

So, after two hours, I "bit the bullet", turned my phone on and called my sister.

CHAPTER 11

"Where Are you?! I've been calling and calling and you didn't answer! Your cell was turned down!" Sophia had desperation in her voice. I could feel and hear it. My guilt almost overwhelmed me.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I replied, my heart beating as fast as a drum and my hands shivering.

"You're fine? Where are you then? Tell me, I'll go straight to pick you up. Mom almost had a fit when she couldn't find you anywhere, Fallon! Is there something wrong with your phone, did it ran out of battery? My goodness, I've been meaning to get you a new one, but kept forgetting."

"I'm fi-fine. The phone is fine. Tell Mom I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset her."

"Well you did. You can't just run off and not tell us where you're going, Fallon, you know that. We worry."

"I know, I know. I'm so-sorry."

I heard a sigh and Sophia continued.

"Well, never mind that now. The important thing is you're all right. You're ok, aren't you? Nothing happened, did it?"

"No, no. Everything's fine and I'm ok. I'm really, really ok. Please, don't worry about me. I'm fine, I promise."

"I have to worry, I'm the big sister!"

I felt a hint of reproach in my sister's voice though it was the sort of thing she tried to hide (she didn't agreed with nagging nor scolding).

"Just tell me where you are, I'll pick you up."

I gulped, my heart increasing its beat. I was becoming a nervous wreck.

"Oh, and on our way home, we can check a store selling the sort of tools you'll need. A coworker happened to mention it. Don't worry, I haven't leaked your secrets."

Sophia laughed nervously.

"Where are you? I'll be right over."

"Crossing the Atlantic Ocean."

There was a silence on the other side of the line. Then Sophia bursts out laughing.

"Oh dear heavens, you're funny. I forget sometimes you're funny. I have a hilarious sister! When you were four I used to film you all the time, you made us all laugh. Oh, I miss those days. I know!, we'll see the home movies again... if I can remember where I put them. Never mind! So, where to?

After another gulp I, again, stated my location.

"Above the Atlantic Ocean. Probably not the middle of it but getting close."

There was another silence.

The storm was coming, I could sense it.

"Fallon," said Sophia in an angry, low voice, "that's Not funny. I have no time for this. I have to collect the kids. Look, we'll talk when we're together. Tell me where you are!"

"On a plane. Going to America."

"Fa-Fallon. Don't play around with me."

"I'm on a plane right now. They're serving drinks. An orange juice, please, thank you. It was the flight stewardess, she just served me orange juice."

"Fallon! Don't joke around! You are Not on a plane. Fallon, tell me where you are this instant!"

I sighed.

"On a plane heading Los Angeles."

After a silence I added.

"I'm going to live in Hollywood," I said, my heart no longer racing. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, I was afraid none of you would like or would even let me go. So I decided just to take my chances and simply get on the first plane and leave."

"Oh my God. Oh my God, my God, my God! You're not kidding." Sophia was crying and whispering. I could hear her teary voice. "You are really on a plane! Oh my God, my God!"

I heard her pace. Mentally I saw Sophia shaking her free hand. She had a nervous tick and always did that in distressful situations.

"Ok, ok. This, this is what we'll do. You'll... you'll land. You're on a plane, nothing to fix that, it's done; however the minute, the instant it lands you get yourself on another plane and head right back home, you hear me, young lady?! Right Back Home!"

An awkward quietness was yet again present and Sophia broke it, saying:

"Fallon, Fallon, I'm sorry, I apologize for shouting. I'm, we will not be mad at you. I promise, I swear, you are not in trouble. Just, please, you need to return to us, you need to come home. Please, Fallon, we love you. Think of Mom and Dad. They'll be heartbroken, they love, I love you! Fallon, don't you love us too? Fallon... are you there? Please answer, please...!" She started crying again.

"Yes, I'm here. I, I love you, I swear. Sophia, don't cry. I'm happy. This is exactly where I should be. For the first time I Am following my soul's path, I am! Don't you want me to be happy?"

"I, I do but... please, come back. Promise me you'll come right back, please! For our parents sake! I promise, I promise I'll take you to America, just you and me, the two of us. I have two weeks of vacation, we'll go together, I swear! This year! In a couple of months. It will give us time to setup a proper trip. We'll stay in a five star hotel. We'll have the best service, the best time! I promise! Do I ever lie to you?"

"No..." which was true, she didn't. So every word coming out of her mouth I could trust.

Or could I?

"Do you have a place to stay?" She asked, sniffling. Other sounds informed me she was drying up her tears.

"No," I admitted.

"See! See, you don't even... it's dangerous. You don't even know where you'll sleep tonight. God knows where you might end up! Please, come home, we'll see America together, I promise, but the right way. The safe way. Fallon, Fallon, are you there?"

"Yes."

"I'm checking the flights right now."

"Sophia..."

"There! The first one thirty minutes after your land in Los Angeles International Airport is a flight heading Paris. You'll take it. In Paris we'll figure it out. You'll take another flight, or even better, I'll meet you there. I'll fly to Paris, we stay there for a weekend, in our cousin's house, see the Eiffel Tower, go to the best restaurants, have an adventure! Fallon, doesn't this sound like fun? Fallon...?"

"Sophia," I replied after a silence. I was getting mad and hurt at her insistence, "I'm not going back, I'm staying in Hollywood."

"Oh, really?!" and now she was irate. "And how will you live?! On what?! Ten thousand doesn't get you far! It might seem like a lot, but, puff!, it vanishes in three weeks! I know, I have friends who went and were out of money quicker than a sneeze."

"A sneeze...?" I laughed.

"Yes, laugh! Fallon, this is a serious matter! People are not kind where you're going. It's a dog eat dog world, you won't be protected. What if something happens, who do you turn to? Who do you call?! We're all away across the world! Fallon, please, be reasonable, please. Please, come home!"

The sense of urgency in her voice was increasing.

"No," I replied, rather assertively. "I'm not. I'm sorry. I have to go now, I'll call when I land. Goodbye."

"Wait!"

I turned off the phone and her voice quickly dwindled.

More than anything the conversation had secured and strengthened my resolve. I was tired of being seen - and treated - as a weakling, a shadow of a self who should be guarded from the world and its truest nature, or else this shadow dissipates!

I am not a specter, a ghost. I am neither a cloud nor a newly born infant.

I am Fallon and I deserve to experience life.

We landed and I took my bags. I walked to the exit and remembered I had to call Sophia. It had been hours since we last talked. I hoped she had had time to cool down and, as so many times Sophia stated, took the "higher view", the "higher perspective" and let her emotional reaction embrace a backseat.

I hesitated. No, I'll wait until I'm on a taxi then I'll call. However something weird happened. The moment I and the other passengers were exiting the terminal I saw a huge poster bearing my name. The woman holding it was unknown to me, though there was some kind of resemblance which seemed familiar somehow. I approached her carefully. Maybe it wasn't me. Fallon was a, more or less, common name in these parts.

"Are you looking for me?" I asked the woman.

"Are you Fallon, Sophia's sister?"

My eyes widened.

"Yes..." For a moment I was scared. Did she call the cops? Did Sophia ask the authorities to intervene? I hoped not however I was prepared to fight. I was eighteen and had a Visa. There was no way I was leaving! The stranger, seeming to guess my thoughts, put my mind at ease.

"I'm Bethany. Sophia and I were classmates. At fifteen I left, my parents moved to Sweden. I seldom talk to Sophia but we still keep in touch. She called me a few hours ago and told me you were coming. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you! You've grown. Do you remember me? You were tiny, a little doll. A puppet. We used to dress you up in costume, do you remember that?"

I nodded no but indeed I had a few recollections. She was a skinny little girl, I remember that much, and her hair color was different. And her... assets (to put it mildly) were altogether... different. Not so... developed.

"I married a plastic surgeon, can you tell?"

And she wobbled her upper torso in a comical way. I giggled.

"So, got everything? This is your entire luggage?"

"Yes."

"Have you called your sister already, letting her know you've arrived safely?"

"I'm doing it now. Almost forgot."

"This is going to be so much fun! I have loads of ideas! We'll have a blast!"

"Yes..." I said, nervously while I called Sophia. She took the call immediately.

"Fallon, Fallon! Is that you? Have you land?"

There was still urgency in her voice but I sensed no tears. She was much more calm, collected and in control.

"Yes, I have. Everything went fine and I've just met a dear friend of yours: Bethany."

I heard a sigh of relief.

"Oh good. She arrived on time. I was afraid she'd miss you. You're going to stay with her. Do you understand? No buts or ifs about it."

"Yes. She seems nice. She seems fun."

"Hand the cell over to her. I want to talk to her for a moment."

I did as my sister requested.

"Hello, Sophia! So glad to hear you again! Yes, she looks fine. Yes, really calm," and then Bethany quickly glanced at me. "I swear, she looks lovely. Very calm. Rested. You have a beautiful sister." After she stopped talking and just listened. "Right. Right. Yes. Absolutely. You can trust me. Yes, yes you can. I'll take good care of her. I promise. I'll be her guardian angel. All right, cheers! Here," Bethany handed me back the phone, smiling.

"Fallon? Hello?"

"I'm here."

"So, you stay with Bethany, understand?"

"I understand."

"Puts my mind at ease, at least we'll know where you are. I trust her. She is a good friend. And you do as she tells you, do you understand? She knows the region better, so you'll follow what Bethany says to a T. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course."

Fat chance of that. I already had plans but first I had to settle and then go about my intentions.

"Ok. All right. I trust you, Fallon, to do the right thing. Don't prove me wrong."

"I won't."

"Good. Mom's here, she wants to talk to you."

The phone was passed and suddenly my concerned, teary eyed mother was talking.

"Oh Fallon! What have you done!"

After a few whispers her speech changed.

"I want you to know I love and support you in all your endeavors. We all love you, we do. Please, come home."

I wanted to reassure Mom so I fibbed a little:

"Eventually I will. Don't worry. I'm in safe hands."

"How can I not worry, Fallon? Just this morning you were in your bed! And now you're on the other side of the world!"

"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt any of you, I swear. Please tell Dad I'm sorry."

"I will. Remember, we all adore and treasure you."

"I love you too."

Not much was said after and the call ended. Shortly after we arrived at Bethany's house. She drove us in her pink Porsche (she called it "Portia". I had no idea cars could be named).

The house was a mansion.

"I'll show you your room. Leave the bags. Eduardo will bring them. Eduaaaaardoo! Ah, there you are. Come on, you'll love your room!"

She took my hand and we ran up the stairs. After a long, luxurious hallway we entered the chamber.

She wasn't kidding.

We almost could fit our entire house in such grandiose space. It was gigantic, it had a king sized bed (with curtains!), a verandah overlooking an enormous pool and its own bathroom - with a bathtub and a separate shower.

"Oh my God, it's so big!"

"It's our guestroom suite. All for you. You can stay as long as you like."

"Thank you," I said, turning to her. Unexpectedly she embraced me with such strength I could hardly breathe.

"I'm so happy you're here. We'll have so much fun! I have a surprise for you," she whispered and then led me by the hand to another room.

It was filled with clothes, more precisely, with costumes.

"See? We can dress up! You'll love it!"

My heart stumped for a moment. I had to get my act together fast or I'd be stuck on "make believe Lalaland". Out of the blue the front door made a sound.

"It's Sven, my husband. Go, take a look. I'll come right back."

I suppose she didn't have time to explain her crazy sister's friend yet. When I did meet Sven I saw a stark contrast between his grave and stern demeanor and his wife's bursting joviality. He greeted me with cordiality and, I could clearly see it, kindness. I liked him.

During dinner I was asked what I wanted to see, what types of places I'd wish to go first. I realized where they were leading the conversation. Essentially I was being told it was merely a vacation and nothing further. However I knew damn well what I wanted. So, without exactly explaining what it was, I replied I was quite interested in the restaurants.

"Hmm. To see the type of food we have? We have all sorts here. You'd be surprised."

"Right. I want to... experience the food here. The cuisine," I said to Bethany. This lying thing was getting easier by the minute.

"I know just where to take you. Tomorrow. If you're up to it."

"I am! First thing in the morning."

"How about ten a.m.?"

"Ok."

Bethany laughed, Sven smiled a little. Though he appeared nice I could see concern in his face.

I was afraid Sophia would show up and try to bring me home, however, that night before bed, when I called her (it was dawn there, I believe) I found out she couldn't go anywhere, her job wasn't safe, if she just took off she'd face disciplinary action and be fired with no benefits. That relieved me a bit. Dad couldn't come either, there was a doctor's shortage and others on strike, and Mom was too much of a wreck to make a trip. So, basically, for the time being, I was more or less safe. But I needed one more thing before establishing myself completely.

A job.

And a job I would get tomorrow.

*

Bethany started by showing me Woman's Clothing and Accessories shops and also the jewelry stores, however after an hour I begged her:

"Can we go see the restaurant area, please?"

"Oh, all right. We'll leave fun for later. Come along then."

There was a whole street filled with bistros, eateries, restaurants, espresso bars, serving from gourmet type of nourishment to supposedly "cheaper" food.

My eye caught one place, seemingly less flashy, it had a black facade and the customers inside where not easily seen, appearing to be more like shadows. I grabbed Bethany's hand and we ran.

"Let's try this one."

"Wow, girl. You know how to pick them."

We entered and sat almost immediately. It resembled somewhat TipTapToeing. I liked the atmosphere though it was rather classy and chic in a very unassuming, modest way.

This one, I thought to myself. I'll work here.

I excused myself almost straightaway to go to the lavatory, and then I searched for an office. I saw a door unmarked, I knocked and heard:

"Come in."

I did. A forty year old woman, tall, with long amber hair, possessing a professional appearance was sitting at a desk going through papers. Even though she was sitting down I could notice her extreme stature. Later I learned she was 6.2, always wore stilettos and had been a model.

"Are you lost?" she asked.

"No," I replied, entering, "I'm where I'm meant to be," and without being invited I sat in front of her and held out my hand to greet her. "Hi. I'm Fallon Newhaven."

She leaned back, looking at me funny and then laughed in a quiet manner. She accepted my hand, her fingers were long, the nails painted in dark brown, and told me her name.

"Theresa. Nice to meet you, Fallon. What can I do for you?"

"You can give me a job," I answered. My heart wasn't beating hard, surprisingly enough. I felt in control.

"And why should I do that?" she asked in a calm manner. Her legs were crossed and she seemed nice, though curious.

I took out my smartphone and showed her several files I had.

"Why am I looking at pictures of cakes and pies?"

"I made those. All of them. You can count them. It's more than a hundred and..."

"I can see that. They look lovely. They appear to be delicious."

"They are. Hire me. I can do this and more."

Theresa looked straight at me and handed me back the phone.

"I'll think about it."

As I sat there in silence she looked down to her papers and told me goodbye. While I was walking towards the door I thought of something else.

"You can pay me under the table. Off the books."

"We do that to everyone."

"Oh..." I sighed and looked down. No matter. There were other restaurants and coffee bars. I opened the door to leave and suddenly heard:

"You start tomorrow, Fallon."

"Oh my God, thank you! Thank you!"

"Yes, all right. Six a.m. Be on time."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied and ran to Bethany. I found her looking for me in the lavatory.

"Where the devil were you?! I was worried sick!"

"I was getting a job," I declared, giddy, and smiling openly.

"What, what?"

"I got a job working here. I start tomorrow at six a.m."

"How, how?! You were gone no more than five minutes! What?! Oh my God, what am I going to tell your sister?!"

"No worries. I'll talk to her."

Bethany seemed positively frightened. That very night the conversation with Sophia wasn't pleasant. For the first time in, well, ever, she truly lost her temper, and demanded me to come home "or else".

"Or else what? I asked, defiantly.

She sighed in anger.

"Pass the phone to Bethany."

Bethany said she was sorry, she lost sight of me for less than five minutes and that I had showed up, grinning, claiming I had a job! Apparently Sophia was extremely disappointed with Bethany. Bethany stood up and said, assertively:

"Well, she's eighteen, she's a grown woman and capable of making her own decisions. I can't keep her on a leash!"

Sven smiled while he read the newspaper on his tablet.

Everything was more or less settled and Sophia hung up, still exasperated with me.

Sven, however, during our late supper, expressed astonishment on how quick I had gotten a job. Finally, before we all retired for the night, he added:

"You'll do just fine in Hollywood. Eduardo will drive you tomorrow."

"Thank you!"

I was so very, very happy!

Dashiell, I'm so very near you, my heart can sense your heartbeat.

CHAPTER 12

«[Letter Number Fourteen (14)]

Dearest Dashiell;

I know you've rebuilt your professional life and have embarked in a career as an actor. I support that. I support your efforts and talent. Your creativity has many levels and I am sure you are a wonderful actor. I remember you dancing, how you'd impersonate splendidly the character you were playing.

I wish you all the luck in the world and leave you with my faith.

Yours, lovingly,

An Admirer»

I sent the letter to his new agent address. It was public and right there on the page but eventually I'll find where his actual address is.

I have been working at Blackie Rest (noir-VER!) for a while, a few weeks. It's long hours, little pay and I love every minute of it. I'm so busy I don't have time to be sad. I decided I was, am, constructing a new life, a new me. I also decided to say 'Yes' to everything it was asked of me on my job. That resulted in working well over twelve hour days. Bethany wasn't very happy because I had no time for her, the moment my head hits the pillow I fall asleep. Every morning Eduardo would take me to Blackie Rest and every evening he would drive me home. He was a seventy year old Mexican man, who didn't talk much (or at all). It was very weird being driven to work in a burgundy Continental Bentley. I found it amusing. Sophia, nonetheless, was not amused. A few more weeks and she'd be there "for a visit". She didn't like my long working hours.

"It's not good for your health," she'd state.

"I never felt so alive! And so happy!" it was my usual reply.

"You're an illegal. You'll get in trouble."

"They don't care."

The conversations with Sophia were getting harsher. Mom seemed to accept better my present situation and Dad, secretly, in a hush, would say to me: "I'm proud of you, Fallon. Proud," before hanging up.

Sophia was the only who still had a problem with my new life.

"You can't stay with Bethany forever!" she'd state.

"You can stay with us, Fallon, as long as you want," would reply Sven at dinner time (when I was there), unprovoked even though the subject was altogether different. He and his wife would exchange looks which spoke of their support to me.

"Why don't you have children, Bethany?" I asked her once.

"We can't. I mean, I can't."

"But do you want to?"

She shrugged.

"Eventually. We'll get a surrogate mother or adopt, one day. I'm still too young."

"Ah..." I said. She seemed genuinely content.

"Come on, I have a great new costume! Cinderella! You'll try it on!"

"No..."

"Go on!"

If it made her happy it was a simply thing to do - so I put on the outfit and we took pictures.

"I studied to be a photographer, did you know?"

"No. They seem excellent."

"They are splendid. One day I'll have an exhibition!"

These little costume parties seldom happened because most of the time I was working. Bethany would love nothing more to dress me up all day and take photos. At work I did everything from cooking, cleaning to serving the customers. And when I was home I'd curl up in my king size bed and watch Dashiell in his series. It was a long time detective series, it had more than ten years running, and he was a new character. He's great with accents and played a drug addict, turned informant. Meanwhile, in between, he would be in indie movies. So, like me, Dashiell was working long-hours for very little pay. I was so proud.

One day a wonderful thing happened.

A miracle.

He walked into Blackie Rest.

I think I broke a plate. Yes. I did, I did, I broke a plate.

I don't think he even noticed. I was behind the counter and not serving on tables. I cleaned the mess as quickly and discreetly as I could, while observing him.

The scent of peach filled the air. He sat down with another man whom I recognized as his agent. They were talking.

"Fallon?"

I jerked up, hiding my face.

"Peach pie, where is it?"

"The-there," I pointed.

"A client wants a piece. I swear, Fallon, you do the best pies."

"My granny's recipe," I replied, smiling and pleased (it wasn't. I merely googled the recipe and gave it my own original twist).

"It's fab," she praised and walked to Dashiell's table. His smile was riveting. So enticing, so open and honest - so mesmerizing. My heart could never forget how the light picked his face to rest. I saw his eyes, how deep and black they were. The hair was different though, spiked. I didn't like it but I assume the part asked for such a look.

On my one day off (some of my colleagues, longtime workers, have the privilege of having two days off. I don't complain) I work for a catering company. We go from set to set, serving all sorts of food. I learned the difference between Thai, Korean, Chinese food, along with Spanish, Greek and Hungarian delicacies. So it opened up my palate (so to speak).

In two different occasions I saw Dashiell on location. The first was on the set of the detective show; the second time was when he was hanging around with a friend, an actor working in a sci-fi series. Both times it was only a glimpse and he quickly left the sets. On one of those occasions I heard a fellow actor saying he "had a date". Every time I see him my heart goes to stratosphere. I learned how to wear makeup in order to disguise my flushed face.

Sometimes I tell Bethany I am working late even though that isn't the case. I take those few hours to go and see Dashiell, in indie film presentations, charity events, anything where he might be present. I always wear disguises and Bethany's masks and costumes help a lot.

At night, secretly, I look at my picture book with Dashiell's images. I bought a tiny safe to guard it and so far I've hid it well in my room (even though the maid goes in to clean from time to time).

It has been long since I've written him a letter. It's two a.m. and by five thirty I have to be up.

Wrapped around in his dark-green scarf, I begin...

«[Letter Number Fifteen (15)]

My Most Beloved Dashiell;

«Thro' all eternity to prove

Thy Nature, and Thy Name is Love.»

(Charles Wesley)

I will, I would, spend all eternity proving my love to you and if even after all eternity you still didn't believe me - I would believe my life - and eternity - well spent and worth living. Alexander Pope wrote: "Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?"

I hope not.

I hope you forgive me for this, for my adoration. Will you? Dare I ask you to? Fear it not, my love is quiet, silent, obscure, anonymous, serene - to a point - and, most importantly, everlasting.

My heart and will is forever yours. Even though you don't see it, I have given, fully, my heart to you.

I've seen your new works. In acting you are getting better and better. Should one conclude you've been taking acting lessons? If you are then I must deduce you possess the most wonderful teachers. Your talent shines through better with their help. My soul flies to you at night, while I sleep. I see you in my dreams.

Until my next letter, I say farewell.

An Admirer»

CHAPTER 13

Conrad Heather is a regular client on Blackie Rest. He's a tall, posh man, very proper and courteous. Someone has told me he was a "Hungarian raised in Wales." He was in his seventies, very well-dressed, wearing extremely discreet and expensive shoes (for some reason now I notice everyone's shoes, no idea why, maybe it's Bethany's influence, she could have a PHD in Shoezoology). His face showed his true age and, I believed, every wrinkle was to him as a badge of honor gained at never-ending life's battles. His face seemed always to be judging others in a not very well hidden sarcastic way. I did dread him although not entirely. His remarks seemed to spare me. He noticed, I suppose, some fragility and had no wish to break what probably seemed a feeble individual. I was getting stronger, more sure of myself each passing day, though, inside, I still felt something tender, unable to cope with life.

"My dear Fallon," he greeted as I approached his table, "what do you recommend today? But, careful, I'm watching my figure," he said while resting his big hand on his very flat stomach. His voice was always deep, accompanied by an ironic tone.

"Cherry pie with rice gelato," I said, smiling, hiding my teeth. It was a bit difficult not to like him.

"Cherry pie it is."

Other times he picks pancakes with coffee and even caviar.

"We have caviar?" I asked a coworker the first time I heard such request.

"Girl, we have everything. They ask, we have it. Even dog."

"Do-dog?!"

My coworker chuckled. Joey, hearing the dialogue, intervened.

"Shayna's joking. Don't listen to her. We only have cat. For our Asian customers."

I must have looked dismayed. They burst laughing.

"Oh girl. Look at her eyes, as big as houses. You got some eyes on you. Don't you agree, Joey?"

"I never notice woman's eyes. Oh, this pecan pie is diviiiine. Who made it?"

"Fallon."

"It's heaven."

We did in fact had all sorts of foods available and I learned to cook many different types of plates.

When I had this conversation I saw Conrad Heather for the first time. The light in his eye impressed me, it was if he knew people's darkest secrets. I wondered if he was a Scorpio as well.

I brought cherry pie and gelato to Conrad when, out of the blue, someone rushed in, seemingly late for something. As I was on my way back to behind the counter I felt paralyzed and almost lost my tray.

It was Dash. He requested coffee to go and exited immediately. The event took less than two minutes. I ordered my muscles to move and, with my heart in my mouth, put the tray away and tried to disguise my bewilderment as much as I could.

"Everything all right?"

I turned to see Theresa with a frowned look.

I gulped and said yes, everything was fine. She checked a few things and went into the kitchen. So far I managed, with all my might, to conceal my weirdness. I could not afford to lose this job, no way in hell, it would mean I had to leave Hollywood and never see Dashiell again. I knew for a fact it would kill me, it would bring me death.

No. I choose life. I choose Dashiell.

Conrad Heather was staring at me with an almost unnoticeable grin. A shiver went through my body. Something warned me he had just guessed something.

As I approached him his grin got bigger.

Oh brother.

"Oh, to be young again..." he said, smoothly, then gave me a very big tip and left saying:

"See you tomorrow, Fallon."

I felt an enormous fear. I felt he had just discovered my secret platonic passion.

That night I hardly slept.

CHAPTER 14

I got an already scheduled skype call.

"Hi Mom."

"Fallon, you keep getting skinnier and skinnier. You'll catch your death."

"I'm just working hard."

"You need to eat! You're not eating properly."

"I am, I am." I wasn't.

Sophia leaned over and I saw her worried face.

"You need to come home, Fallon. You can't be there forever."

"I'm staying," I reiterated in a flat tone of voice. "My life is here now and I feel good."

"Good? Look at you, you're skin and bone! You're not eating again, are you?"

Sophia seemed disturbed. Always, lately, the same talk. That I'm not eating, that I'm way too skinny, I'm getting ill, I look pale, blah-blah. I rolled my eyes and showed them a big bowl containing a giant, fat cinnamon cookie, covered in strawberries and cream. I swear you could feed a small village with that. I took a big spoon, filled it and pushed it to my mouth, making pleasure sounds.

"Oh, soooo goooood! Oh, my Lord, it tastes Heaveeeenly! Hmm, hmmm!"

"Delightful. Quite charming," uttered Sophia, hardly amused. Behind her, out of sight, I heard laughter. I recognized it immediately.

"Dad's there? I thought he was working."

"No, I took the day off," he declared, occupying Sophia's place in front of the computer. "You do look thin, Fallon. You need to eat more. And better."

"I am, I am. How are you, Dad?"

"Got a new hobby."

"Oh?"

"Bird watching."

"Seems fun."

"I didn't pick it."

"What do you mean?"

"We've got a couple of peregrine falcons nesting on the rooftop."

"Oh! That's so cute!"

"Yeah. They've laid four eggs."

All in all the call went well. Again the main question was: when are you coming home? To which I replied in the usual manner: I'm happy where I am now.

*

"Fallon! Fallon!"

One of the cooks (trained at Cordon Blue) was calling for me.

"Yes."

"That recipe you did Wednesday, with cod."

"Divine Cod with Shrimp."

"Right. We need ten servings of it."

"Wa-what?!" My eyes widened in fear.

"Get moving. Now!"

"But I was serving today..."

"Let somebody else do it. Go!"

So part of the day I worked on my cod and ended up doing it for twelve people instead of ten.

"Oh, it's fabulous!" applauded Shayna. "What's in it?"

"Cod. Shrimp. Carrot. Onion. Milk. French bread. Olive oil and nutmeg."

"Jesus. If you weren't a girl I'd marry you!"

I laughed.

Finally it got quiet enough so I had my lunch (burger, fries and greens).

"Greens and fries...?" asked Joey.

"My mother insisted. The greens, I mean."

Actually she'd beg me to eat three more servings of the meal I was having.

Half an hour later I was back to my duties as a waitress.

An old gentleman came in. He looked sixty however someone informed he was over eighty.

"Really? Wow. Who is he?"

"A famous agent. He used to manage Ava Gardner."

"Wow."

"Go. He sat in your area."

He had the moves of a teenager although a bit overweight, his body didn't move as if he was an eighty year-old man. I was impressed.

"Just coffee," he asked, looking at his watch.

I brought him coffee with a complementary rosemary scone (Joey's recipe) which laid on the plate, utterly ignored. It was a shame, the scones tasted marvelously.

Soon after Conrad Heather joined him, sitting on the same table.

Interesting. Sometimes it seemed everybody knew everybody.

"Heather," said the agent, extending his hand for a warm greeting.

"John. Always getting younger."

Soon they started chatting and, because I wasn't near, I could no longer listen. The sky was bright and luminous and outside it was rather warm. Today I had probably six more hours of labor, up until the manager or Theresa would tell me to go. I never had an exact time to be off work an there were occasions when Eduardo had to wait more than one hour for me.

"Is the limo waiting for you already?" Shayna asked, with a grin. "You know, it's not often we have a princess in our midst, working with the peasants."

"Please, stop. I'm not a princess. And it's not a limo. Even if it was, it doesn't belong to me. I don't even have a license."

She'd tease me but always in a nice way.

I looked up and saw a third person sitting with John and Conrad.

It was Dashiell.

My heart stopped and I felt instantly flushed.

Yet again I could not move, it was as if I had been glued where I was standing.

"Fallon," said Shayna, "Mr. Heather is signaling for you. Go, girl. You're weird today," and she pushed me. Those few steps separating me from Dashiell seemed like walking in purgatory. Or walking on the plank. My heart wanted to burst out of my chest and I felt hot and blushed. I was sure my face was as red as a ripe tomato.

"Ye-yes?" I whispered, looking at Conrad. I couldn't bare facing Dashiell.

"I'd like to introduce you to two of my friends: John Baxter and Dashiell Skye. Gentleman, this is Miss Fallon Newhaven."

Slowly I looked at them and in a lower, failing voice said:

"Hello."

"Hi, nice to meet you, Miss Fallon," said Mr. Baxter.

"Hello," said Dashiell himself.

"Fallon came allll the way from the other side of the pound. Didn't you, Fallon?" Conrad was playing with me.

"Ye-yes."

"You're an actress too?" Dashiell asked, casually eating the rosemary scone.

"No-no. no. I'm not. I'm a waitress."

They all laughed. I was confused but the laughter cut through my bewilderment and I was finally more at ease, though not completely.

"That's a first," remarked John Baxter with a chuckle. "No one ever identifies as a waitress."

"Actually," added Conrad, "she is quite the pastry chef. Her cakes and pies are a sight and to die for. Delicious."

"Really?" said Dashiell with a wicked grin. "I must visit more often then. Did you make this?" he asked taking the last bite of the rosemary scone.

"No, no. It was Joey. Joey," and I pointed him out.

"She is quite the fan," Conrad persisted. I was so tired of this. I didn't think I could continue. Conrad seemed to be having a blast, that damned Hungarian.

"Of Joey?" Dashiell inquired.

"Of you."

My heart sunk. I am going to kill him. That's it. He's going to be murdered by me. Suddenly images of me getting the electric chair flashed through my mind in rapid succession.

"Me?" said Dashiell, apparently intrigued, wrinkling his ivory forehead. Oh my God, he never had acne. The skin was beautiful and spotless. This guy was a freak of nature, so very perfect. Flawless.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I couldn't speak. Dashiell, noticing my disturbance, suddenly smiles and laughs and simply asks for a "cup of lemon tea, please". I walk away, my heart beating like a drum, my ears hearing nothing else.

I returned with tea, another rosemary scone and more coffee. Dashiell flashes an open smile at me and says: "Thank you, love". I return to the back of the counter and hide away in the corridor leading to the kitchen, away from customers prying eyes, trying hard to calm myself down. After a few minutes I manage. When I go back to the stall they were already gone.

"Are you all right, kid?" asked Shayna, concerned.

"Ye-yes. Something I ate."

"Don't get sick now. We need you."

They left a hefty tip.

When Eduardo came to collect me even he detected I wasn't my "normal self".

I reassured him by saying:

"Lots of work, I'll be fine after a few hours of rest."

Like my mother he stated:

"Too skinny. Eat more. Rest. Vacation. You need holyday."

And lose my job? No, thank you.

I spent the night reviewing every sentence Dashiell had spoken to me, every hidden meaning. I was so close to him. I could have touched him! Touched his lovely face! Kissed his perfect forehead! He had beautiful, perfect skin. I swear, it was like admiring a statue. I had never seen in my entire life such a handsome man. Oh, to have and embrace him, to hold him near!

It would be bliss.

CHAPTER 15

«[Letter Number Sixteen (16)]

My Darling Dashiell;

I've been working hard because of it I haven't been writing you so often. I hope you are well. I know you are fine and your career is doing great. I've seen the reviews of your latest movie. They all praise your work. I am sure you will get awards for it, perhaps even an Oscar! If you don't dare dream it, I'll dare for you.

All of a sudden I recall William Blake's words:

«'Love seeketh not Itself to please

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.»

That's how I feel every time I think of you. I have no wish to please myself or even to name me, I wish only for your good and well-being, despite of me. Be well, always. That'd please me beyond compare.

If I would seek only to gratify myself, in William Blake's words, this is what would happen:

«'Love seeketh only Self to please,

To bind another to Its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.»

I don't want to bind you to me, particularly if it means a loss of peacefulness to you. I wish you only goodness and delight, wherever you go and with whomever you might be.

Much love to you, my star.

An Admirer»

I sent the letter the next morning. I noticed birds chirping and all the sounds of civilization, cars, people talking, phones ringing.

"Fallon," said Yannis the Greek cook, "you're with me today, all day. Come on."

He was temperamental however a wonderful chef and, when in a good mood (rare), also a great teacher. He was a great believer in traditional marriage, already being married three times. After ten hours of grueling work and cooking I was ready to collapse.

"Fallon, tomorrow you start at eleven a.m. You need to rest," informed Theresa when she saw me as I was ready to leave.

"Yes ma'am."

"Get some sleep," she said on the way to her office.

As I was leaving Gordon Emery was entering. He stopped me and gave me a hug.

"Leaving so soon? I came in just to see you," he claimed. I smiled, shyly, lowering my eyes. I kind of liked him. Gordon, or Gordy, was a tall, dark and handsome guy. He's a thirty one year-old man and I know he wants to date me, however I think he's too old for me (not to mention the fact I'm secretly in loved with another man).

"Don't bother, Gordy," says Joey who is about to start his shift and rushes through the door. "She has a secret lover."

My eyes broadened and Joey disappeared inside Blackie's, bursting out laughing.

Gordon put on the mask of a sad face.

"Do you?"

"He's silly. He's joking. Gotta go, bye!" I say and run to Eduardo parked on the other side of the street.

*

TMZ claims Dash is dating Dana Lee Devereaux.

She used to be a child actress in a popular Disney show (which I never heard of or saw). I suppose Americans have a different take on the word "popular".

(I'm not bitter, I'm not.)

She's older than him. I seem to be detecting a pattern... does he prefer mature, more experienced women? If that's the case I won't even register on his radar. I look like a sixteen year old teenager. He smiled to me but probably forgot all about me pretty soon.

Dana Lee Devereaux. Stupid name.

After a few more days Dana's agent denied she was dating "anyone". Not even his name was mentioned. Dana was known and easily recognized but Dashiell was a nobody, nothing more than a pretty face, the newest accessory she chose to grace her arm with.

Breathe. Breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.

Dashiell was so much more. She was so out of his league and didn't even know it.

Days passed and I saw they kept popping out in events, yet not "together".

Right.

And finally the paparazzi caught them in a most fervent embrace outside an art gallery (she fancied herself a connoisseur, ah!) so the affair was undeniable.

For some strange reason it didn't hurt as much as I had supposed. It was probably a short-lived romance, she wasn't the faithful type and this was, after all, Hollywood.

"You seem a bit down, Fallon," Shayna said. Ok, perhaps it did hurt more than I wanted or cared to admit.

"It's nothing, it's the weather."

"Too sunny for you?" she replied, teasing.

"Yeah," I answered, trying to smile.

"Gordon is in your area. Go," Shayna informed. "Play your cards right with him... I'm telling you..." she whispered in my ear.

I didn't say anything. He was indeed very good-looking but my heart rests elsewhere. I couldn't force myself. But I liked him, I did. He was always nice and tender.

"Hello, sir. Today we have..."

Gordy interrupted.

"I know what I want," he replied, flashing a smile.

I blushed instantly.

"But today I'll have your delicious chocolate cookie cake and tea with milk, please."

"Right away, sir," I said, smiling and about to turn away when he grabbed my arm tenderly, saying:

"I already miss you."

I chuckled. He was silly.

I quickly returned with his order and this time he stopped me from leaving.

"Fallon, please, I beg of you: go out with me. Just one time. One time. I'm the perfect gentleman, ask anyone. Would you like me to have a word with your parents, ask their permission? Ask any of your relatives' consent? Your entire family's! I'll do it. And I'll get their approval too. Trust me. Just allow me one chance. Consider it a test. I'll pass with flying colors, I swear. Please?"

I sighed. Casually I looked over to my colleagues. They were both silently signing: "Say yes, say yes!".

"Ok," I finally agreed. "Just one date," I warned.

"You've made me the happiest man on earth."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"I mean it. Pick you up tomorrow here, after your shift?"

"I have to go home and change first. What about near the theater hall, about eight thirty p.m.?"

"I can't wait."

"I won't be able to stay out too late..."

"I'll bring you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

"Ah-ah, very funny," I replied, walking away.

"Girl, you got a smile on your face. You're glowing!" Shayna said.

"Radiant!" added Joey. "So?" he asked.

"Yeah, so?" Shayna whispered.

"We're going out tomorrow night."

"Oh!" they both shouted, jumping up and down.

"Shush!" I asked, embarrassed, averting my eyes. "Don't make a scene, you guys...!"

"I'm gonna be your bridesmaid!" Shayna said, enthusiastically.

"Me too!" added Joey with a smirk before disappearing in the kitchen.

"And pretty soon I'll have a puppy, a white picket fence and two point three kids," I said, sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

"Girl, sometimes you're too jaded for your age. It's like you're too people: one very naive young, and I mean young, girl; and the other part is an old maid, disappointed with life, seeing nothing but grey skies."

The word abruptly brought Dashiell Skye to my mind. My heart missed a beat. I glanced over Gordy. He was talking on the phone and having a bite of cookie chocolate cake. Why can't I love him?, I asked myself. He has maturity, is quite handsome, seems to fancy me, and would provide me with stability at least on an emotional level. Everyone speaks highly of him. He's a freelance engineer and is currently working at Disneyland. I have no idea about what he exactly does, other than that. Isn't love, to some extent, a choice? I could love him. Every day I could force myself (or permit myself?) to make the decision to love him, all day long.

Does it even work?

Is it even possible?

When I deny my heart things don't go well. Or it could simply be a matter of practice. I was already feeling much stronger than a year ago.

Last year I was a mess. Now... I'm better at accepting things which can't be altered.

At eight thirty p.m. he was already outside the theater, waiting for me. He brought popcorn and we went in and saw a funny Italian movie. It had more spectators than I expected. At the end he said, as we were exiting:

"I have a surprise for you."

"Oh? What?"

"Come on, get in. I'll show you," he said, mysteriously, and opening the door for me.

He ended up taking me to Disneyland. We entered a secluded area after he had clearance from the security guard.

"Where are you taking me? On a zombie ride or something?"

"Or something," he replied, winking. I did love his bright blue eyes (though my preference went to Dashiell's dark, noir gaze). He had been the perfect gentleman so far and throughout the date.

What if I made the choice? The choice to love him and only him?

While I was deep in thought the car stopped and we were near a gigantic roller-coaster. The place was filled with light and loads of technicians, busy, moving fast, running, shouting out orders.

"I don't understand," I said, confused, leaving the car.

"Come on," he said, taking my hand. We walked a few steps.

"Is it ready?" Gordy asked a guy dressed in all blue, holding a clipboard.

"Yep. Ready to go. Let's set you up."

"Me and Fallon," he replied, indicating me. The guy didn't even flinch. We were lead to the start of the ride and the seats were prepared for us.

"Wait a minute," I asked, finally understanding what all of it meant.

"Come on, don't be afraid. You're safe. I promise, I'll be here, near you," and he held out his hand. I accepted it and we both sat, ready for the ride.

"You're perfectly safe, I promise," Gordy assured. "After all, I've designed it."

And with that we took off.

Oh my goodness, it was five minutes of ups and downs, utter fright and pure delight. When it ended I was, at once, elated and week on knees.

"Oh God, oh God!" I shouted, leaning on him. He held me tight and didn't let go.

It was eleven o'clock p.m. when I got home. Bethany was waiting for me. She didn't see Gordon because he dropped me off and left immediately but saw how joyful I was.

"Tell me, tell me!" she demanded. So for the next hour, over two cups of cocoa, I narrated the entire date.

"Fallon, you're so lucky. He seems brilliant. You must bring him over for brunch."

I believe it took three whole days until I thought of Dashiell again.

CHAPTER 16

"Who is he?" Sophia asked in an apprehensive voice tone. "Bethany's told me he's over thirty."

"Gordy's thirty one. He's an engineer."

"An engineer..." Sophia repeated. "An engineer. Does he know how old you are? You're barely in your teens!"

"He knows I'm eighteen. At least, I think he knows."

For a moment there was an inconvenient and awkward silence.

I could see, in the course of our Skype call, the weather back home was dreadful. Sophia was dressed in a heavy coat and thick gray scarf, while I had on a light summer, flowery dress. Knowing I had left the rain, the icy snow, the cold winds made me quietly cheerier. More and more I was happy for having left my hometown. This is where I belong. This is my home now. My base.

Sophia nervously shook her hand, off-screen, I could see it, and appeared to be reflecting.

"Tell me his name, his full name."

I gave her the one I knew.

"He works for Disneyland?"

"He's a freelancer. He travels for work all over the world."

I listened the sound of Sophia typing. She hit every key with unashamed violence. She had a focused expression. After a few minutes torturing her keyboard she leaned back, bit her lip and exhaled noisily, still presenting a frowned face.

"I can only find a website, presenting some of his work, an email address and one obscured picture," she said.

Sophia was quiet for a while and then spoke.

"I don't like it. He's too old for you."

"So?!"

"So?! A few more years and he'd be old enough to be your father!"

"But he's Not," I proclaimed, vividly. All of a sudden I was mad.

"Fallon," said Sophia, "surely you agree it'd be better for you to go out with a boy closer to your age. What have you to talk about anyway?"

"Lots! Loads! Plenty of subjects! Italian films, for instance," I retorted, a bit exasperated.

"Really?" she replied in quiet disbelief. "Name one."

Damn it. I forgot the title of the one we saw together.

"Doesn't matter. I, I like him and, and I think... I'll... keep on seeing him. So there," I crossed my arms, finalizing - I hoped - that part of the conversation.

Sophia rolled her eyes, restated her arguments and reasons and repeated I ought to go out with "young men closer to your own age and interests."

I went to bed determined more than ever to keep on seeing Gordy.

CHAPTER 17

Birds chirping outside my window woke me up. Bethany wanted to take pictures of me dressed up as a sad, gothic looking doll. I accommodated her because, really, when I looked at them it never seemed like me. She was talented and constantly said she loved me as a model. Tonight I was to wear a black dress with a corset, the lower part of the outfit was filled with ruffles and it provoked resonances every time I moved. Sometimes I took more than an hour to complete my look, it wasn't just the costume, but also the hair, the makeup, and the shoes (oh my God, the shoes). I was to be home by six o'clock, we'd have a light meal, and then, I could already guess it, I'd be up until midnight, being photographed in the mansion's several locations (outside, inside, on the roof even).

However, before that, I had a long day of labor ahead.

On the Porsche (Bethany wanted the burgundy Continental Bentley for the day), Eduardo didn't say much, as usual. Only a few moments before I left the car, he did spoke:

"Pictures today?"

"Yes."

"I want to see. My daughter too."

I smiled, shrugged and said ok.

I had no idea what Bethany did with all the photos. She kept saying she wanted to do an exhibition, however she had been photographing me for months and still no sign of an exposition. I realized, under her bubbly nature, she was actually very self-critical and never quite happy with her work.

On Blackie Rest I spent the first two hours in the kitchen, cooking and baking, afterwards I waitressed.

By ten o'clock Conrad Heather came in and sat. Somebody else took his order while I was busy with tourists. Suddenly the TV showed a trailer of the new Dashiell's movie. It was a low budget film that was the "talk of the town" and, according to the presenter, a "breakthrough role" and a "career maker". For a few moments I was enthralled, watching, nothing else on the world existed.

"Miss? Miss? The check, please?"

"Oh, oh, yes. Excuse me. Here you go. Thank you. Have a great day."

As I walked away towards the counter I heard the TV host saying 'according to very well placed sources, Mr. Skye is now dating Miss Devereaux. Don't they just look yummy together?'

Please. That still isn't over? Maybe it was but she's holding on to Dashiell because her career is over and his is on the way up.

I glanced over and my eyes met Conrad Heather's by chance. He was grinning. My coworker whispered to me:

"He requested you. Go."

"Dear Miss Fallon, so happy to see you," he said with an amused smirk. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but did you do this wonderful coconut pudding?"

"Mr. Heather, hello. Yes, yes I did. Would you like another piece?"

"Oh, no, no. I merely wanted to congratulate you for it. It's indeed a slice of heaven. Divine!"

"Thank you, Mr. Heather. Will it be anything else?"

"No, no. Wait. Not for now, perhaps later. Thank you, dear girl."

"Thank you," I said and as I turned away to leave, he added:

"He spoke of you, you know."

I turned to him, confused:

"Who?"

"Dashiell. Dashiell Skye. The young man I introduced you a month ago."

"Really?" I retorted, gulping, trying hard to appear normal. "I had forgotten."

"You did? Well, no use of telling you what he said, is it now?" and he dropped his grinning eyes on a magazine.

"No," I replied. "By all means. I hope, I hope he li-liked the service."

"Oh, he loved the scones. Couldn't shut up about it."

"And, and... me? What... did he say about me?" my face was hot. I was sure I was blushing.

Conrad paused, faced me with a grin and glowing eyes and said finally:

"What a strange girl."

I couldn't speak.

"That is all he said," Conrad added, turning his attention back to the magazine's articles. "Thank you, Fallon."

"Sir," I mumbled and left, slowly, dragging my feet.

Half an hour later he signaled for me. I walked those few steps full of dread. My heart pounded like a demented drum. When I reached him I was squeezing my pen and my little notebook 'till my fingers were white.

"Are you all right, Fallon, my dear?" Conrad asked, almost honestly concerned.

I nodded my head up and down, gulping, unable to speak.

He lifted his eyebrow, leaned back and requested a new cup of coffee. As I turned back he began, once more, to talk.

"How dreadful it is to love and not be loved in return."

I turned to him, my eyes widened.

"I'm, I'm... sorry?" I whispered, shivering.

"His new movie. Have you seen it? I highly recommend it. It's about a man who secretly loves his brother's wife for forty years. Such unhappiness and tragedy. Full of drama! Hollywood adooores drama," he claimed, in a soft and aggressive tone of voice. "However, I went to see it. It's jolly good. Gives you a good... what do they call it? Yes, emotional release. It's better than I expected. I do all heartily recommend it. A 'career maker' indeed. Have you seen it?"

I nodded no, silently. I felt paralyzed, unable to move or utter a single word.

"I had a conversation with Dashiell," he continued, "asked him why he picked that story. Somehow it didn't seem to fit him, as an actor. He didn't give out much, except the usual nonsense of 'stepping out' of his comfort zone, 'trying something different, new, riveting'. Actors! However... I sensed that was something more to it, much more. You know, Fallon, you might be surprised but, underneath this cool, hard exterior, it beats a romantic soul. I'm a sucker for love stories. Eventually I came to discover something he's trying very hard to keep hidden. Did you knew, Fallon, that our dear boy Dashiell has been receiving love letters for more than a year?"

And he paused, the maddening Hungarian. He knew! He knew! He guessed it was me!

"Well?"

Oh my God, Conrad was actually awaiting an answer.

"No-no," I whispered my eyes on the floor. I was doing my best to hide my increasingly shivering body.

"Are you cold, my poor girl?"

I nodded no several times.

"Well, that fact played a major part on him picking the role. You see, his character, on the movie, writes love letters, anonymously and secretly, for forty years, to the woman he loves. Isn't that... extraordinary?"

"I, I... guess," I uttered, shrugging.

"It is extraordinary to love for so long and not be loved in return. Astonishing and tragic. I... recognize the feeling. Someone might say: 'well, why don't you just confess your love? Why don't you just tell your beloved you adore him or her?' It's not that easy... is it, Fallon?"

I kept silent.

"Fallon!" Yannis shouted and I jumped, dropping my pen and notepad. The cook walked mad, right up to me, grabbed my arm and dragged me to the kitchen. "I've been calling and calling! Are you deaf, woman?! Come on!"

Shayna took my place as a waitress and I passed the rest of the day cooking pastry.

"Head in the clouds, Fallon, head in the clouds!" Yannis yelled. "Pay attention, pay attention!"

I returned home, after work, with muffled senses. I couldn't speak. I was so afraid and so very sure Conrad Heather had discovered my secret.

I had a hard time focusing for Bethany's photo shoot.

Nonetheless she said the pictures 'weren't so bad'. When I looked at them I saw a very sad doll, a doll expelled from her homeland, lost, forever wandering.

It showed perfectly how I felt.

CHAPTER 18

Finally a day off! No work, no catering, no modelling for Bethany! I've been planning for weeks. I know exactly where Dashiell is going to meet Dana for brunch. They have this thing where they think they can fool the paparazzi, making them walk around in circles but it's impossible to fool me. I'm familiar with the way you reason, Dashiell. You're an open book to me.

The gray clouds crowded the sky and it was a bit windy. It helped my disguise: a long raincoat, curly blond wig, paired with big concealing shades and a red, vibrant lipstick, making my lips bigger and plump. Plus I had on a pair of red, long stilettos. My fake fingernails were long and rosy also and my complexion was darker (I picked up a few makeup tricks with Bethany and a friend of hers, Eva, who from time to time joined in the photo shoot - she was a makeup artist). There is no way I can be recognized. I asked an expresso in a low, rough voice and simply sat, pretending to be reading messages on my smartphone, though what I was really doing was listening in to Dashiell and Dana.

They are soft spoken, all smiles, touching gently each other, kissing tenderly every five seconds. God. Let me vomit. I felt rage, rage so big my left hand was making a fist. I hid it on my lap and breathed deeply, balancing my emotional self (trying to, anyway). I understood the hurt, the pain was still there, the most wrenching heartache, veiling itself behind rage and anger, ever present like a backdrop in my life. Just seeing them both was as having a long, incandescent knife stuck on my heart, and left there for eternity. They truly seemed to be in loved.

I couldn't take it anymore. I left the payment (with a generous tip) on the table, got up and walked away, without turning back. The suffering was at once numbing and awakening to a level of pain of unbearable dimension, yet I had to pull through, keep on moving, living and breathing as if it wasn't there, as if it didn't exist.

After a few minutes walking I picked a dark corner, took off my wig, glasses and cleaned my lipstick along with the makeup which made my complexion look darker. It was less than a minute. I also changed the stilettos to a pair of worn out ballet flats I kept on my oversized bag. I stepped again to the main street, trying to find a cab when suddenly I bumped into someone.

Gordon Emery.

"Fallon! Oh my God, you look lovely," and he gives me a warm embrace.

"Hey, Gordy," I mumble.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, concerned.

"Ye-yes, of course. I was just... taking a stroll, you know. Window shopping."

"Women and window shopping," he said, smiling.

"Yeah, you know. It's a sport!" I replied, still a bit stunned for seeing him.

"You're wearing a raincoat in this weather?!"

"When I le-left it was cloudy and it looked like rain."

"Well, it's sunny now. Come on, let's have a cup of coffee."

"I, I..."

"Oh go on, I won't keep you, promise. It's a quick cup."

"All right then."

The coffeehouse was bright and crowded. As we sat a young man took our order.

"Just coffee, please," Gordon said. "Unless you'd like something else."

"No, no. coffee is fine."

The waiter came back rather quickly, though the place was packed, with two cups of coffee. I actually don't like coffee, I don't drink it and only now I remember it. I pretended to drink the expresso fifteen minutes ago and now I take a sip. God, it's awful.

"What?" Gordon asked. "Isn't it good? We'll ask for another."

"No, no. it's fine," I lied and smiled.

"I know you've been busy," he immediately adds, "but I'd like to ask you out again. I mean, if you're up to it."

I smile openly and say yes, of course I am.

"Good. I was afraid you'd say no."

"Why would I? I had a lovely time. I loved the roller-coaster."

"Good. I know just where to take you next. You'll love it."

"Oh? Where?"

"Can't say. It's a mystery!"

"A secret?"

"Yes. Only to be known the very day. But don't worry, you seem like the type of girl who loves a good mystery."

"I guess. Sometimes. Yeah, I suppose I do," I said, intrigued, my coffee left untouched.

"Gordon Emery, remember me?"

We both stared at a young, fair-haired woman, petite, with extraordinary big green bright eyes. She looked extremely distressed and on the brick of tears.

"What? I'm sorry... you are...?" Gordy was frowning and, apparently, trying to place her. "I apologize, but I don't seem to have had ever the pleasure of meeting you."

"You know me. You know exactly who I am!" she shouted and was dragged outside by a friend, still shouting, louder and louder, "You know me! You know Me!"

"God!" I uttered. "Who was that?"

"I have no idea," he said, averting his eyes and then suddenly smiling to me.

"She knew you name."

He sighed and finally assumed:

"I didn't want to say but my business partner \- we have a business together - is a bit of a player and he's found himself with a... stalker."

"A stalker?"

"It might have been her. They went out a couple of times, he sensed something wrong, stopped seeing her and out of the blue started getting flowers, chocolates, presents and pretty soon - death threats. He's in Finland now on a job where I was supposed to be but he went instead just to get away from this psycho stalker. I suppose it's her though I have never seen her before."

"Can she be dangerous to you?" I asked, worried.

"I hope not. Really, I don't think so. Look, let's change the subject," he placed his hand on mine and said: "Tomorrow, nine o'clock, pick you up where you live?"

"Ok..." I agreed though still a bit worried.

*

"Fallon, Gordon's here!" Bethany shouted. I ran downstairs and she said:

"He doesn't want to enter; he says you're already late." Bethany seemed disappointed

"Maybe when we come back he will," I said and kissed her goodbye.

The surprise ended up being a ghost tour.

"It's two houses," he whispered, holding me close, I could smell his lovely, enchanting and discreet perfume. "Rumor has it the ghosts sometimes follow the tourists home."

"Oh my Goodness," I said, frightened. He smirked, winked and stated:

"Don't worry, I'll protect you, promise."

The night was dark though the streets lights were lit. The houses were connected and in one there had been three stories of love losses. The second building had been home for a serial killer for more than a decade.

"It is said," narrated the guide, an old gentleman with a beard and overweight, "Thomas Longman Gregory murdered twelve victims in this very house and got rid of their bodies here as well, though only eight of them were ever found, buried in the rose garden. Four of his victim's remains were never discovered and many believe they still wonder these walls, trying to find their own corpses..."

My body shivered in fear. Gordy quietly laughed, held me tight, stroked my arm with the palm of his hand and took me home.

"Next time we'll do something simple, like go out for pizza."

He kissed my cheek and left. Bethany was waiting for me with two cups of cocoa.

CHAPTER 19

"I was in the room," Millie the maid said, "when Miss Beth was speaking to your sister, Sophia, isn't it?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "So, what did they say?" I asked eagerly. We were in the Game Room, near the bar. Millie was cleaning and I was listening. Many times she would confide in me, tell me about conversations between Sven and Sophia or Sophia and Bethany or Bethany and Sven. She thought I needed to know. She used to say: "You're a good girl, you are. I don't approve them trying to control your life." Millie didn't appreciate control. Her father had murdered her boyfriend when she was seventeen only because he didn't approve of him. Millie felt, ever since, it was her duty to help other young women whom she felt were being manipulated or manhandled by family or people who "meant well". She despised people who "meant well", they cause more harm than good, she thought.

"Well," Millie said, in a whisper, getting closer to me and furiously rubbing a large white vase, "your sister was almost shouting, if not shouting indeed, with poor Miss Beth. You know, she doesn't appear to be, but poor Miss Beth is fragile and easily hurt. I don't approve of the way your sister talked to her. I don't."

"Go on," I murmured, turning my head, making sure once again we were completely alone.

"She said she expected more from Miss Beth. That you could not take care of yourself, you were merely a child. A child, that's what she said. I apologize, Miss F., but I don't much care for your sister. She's too controlling."

"She loves me. I'm used to it." I was, though being called a "child" by Sophia did hurt.

"Loves," Millie said, exhaling noisily and making her nostrils flare. "Right. Anyway, she was quite mad. I pretended to be dusting and kept myself well out of sight. She said she could not trust Miss Beth anymore and she had to send you right back home. 'What ever do you mean?' asked Miss Beth. I knew exactly what your sister meant and it was despicable! 'Well, drive her to the airport and put her on the plane!' 'What if she doesn't want to go - which she doesn't - what then?' 'Don't open you doors.' Miss Beth was in silence for a moment and I swear her heart was breaking. 'How can you be so heartless?! Your own baby sister, Sophia! You want me to throw her out on the street and leave her there to rot! You say you love her!' 'I do! I'll come and get her, I'll drag her back home if I have to, pulling her hair if I must! You don't know, you don't know Anything! You can't imagine the pain of seeing your sister's weight being less than a feather, not eating anything, starving herself to death, fading in front of your eyes! So don't you dare lecture me! She's not your sister! She's mine and I love her! I love her more than you can possibly comprehend! Now I hardly talk to her, she's tired all the time, working insane hours on the other side of the world, our parents going mad for not seeing her, she's a child, a child!, and you're allowing Fallon to see a man who's old enough to be her father! How could you, Bethany?!' Well, Miss Beth went ballistic. Soon they were shouting at each other and Miss Beth was red as a tomato! I feared for her, I did. She broke half a dozen plates and vases and the last thing I heard was from your sister, Sophia, saying 'what if he's a human trafficker?! What if he just takes Fallon to Turkey or Saudi Arabia and sells her to a bordello?! You don't know anything about this man!' And that was when Miss Beth turned the computer off. I've never seen her so furious in my entire life and I've been working here for the past eight years. She broke down and cried, I consoled her and took her to bed. She's sleeping now. We should let her rest."

"Oh Millie," I said, shivering, my hand pressed against my mouth, "I'm only causing trouble, maybe I should go. Maybe I should just go."

"Nonsense. You stay right here. You belong right here and that's that. Your sister is too demanding and doesn't understand you have your own life, you are entitled to your own life like any other human being on Earth. Don't you dare feel guilty, you hear? Come on, I'll make you chamomile tea."

That night only Sven and I had dinner together. Millie told him the reason why his wife was in bed with a massive headache. He was courteous to me, as always, until I decided to break the silence.

"Am I... an imposition? I mean, am I causing too much problems for you and Bethany?"

"Nothing we can't handle. And no, you are not an imposition. Quite the contrary. Before you my wife was a bit lost in life. Me, well, I have my career and is quite fulfilling, but Bethany tried all sorts of jobs and occupations, trying desperately to find a career, a path in life, which would bring her joy. I witnessed her giving up one after another only after a few weeks. But you came and suddenly she was happy again. When you model, when she's taking pictures of you, I can honestly say she's happy, she's truly happy and content. So, please, stay with us."

I smiled, relieved, and finished my pasta.

The next day, early in the morning, as I was about to leave (Eduardo was already waiting for me outside) I saw Bethany in the large hall, looking at pictures.

"Bethany? Wow, it's early and you're already up! I'm... how are you? Does your head still hurt?"

She held me, kissed my cheek slightly and pushed me to the sofa where I sat next to her.

"I'm fine. I couldn't sleep so I got up. What do you think of these ones?"

Bethany pointed at three pictures she took of me, all dressed up, a while back.

"I like them. Wow, it really doesn't seem like me at all!"

"I still don't have enough for an exhibition, however, if I work hard the next three months I think I'll have enough material. So, Fallon, I'm sorry to be asking this, I know you already work hard and are tired and..."

I interrupted her.

"Whatever you want. I'm game."

"I don't want to make you sick."

"Nonsense. You won't. Three months. You have me, my time, my undivided attention."

"Oh, thank you, Fallon!" she hugged me. Outside a horn sounded.

"That's Eduardo. Go. Don't be late for work."

I was a bit late but no more than three minutes.

"Look, the Princess has arrived!" Joey teased. "Here is your scepter," he said, handing me the mop. "The kitchen flooded," and before turning away he bowed as if indeed I was royalty.

Amusing.

At night Bethany dressed me up as Cinderella, in a beautiful blue gown, filled with sparkly crystals, but with a twist: this Cinderella had her makeup and hair in a mess, was smoking and empty liquor bottles were scattered all over her frock, while at the same time she was grabbing a half filled whisky bottle. When I saw the result it didn't appear to be me at all.

"I swear, you're a true artist, Bethany," I praised.

"She is," agreed Sven.

It was two a.m. when we went to bed, absolutely drained.

CHAPTER 20

The scent of lemon pie filled the kitchen and pretty soon the counter where we put it on display. Within thirty seconds the pie was gone.

"What the heck you put in it, girl?! Gold!? Whatever you do, whoosh, vanishes in ten seconds! Girl, you better open your own restaurant. Hey, I'll be your partner," Shayna said. I laughed.

"Ginger," I replied.

"What?"

"I put a wee bit of ginger on my lemon pie," I revealed.

"What you're working on now?" she asked, approaching my working space.

"Rose cake."

"What?"

"I'm experimenting. I already tried it at home and am doing it a bit differently."

"Rose cake? Never heard of it."

"It's just something new I'm trying out..."

"Shayna!" Yannis screamed. "Let Fallon work, go away!"

She rolled her eyes, gave a little smirk and left, slowly, with her head held high.

"You work, concentrate, focus, Fallon, focus," he shouted.

I had absolutely no idea if this could even work. I wanted a deep, red layer inside the cake, exuding a concentrated scent of rose aroma. It did smell marvelous when it came out of the oven. I let it rest and covered the cake with a light layer of white chocolate (actually, I made it appear a bit pink). I thought of coupling it with vanilla ice-cream but then I changed my mind.

"Let's try just the cake," I said to Yannis and Theresa, "and see what the customers think."

Theresa smiled and said, while walking away in a pair of very high heel stilettos:

"Agreed. Do it."

"Twenty minutes. I clocked it. Twenty minutes and the rose cake was gone," revealed Shayna.

After a delighted smirk and a few moments of delicious silence, Yannis told me:

"You heard her. Do three more. Go, go, go!" he said, clapping his hands.

The whole week I did nothing but rose cake. It proved to be an immense success, so big, actually, that Theresa called me to her office.

"Have a seat, Fallon," she said.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked, sitting down.

"Not in the slightest. No, I've decided to give you a raise."

"Oh," I said, surprised.

"You're doing an excellent job and I want you to be happy here."

"Oh, thank you, thank you."

"You're welcome. That's all."

"Right. Right." I said, getting up and leaving.

Oh my Lord, a raise. For rose cake!

Going back down, to the kitchen, I was elated. I glanced over the client area and saw Conrad Heather talking to Joey, while reading something. I didn't thought too much of it. Conrad had these weird quirks. One time he brought a mute canary to Blackie Rest. Beautiful, yellow, bright as the sun, didn't sing a note. He was rather proud of it. He had brunch with his muted friend and fed him bread crumbs.

Yet a shiver travelled down my spine and I was unable to move.

"Fallon, Fallon. Conrad is calling for you," Shayna said, all excited.

I walked to him, again escorted by an imperious feeling of walking on the plank.

"Ah, here's dear Fallon," greeted Conrad with a sparkle in his eye. "Joey, will you do the honors?" he said, giving him a piece of paper I immediately recognized: one of my love letters to Dashiell.

I swear, my heart stopped right there and then.

"Fallon, you gotta listen to this, it's fab!" Joey said, chirpy.

"'My beloved Dashiell- Oh my God, beloved! - I saw you pass by and it felt the way when I first saw you, I fell in love all over again. Your beautiful skin tempts me...'"

Theresa called for Joey.

"Rats. Here, read it. It's lovely," he said, placing my own letter in my wobbly hands.

I stood there, quivering, looking at it and, slowly, an old, imperious, wrinkled hand with a big eagled ring took the letter from my open hand.

"I'll read a few more lines, dear girl. I suppose you must be busy, baking all those wonderful cakes. 'Your beautiful skin...'"

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I know what you're doing. I don't like it," I whispered, mad, my eyes enlarged and still shivering but more from rage.

"Your eyes, dear girl, are like huge bonfires. I'm not doing anything wrong," he continued in his warm, smooth voice, pretending this was not unusual, it bloody happened every day! That damned, damned!, Hungarian!

"I merely wanted to share beautiful poetry with a few people. I immediately thought of you, Fallon. You bake and cook poetically. You have an artist's soul so naturally I assumed you'd appreciate these lovely words. No one writes love letters these days. Everything's digital," he uttered the word digital as if it had a sour taste. "True love letters are scarce, dear girl, but the art still survives, tucked away in the hidden alleys of our timid soul..."

An angel passed. My body quivered a bit, however more out of fury.

"Do you want it?" he said, trying to hand over the letter. I took a step back and declared no.

"Well, more's a shame. It's an anonymous letter anyway."

"Is it?" Joey said, returning to us. "It's beautiful."

"It's from a girl, that much is known."

"A secret admirer!" said Joey, giddily. Just kill me now.

"Yes!" continued Conrad. "She's in love with a movie star - aren't they always? - and has been writing him love letters."

"Dashiell Skye. He's dreamy," stated Joey, sighing.

Just shoot me. I was about to lose my patience.

"Dear Fallon, could you possible bring me a slice of your much praised rose cake, if you please? I simply must try it."

I didn't move immediately, just stood there, staring infuriated at him.

"Fallon?" Joey said and I left to bring the damned slice.

When I returned the letter was gone and Conrad dismissed me hastily. I watched as he only had two bites of cake. Ah! So my cake isn't good enough for him, is it?!

God, I was so mad.

He got up and left without so much of a glance towards me.

When I went to clean up (searching everywhere to see if he had "forgotten" the letter on purpose, and not finding it) I saw he had left a generous tip.

As if it made things all better. No, it served to irritate me even more.

*

"He got it from Dashiell's agent," said Joey a few days after.

"What?"

"The letter. The agent got it from Dash and lend it to Conrad but only for that day. I don't think even Dash knows about it. Only the four of us, isn't it marvelous?"

"Fantastic," I replied with a flat tone of voice.

"You're just jealous, no one writes you love letters," he said and added a disappointed sigh: "Nor me..."

Please.

I did wish Dashiell would write me back but it would be similar to ask for the sky to rain gold. Or to be able to fly.

After the "letter day" three weeks passed and Conrad Heather didn't show up at Blackie Rest. Nor did Dashiell. Actually I had no idea where Dashiell was these days, it was like he had vanished.

"Oh my God, did you hear?" Shayna said, her eyes wide open, watery, and her voice failing.

"What?"

"He died! He died!"

My heart stopped. Dashiell's face flashed my mind. I had to sit.

"Who-who?" I asked begging God not to be Dashiell, anyone but him. Not him! Please, please!

"Conrad. Conrad Heather died. He had cancer. No one knew. He kept it hidden. The funeral is this afternoon, only for a few people. Oh my God, he looked so young, so healthy!"

Yannis saw us, assembled, didn't like it and made us go back to work.

Conrad Heather. Died.

I had a sense of relief but then guilt overcame me.

Somehow it felt... bizarre. It still felt he could walk in at any moment.

Any moment now.

CHAPTER 21

«[Letter Number 25]

My Most Beloved Dashiell;

I have at once so much and so little to tell you. I've been working hard and feel extremely tired. Then I go home and a friend takes pictures of me, dressed in all sorts of costumes. So far I've been a drunken Cinderella, a drug addict Snow White and a myriad of messed-up princesses! My friend is a photographer and is working on an exhibition. My life hasn't changed all that much, my love for you keeps me going. I saw you the other day, I was very close to you. I noticed you changed your perfume. Is it your girlfriend's gift? That would explain it. I rather liked it, to be honest. It kind of suits you, somehow. I wish I could be near you and bury my nose on your beautiful white neck and just infuse my senses with your delicious scent.

Gods don't smell as nice as you.»

I stopped and reread the letter. I could not send it, it gave away too much information: the pictures, the perfume. He'd know I'm here, very close to him. No. I cannot be this open.

So I rewrote the whole thing and it turned out to be a petite love note.

Suddenly Bethany called for me.

"Fallon! Fallon?"

"Yeah," I shouted from my room.

"Come here, quick!"

I put the envelope with the letter away and ran downstairs.

"The paintings have come! Come and see!"

"Paintings...?"

"Well, kind of. Printings! Let's unwrap them!"

There were five big canvases, as big as me, actually bigger and much wider, enfolded in brown paper. When I tore it apart I saw myself staring back at me.

"Whe-when did you take this picture? I, I don't remember."

"You were out on the rose garden and looked so lovely. So I took a picture. Don't you like it?"

"Ye-yes. Yes, I do."

All of the other portraits were of me dressed up in all sorts of outfits, from a gipsy bride to an eighteen century toreador. The one in the rose garden was the only where I could clearly recognize myself. I had on a light white dress, no makeup or shoes, my hair spread and encircled by beautiful roses from all colors. The sky was bright, luminous blue and I recall the absence of breeze.

I turned to Bethany and saw me dressed as Winston Churchill (in his younger years...). I laughed.

"It doesn't seem like me!"

"Do you like it?"

"I do. I really do."

Bethany sighed happily.

"These are the first five. More are coming."

"How many in total?"

"Forty or fifty."

My eyes widened.

"Dear Lord."

"Or a hundred! I don't quite know yet."

I got closer to the printings.

"They do look like paintings. How is it done?"

"It's a special process."

She clapped and said:

"Let's have a drink to celebrate!"

Bethany poured two glasses of whisky

"Oh..." I frowned.

"Drink it! Drink!" she ordered, hugging me.

At night I took a long last look at the huge paintings before going to sleep.

*

"Fallon," whispered Shayna with a concerned air, "someone is looking for you."

"What? Who?"

In a flash I remembered my sister who kept threatening to come here and drag me back home. Honestly, I was getting a bit tired of that. Bethany was a legal citizen and had started the whole process of legalizing me by way of sponsoring me. Only me, she and Sven knew about it. We didn't share with my family. The minute I had my green card on my hand I would tell Sophia. Millie and Bethany were right, I was an adult and Sophia had better start treating me as such.

"A lawyer. It looks like a lawyer."

My heart stopped. She didn't! Sophia didn't!

However, in a blaze, another possibility crossed my mind.

Dashiell knew. Conrad, before dying, had told him! That damn, damn Hungarian! I couldn't breathe or move.

"Fallon, it's all right. It's ok. It's probably nothing," she said, so not believing her own insincere words.

I removed my black overall and walked to the client area, dreading the outcome. Dashiell knew who I was, was taking legal action and I was about to go to.

Prison.

The slammer.

Jail. The Pen.

I stumbled and then saw this ominous figure: a six foot man wearing an Armani suit, with gray mane and a serious air. He got up, extended his hand, smiled and greeted me warmly.

"Miss Fallon Newhaven? Nice to meet you. I'm Wolf Meyer, the late Conrad Heather's lawyer. Please, sit down."

What the hell...?

"I don't think I can, I'm working..."

I glanced around and saw Yannis, furious, being stopped by Theresa and looking at me puzzled before returning to the kitchen.

"It's all right. I have spoken to your boss, Theresa. In fact, we're friends."

And he smiled once more. My heart banged and thumped, I tried my best to diminish the quivers travelling through my body.

"I don't understand..." I finally said. "Is there something wrong? Did... did I do something?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Like what?" he inquired, baffled. "No, no, nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary. You must have caused quite an impression," in his voice there was no hint of reproach.

He leaned over, opened up his suitcase and pulled a stack of papers.

"Here," Wolf Meyer said, handing them over to me, "you'll only have to sign them. Everything is taken care of."

"Sign them for, for what...?"

I was truly bewildered.

"You've been named by Mr. Heather as the universal heiress of his estate."

"Wha-what? What?!"

"Miss Newhaven, I realize this is difficult and disconcerting. Mr. Heather has left you practically everything: his mansion, all of his assets and a total of fifty two million dollars."

My hands were shivering. I couldn't speak. Suddenly the words spurt out of me.

"Oh my God, oh my God! Oh my God, my God!"

I was crying. Mr. Meyer handed me a handkerchief.

"Wipe your tears, Miss Newhaven. Your life has changed overnight and I understand it can be quite overwhelming. However, there are some conditions."

"Con-conditions?" I uttered, wiping my teary eyes.

"Yes. There are terms."

"Terms?"

"We should speak in my office."

I looked over and saw Theresa and Shayna staring back at me. I tried to get up but felt so heavy and stuck to the chair. Theresa immediately came over and reassured me.

"I know you have to go, Fallon. I've called Bethany. She'll meet you at Mr. Meyer's office."

"She will? Thank you. I, I'll... tomorrow I'll do overtime to make up for..."

She interrupted.

"Sweetie, your whole life changed. But, ok, tomorrow, late afternoon, show up and we'll talk, ok?"

"Ok, thank you," I said. Shayna came over to hug me and Joey soon followed.

"We're so happy for you! No one is more deserving. And we were right, you are a princess!"

As I left I realized for the first time I'd never work again in Blackie Rest.

*

Bethany was indeed awaiting us.

"Oh my goodness, Fallon! What news...! Theresa called me."

When we sat down Mr. Meyer informed us of everything.

"As I indicated earlier, Mr. Heather upon his death left you, Miss Newhaven, everything. His estate is formed by the mansion, named Muted Canary - yes, odd name - three other properties: one castle in Hungary, a Duplex in Paris and a Villa in the South of Spain. Also you have inherited fifty two million dollars, dispersed in twenty bank accounts, several here, others in Spain, Hungary, France and Switzerland. There are terms, as I have stated and he is very particular. You are to respect them or else your fortune and domains will be given in its entirety to UNICEF."

After an awkward, befuddled silence, Bethany asked, while holding firmly my hand:

"What are these terms?"

"Ah. You are to keep, Miss Newhaven, the current employees and personnel on the main mansion for the next seven years, it will not cost you a dime, a special fund was setup to pay their salaries. The second condition is a bit more... how shall I put it? Eccentric. For the next three years you are to have a party every three months in a total of twelve parties. Another special fund was also put in place for the sole purpose of financing these gatherings, in the total of two million dollars."

An astonished silence followed Mr. Meyer explanation. I must have seemed extremely confused.

"Miss Newhaven, would you like a glass of water?"

"No, no..."

"I would," asked Bethany. Mr. Meyer poured one glass and gave it to her. "Thank you. So now what?"

"All Miss Newhaven needs to do is sign the documents and take possession of the house today by moving in."

We were both baffled.

"Today?!"

"Yes. Exactly."

"No," I said. "Tomorrow. I can't, not today."

"Today, Miss Newhaven," reiterated Conrad Heather's lawyer. "You need to spend the night on Muted Canary or else everything will go to UNICEF."

I was astonished. Bethany squeezed my hand and said: "We understand." So I signed the documents and Mr. Meyer led the way to the mansion. I rode with Bethany and the trip was a quiet one.

I met everyone in my new home: the housekeeper, Mrs. Andreas, and all the servants and gardeners. My head was spinning while I was given the house tour, Bethany holding firmly my harm. I retained almost nothing, except the container keeping Conrad Heather's ashes and a sealed door.

"This room is always locked. Needs restauration and is presently unsafe," informed the housekeeper.

I slept in a large room in a big dossal bed. I felt cold and wandered if Conrad was there, observing me, watching me from beyond his mortal veil.

CHAPTER 22

The very next day, early in the morning, Bethany, Millie and Eduardo came with all of my belongings, which, apparently amounted to very little.

Sophia wasn't informed of my sudden life twist. For some unknown reason I dreaded the conversation.

"I talked to Mr. Meyer. All of this will expedite your legalization process."

"Thank you. I'd forgotten," I said and then a heavy silence overcame me. Bethany hugged me.

"There, there. It's all right, it's fine."

"This, all of this," I said, unable to stop the tears, my voice failing, "I don't understand. Why me? Why did he pick me? There were others, other people, you know, nicer to him! Sometimes I wasn't that nice. I don't understand it! I feel I don't, I don't deserve this," I said, breaking down and sobbing in Bethany's arms. She stroked my back and whispered:

"Nonsense. You deserve this and more. Remove such thoughts from your mind. Listen to me, Fallon," she said, grabbing my face in her warm hands, "never, ever, refuse love, whatever form, whatever it comes from. This gift is an expression of love. He saw something many of us see: you are worthy. You are. Mr. Heather wanted to help you and you should honor his dying wish. Wipe your tears and let's explore."

Still shivering I followed her, obediently.

The mansion was immense.

The oldest part dated from one hundred and twenty five years ago and possessed a grim look, gothic, dark and detached, as if it only needed itself, was self-sufficient and required no humans to live in it and fill it with life; the newest part dated from twenty years ago and it was if the house itself, tired of such detachment and selfishness, grew into youth. This younger part had a similar (outside) color scope but a youthful and inviting manner. The century part of the old building had a first and second floor, along with an attic. The first floor held a gigantic hall, two baths, an elevator, a kitchen and also two rooms and another, smaller, living room. The second floor contained a big living room, two rooms for guests, a master bedroom, a big library and servant quarters.

The newest part, also with two floors, had another Master Bedroom and this came to be my quarters, a living room, a smaller family room, the staff quarters, the laundry room, an office, a kitchen, three more bedrooms (with bath, like almost every single other room in the house), a sunrise terrace and the top floor was in its entirety occupied by another terrace. There were also stairs, though a bit confusing to navigate (I kept getting lost so I just used the elevators).

It felt too big and, at the same time, I felt blessed. The most recent part of the mansion was where I was the most comfortable; the oldest part was grim, dark, heavy, as if a sense of despair filled its lodgings and walls.

Surrounding the mansion was a large garden, occupied by flowers, plants, a puzzling pool in the middle of it, and ancient trees. One could get lost there as if it was a forest from long gone fairytales.

The whole estate seemed to be plucked from a story which ended badly, having never felt the "happy ever after" effect. I don't know why, I can't explain it, but this is how it felt to me.

"Fallon, I'm so, so very happy for you," said Bethany. "I can't imagine anyone more deserving than you," she added with teary eyes and hugging me for a very long time. I kept my feelings of dark uneasiness hidden. I didn't wish to cause her worry.

While I was settling in, putting my clothes in my own wardrobe located in the master bedroom, one servant, a thirty year old Asian woman, came in and started doing it herself.

"Oh, no, it's ok," I said. She didn't reply only smiled and totally ignored my request. However, she organized everything better than me, I must admit. I remember I took my diary into my arms (my letters were safe, locked away in a little box, the key on a neckless around my neck) and was looking around when Ama (her name) pointed at something and led me into a wall.

"A safe," she revealed. "It's open. Mr. Meyer knows the combination."

"Oh thank you," I replied, sheepishly, averting my eyes.

Ama smiled and continued to put everything in place. Suddenly a noise was heard coming out of the Master Bedroom. We left the wardrobe room (quite immense) and saw all the bed linens tossed on the floor.

It was made perfect just a minute before, I remembered seeing it.

A shiver went through my spine, but Ama rolled her eyes and shook her head. Noticing my frightened look she consoled me and then redid the bed while saying:

"It's all right, it's only old Mr. McKinney, the original owner of the house."

"What...?" I asked, sitting down and still shivering down to my bones.

"He has a temper and doesn't like changes but if we introduce you to him and you ask to be left in peace, he will comply. He's a sweetheart, truly."

The bed was made again and Ama walked towards me, helped me up, put her hands on my shoulders and said:

"Mr. McKinney, this is Miss Fallon Newhaven, the new owner of Muted Canary. Say hello, Miss Newhaven."

Is she kidding?

"He-hello. Hi."

"Miss Newhaven is very pleased to be here, isn't that right?"

"Ye-yes, right," I replied, puzzled.

"And she requests to be left alone by you, Mr. McKinney, if you please. Right?"

"Ri-right. Right... to... be left in, in peace," I said, even more puzzled. What the heck?!

"Miss Newhaven is and will be forever grateful to be living in your home, Mr. McKinney," continued Ama, "and promises to take very good care of Muted Canary, don't you, Ma'am?"

"Right. Right. I do, I do!"

Ama smiled and said:

"All done then, Miss. I believe you will be most happy here. Do you have any orders for me?"

"No-no. Thank you. Oh, wait! Could, could you please call Bethany for me?"

"Of course, ma'am."

Ama left and I sat down.

A haunted house. Fabulous. There's always a snag...

Bethany came rather quickly, giddy, wearing a gigantic smile.

"This house is full of stories, you wouldn't believe!"

"Oh, I think I would..." I retorted, putting, casually, my diary away in a drawer.

"There was a Mr. McKinney, a Scotsman, who originally built the house for him and a woman he had loved since he was fourteen. But he only made his fortune by the time he was fifty. By then this woman was a widow. However, she belonged to a different class, you see. So he went to the Old Country and proposed to her, eight months after she had lost her husband, and showed her pictures of this great mansion. Well, it didn't turn out to be what he expected. She rejected him, called him a liar, accused him of possessing no such fortune and basically threw him out of her house. He left, heartbroken, the poor fellow, and six months after the episode he gets news she had remarried (within her class) but the new husband was a scoundrel and murdered her in three weeks! What a story!"

I only nodded, my eyes wide open. Mrs. Andreas, the housekeeper (or is the name Governess? I have no idea about the official title), came in and asked:

"Miss Newhaven, I hope you are finding it easy to settle in?"

"Ye-yes, yes. Quite."

"Good. Whatever you need, ma'am, anything, you can call," she said pointing at a curious looking phone, "there's always someone near the telephone."

"Right, right," honestly, I was without words.

"Ah," she said before exiting, "Mr. Meyer asked me to remember you, ma'am, that the first festivity will be in two weeks' time, but you needn't worry, there will be an organizer in charge of everything."

"Bethany," I whispered as Mrs. Andreas left, "this is all so weird!"

"Just accept it, go with the flow. Oh my God, a PARTY! A Party!"

She was clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Her good mood seemed to have a positive effect in me so my spirits were high as well.

However there were still doubts clouding my happiness.

"Bethany," I started.

"Yeah?"

"All... the help, the servants, maids, gardeners, governess, all of them seem to be very accepting of me. It's... odd! They immediately took on to me, understand? As if they had known me my whole life. It's just too... bizarre."

Bethany sighed.

"Honestly, young lady, you should be more trusting of people. You are a likable human being. It's fairly easy to like you instantly and those who don't are most probably idiots."

We both laughed.

"But, if you feel out of place, to help you settle in, to make you feel more comfortable, I'll let Millie be here. For a month, but that's it!"

"Oh, would you? Thank you!"

"All right, all right. For a month only, ok?"

"Ok. I'll feel better."

*

The very next day, an hour after Mr. Meyer visited (with the safe combination and instructions on how to change it, if I so desired - and I did), the exuberant party planner made her appearance. She was tall, with red hair (not her real color), fast pacing, fast speaking woman, I could hardly keep up.

"Miss Newhaven!" she said when I entered the library to which she was led either by one of the servants or the butler (I didn't even recalled if indeed we had a butler). "It is a privilege to meet you as the new owner of Muted Canary and even a bigger privilege to organize in your behalf the Best Party Hollywood Has Ever Seen!" She had extended her hand, firmly shaking mine and finally introduced herself as Wanda Walter Walsh, or:

"The Triple Wonder!, as I like to call myself. Miss Newhaven, have no fear, place yourself entirely on my well-manicured hands, I Promise I Won't disappoint. And I'll be on Budget!"

She seemed to have a habit of speaking Emphatically.

"Let's walk, I'd like to paint a vivid portrait of the best, the Best!, party this side of the world as ever witnessed!"

I accompanied her, or tried, all over the mansion and the gardens. She had gigantic high heels and still managed to out run me. For a woman in her fifties it was impressive, such fire and energy. After her visit I was exhausted.

Millie prepared a bath with relaxing and scented oils. While I soaked in the bathtub, outside I could hear her talking, telling me all the secrets of the house and its inhabitants.

"Miss Fallon, can I come in?"

"Yes, please. Come and sit."

She did and told me all about the servants, all of them seemed to have had a very complicated and tragic personal life story.

"How the heck you know this and so fast! You've been here what, two days?"

"You just keep your ears open, that's all there is to it."

Millie told me about Ama. How she loved someone, in the Philippines, who her family considered "unworthy". They castrated and murdered him, feeding him to pigs and she barely escaped with her life. Charlene was an Indian girl who fell in love with someone from the lowest of casts. Her lover managed to escape and married someone else, he now lives in Dubai. She was forced to escape to America and change her name (or else be forever persecuted and hunted). Brick, one of the gardeners (there were five in total, I believe, or was it six?), was tricked by his own brother and lost his girlfriend on a plane crash - a trip she would not have taken had she been told the truth. Deana's story was so gruesome no one revealed it to Millie and Mrs. Andreas was a big, clouded mystery herself.

"My God...!" I uttered. "Heartbreaking tales."

"That's right. All in this house."

We bot kept silent, pondering the possible meaning and reaching no conclusion.

"And," added Millie, "in the past all of the owners and servants apparently shared similar stories. Strange."

In the library there were old diaries and documents, narrating all of them (the old stories at least, not the new ones). The library had also, hanging over its halls, paintings representing all old (and deceased) Muted Canary's former owners.

I could barely sleep that night. I felt as if the house was speaking to me, from the shadows, whispering, whispering...

*

The Ball Day - that's what it was being called - finally arrived (extremely fast). The preparations were practically and entirely out of my hands and I was mesmerized at the blended glamour and creativity. The Triple Wonder - or Wanda - had managed to put flying trapeze artists in there, Cirque du Soleil artists, all sorts of performers (there was always a show, somewhere, starting or ending), surrounding the people invited, who dressed in costume. I made a point of adding to the guest list Theresa, Shayna, Joey and even Yannis (and of course Bethany and her husband).

Shayna gave me a warm embrace the moment she saw me.

"Fallon! It's fabulous, simple amazing!"

"Fab, honey, fab," added Joey.

"Do you like my costume? I'm a flap girl from the twenties."

"You look wonderful," I replied, smiling. "You too, Joey." He was dressed as Mr. Wickham from Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice'.

"I do, don't I? What about you?"

I had a long, blue gown, with a puffy half bottom, and a black mask concealing most of my face, and also an elaborated hairdo with golden feathers.

"A... princess... of sorts."

"Gorgeous!" said Joey while kissing my cheek and quickly disappearing, taking Shayna by the hand.

"Ta-ta!" she said before I lost her in the crowd.

I was surrounded by color and wonderful music and beautifully dressed people and yet a sense of loneliness walled my being - however such loneliness was a familiar one, an old friend of sorts.

All around the Great Hall of the old house (the Old Canary, as it was named; and the newest part of the house was called the New Canary - whatever the canary name came from was a mystery not even Millie could discover with all her wits and firmly opened ears), all around the Great Hall, in the walls, there were the printings, thirty tree, of Bethany's work - all photos I posed to. Every single one didn't look like me at all. I was proud, though, very proud. And happy.

"Fallon, Fallon," whispered Bethany, extremely happy, "every single one is sold! Sold!"

"Congrats! You deserve it, your work is amazing."

"I couldn't have done it without you. Now, where the devil is Sven? He was just here! I'll come right back."

As she left I turned around and was greeted with a huge kiss on my cheek.

"Gordon! Oh my, didn't see you there."

"You look beautiful. I knew it was you!"

We talked for a while and then he brought drinks.

"I don't drink alcohol."

"Oh, go on. It's your party."

I smiled and said no. He sighed, seemed a bit crossed (at least for a moment), smiled and brought me a glass of orange juice.

He had a costume of... what? Gordon was dressed in a Donna Karan wool black tuxedo and a pair of big, brown... ears?

"What is that?" I asked.

"These? I'm disguised as the Big Bad Wolf," he revealed, laughingly. "Do you wanna be my little red riding hood?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. All dressed up in blue."

"As a precious jewel," he complimented and kissed passionately my neck. I tingled all over as I watched him drift away to watch the trapeze artists.

Outside the stars were glittering and, somehow, I could sense even the old mansion was happy.

As I glanced over the Great Hall, filled with people, celebrities, "commoners", strangers and other guests whom I knew, I felt sorry my family wasn't there. I still hadn't mustered the courage to reveal the big changes in my life.

I got another drink (water, naturally). As I lifted my eyes from the crystal glass I saw them.

Dashiell and Dana had just entered the room, dressed as pirates.

My heart jumped. I dropped the glass. Someone noticed and it was cleaned immediately, but because the noise and music were loud, no one else did. I quivered and wanted to sit down. There were no seats available. I made my way, stumbling, outside to the verandah, overlooking the mysteries and darkness of our little and sacred forest. I was there, alone, the party was indoors, breathing heavily, trying to collect myself, when suddenly a hand touches, slightly, my shoulder. 'Oh, it's Gordon,' I thought and as I turned around slowly my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.

I saw Dashiell, Dashiell, standing there, smiling at me with such an innocent look. Never were we so close. My God, his eyes, his glittering eyes, shinier than diamonds and stars.

My heart, pounding, pounding, gave me the news: this is the one you will love forever, Fallon, no one else I'll let in, only him, only and forever Dashiell.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.

"Ye-yes..." I mustered the courage to say. Thank goodness for the dark for it concealed my red face. "Yes, perfectly fine," I lied behind my mask, trying hard to conjure a smile. "Just catching my breath. Too hot inside."

"Yes, it is a bit. But - so much fun! I love it. I simple adore it! It's the best party I have ever, ever, been to! I just absolutely needed to tell you this and thank you most sincerely for having invited me and my girlfriend."

"Oh, oh, you're, you're most welcomed."

He suddenly grabbed my naked hand and squeezed it, affectionately, between his own warm hands.

I swear my heart stopped and my knees almost failed me.

"You are Fallon, right? I didn't make a mistake, did I?"

"What? No, yes, I mean, I am," I said in a fragile and failing voice.

"We met once, remember?" he asked, abandoning my hand. Dashiell was getting closer and I stepped back. His eyes, his black eyes were - I saw it - trying to figure me out, to understand me, to strip away my secrets, layer by layer.

"Remember?" he asked again in a lower voice, his breath bathing my masked face.

"Yes," I conceded. "I was a... waitress."

And, suddenly, he burst out laughing.

"Yes, I recall it! You said: 'I'm a waitress'. You were the first one ever claiming that. Everyone is always an actor, a dancer, a writer, a director."

He kept beaming and added, looking in the distance, towards our little and sacred forest:

"Just to show you how fast life changes here, for the better or worse. I'm glad it was a positive transformation for you. You seem... deserving, of all this wealth and bliss."

"Thank you," I uttered, timidly.

"Ah, Fallon, here you are!"

Gordon had returned.

"I looked all over, couldn't find you. And who is this dashing fellow?"

"Oh, right. He's Dashiell, Dashiell Skye."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Gordon Emery."

"Likewise. Well, must return inside, Dana must be searching for me. She was admiring the portraits last time I saw her."

"Ah," said Gordon, "the model is Fallon."

"Sorry?"

"The photographer is Bethany and Fallon modelled for every single one of these photos, didn't you?"

I nodded yes. It was excruciating. I could hardly take a breath in, my lungs were beginning to sting.

"She's quite talented, our dear Fallon," praised Gordon.

"Well, yes, must dash. I'll pay closer attention to them," he said, finally leaving.

Oh God, I could breathe.

"Here, I brought you a flute of champagne. I know you don't drink, but you must absolutely try this champagne, it's almost criminal if you don't. Oh my!"

I took, rather aggressively, the flute from his hand and drank it whole in a second, and then I took his own and also drank that quickly.

"Quite thirsty, aren't you? I'll get more and be right back."

When he left I followed in his footsteps, silently, without him noticing it. I was in search of a bathroom and I knew there was a small one, hidden, only to be used by me (the staff knew how hectic the parties were and had instructed me about the small bathroom location). I found it and hid for a while. I sat to catch my breath, then I took off my mask and just patted my face a little (so as not to mess up the makeup). I took a few more deep breaths and left, leaving the mask behind. On my way back to the verandah (which overlooked and lead to our mini sacred forest) I saw Dana having some sort of argument with Dashiell and walking away from him, mad. That's strange. Yet everything was still too heavy, I needed fresh air desperately. I saw Gordon holding two more glasses of champagne, in search of me. I stepped back into the shadows and witnessed him leaving. Good. I was in no mood for chit-chat. Damn it. I felt a bit guilty for leading him on. I couldn't possibly love him, ever. I had to stop going out on dates with Gordon and I knew I had to inform him, sooner than later. It wasn't good to deceive him.

I left the party and was on the verandah once more, looking in the distance, thinking I hadn't properly explored the gardens and its old secrecies, my head full of this house old tales. From inside came the sounds of music, sometimes modern, sometimes classical, of people laughing and talking, glasses clinking and general cheerfulness. My chest felt less dense and I turned around, ready to get back to the festivities.

From the shadows a figure appeared as if it had been plucked away from the dark. My panic rose. Was it one of the many ghosts populating "Muted Canary"?, I wondered in dread. The staff had told they particularly liked the parties, some even actively joined them! As the figure got closer I saw it was Dashiell. His countenance had somewhat changed, his eyes seemed to glitter with animosity and his beautiful lips were pressed together tightly.

"I remember you better now," he said in a whisper. His manner seemed cold, distant and hostile. "You made rosemary scones."

"Me-me? No, no," I answered, frightened by this puzzling change and then I remembered he had had an altercation with Dana just moments ago so probably that explained his different demeanor.

"No, no. That is Joey's recipe, he made those. His own invention. I, I, it wasn't me," I said timidly, not knowing where to place my hands.

Dashiell got closer and again I could tell his eyes, heavy as dark diamonds, on me, probing my timid soul, sensing its obscurity.

God, if he gets any closer I die. I die.

"Fallon!" the high pitched screech jerked us both out of this weird, mutual spell.

"Fallon!" screamed Bethany once more. "I have great news for you! Oh, hello, who's this?"

"It's..."

However he interrupted saying he had to go and quickly disappeared in the ball's belly.

"Odd fellow. Anyway. Mr. Meyer just told me. You're legal! You are now a legal resident of this lovely country!"

And she hugged and kissed me. I started crying not because of the excellent news, but due to all of the emotion before.

"Oh, no need to get teary!"

I can hardly remember the rest of the night, it went by in a confusion of lights, loud sounds and dazzling dancing.

And yet when I went up to my room I could hardly sleep.

CHAPTER 23

I believe I did manage to sleep for two hours, the emotions of the day had been too much for me. And to think I had three years of parties and balls to endure! Well, "endure" is not the appropriate word. I did rather like it, to be truthful. I enjoyed dancing. Bethany said I was looser, less timid than usual. I suppose the alcohol did help though I only had two flutes of champagne. I recalled my two encounters with Dashiell, one sweet, one odd and full of strangeness. I guess his mood was altered by the fight with Dana.

My hairdo was a mess, my glorious blue, imperial dress all crumpled up, my shoes... where the devil did I put my shoes?! I glanced at the watch on the nightstand. It was five o'clock. Outside it was still dark but, hinted, laid the promise of a morning to come.

I got up, tried to no avail to unwrinkle my gorgeous gown, put on comfortable ballet flats and combed my hair, removing the last of the golden feathers. In my private bathroom I splashed my face with water and washed away the makeup. I didn't like makeup all that much.

Then I left the master bedroom.

The house was a mess and still enveloped in crippling silence (Wanda told me the cleaning would only start by ten a.m.). This silence appeared to be the a natural response of the house, after being awaken from its slumber, resented for being abandoned once more.

Slowly I moved, my dress producing a dragging sound as I paced and slid. I heard a noise and saw what I supposed to be a figure turning a nearby corner. I took two steps in the same direction and saw no one. I was puzzled and frowning but weirdly not scared. I knew the mansion and its inhabitants - living and deceased - accepted me. More than that - they actually cared for me. It was bizarre: whatever place I went I managed to find a family (to add to my blood one).

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a door open. I walked towards it and entered the room. It was one of the guest rooms (on New Canary) and a figure slept on the bed. My heart jumped when the figure rose up. But I was immediately relieved when I recognized the fuzzy ears from his costume.

"Gordon? What are you still doing here?" I asked, smiling.

"Fallon? Oh, gee, so sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Apologies. Come here, come near me, help me up. These old bones aren't what they used to be."

He extended an arm and I hold out my hand to help him up. Instead he pulled me into bed.

"Oh, God!"

"Ah, ah!" he laughed. "Tricked you! No, no, don't get up. Stay a moment, just a while. Go on."

I didn't like where this was going so I said no politely and tried to get out of bed. He kept pushing me down.

"Come on, stay. I won't harm you, promise. Don't you trust the Big Bad Wolf?"

"Let me go. Let me up. Damn it, Gordon, this isn't funny! Let go of me!"

Suddenly he fired up and put a hand on my mouth, while pressing my body down. I tried to scream and set myself free, but it was impossible, the weight of the dress was too much and he was bigger and stronger than me. With a rush of panic I realized he was pulling my dress up and trying to take his pants off. I struggled, bit him, the tears were falling down my face, I was unable to breathe when unexpectedly all of his weight was magically lifted from my body and I was finally free. As I rolled to the floor, the room was lit. I saw Mrs. Andreas and Millie holding him down (Millie kicking him several times) and then they lift him and dragged him out of the guest room. Bethany was beside me, I didn't even notice anyone entering, and she was trying to provide comfort by saying:

"It's ok, it's ok. You're safe. He's gone, he's gone now. You're safe, you're safe."

My body shivered against hers and I cried and cried. She held me firmly in her arms.

Later I found out Gordon was put on his car and told to leave. Also Bethany informed me Mr. Meyer had taken things further by telling Gordon: 'If you come near Miss Newhaven again, we'll be sure to talk to the IRS about you repeated tax evasions. I believe by now they'd make an example out of you and send your raping ass to prison for an extended and not so pleasant stay.'

"I never thought, I never imagined he could, he could... I feel so stupid!"

"Don't," said Bethany. "No one imagined. It's not your fault. Don't ever, ever, blame yourself! I'm glad we came just in time."

"How the devil did you knew?! I couldn't scream, I couldn't move!"

"Mrs. Andreas told me and Millie."

"And how did she know?"

There was a silence while we stared at each other. Bethany shrugged.

"One of the ghosts told her," added Millie in a frightened whisper.

We three kept quiet.

There was no other logical explanation.

Later we heard he was in Europe, for an extended period, working.

Yeah... working.

*

"How was the conversation?" asked Bethany, frowning.

"My parents are still unconvinced and Sophia is positively... suspicious of 'the whole matter'."

"What else is new?"

"I wish you two would make up."

"Don't worry about that. When are they coming?"

"The tickets are bought, they just have to go and pick them up. Mom and Dad probably next week; Sophia... doesn't know yet. Maybe she'll be here with my parents or will come a week later. She doesn't know. I've sent pictures of the Estate, of me in the gardens, news clips telling all about how I came to unexpectedly inherit this big fortune and Still she doesn't believe! I swear, sometimes, she's worse than Saint Thomas."

After a silence Bethany remarked:

"Tell her to take the high road and see things in a reasonable way..."

We both quietly laughed.

"You're mean, Bethany..." I said, smirking.

"I'm a peach."

Later in the evening I curled up to write Dashiell another letter. I missed it. I missed writing him.

«[Letter Number 35]

My Dearest Dashiell;

My heart is plumped at the sight of you. Since my last few letters wondrous and terrible things happened in my life, turning it on its head.

I met with docile, good men, who turned out to be scoundrels; and I was rewarded by others of whom I thought the deepest of sins and wickedness.

How mistaken I was. For my mistake almost got me raped, however, saviors were at hand and thus my soul was untouched. Had I been vilified my spirit would break away from my flesh and elope to the purest of heavens.

Miraculously, I was saved.

I'm sorry, I wish not to worry you with my troubles. I missed you, I so much missed writing you.

I missed telling you of my deepest love. You are firmly established in my heart and if I dared pluck you out it would leave an open gash on my chest, never healing, and slowly I would die.

It would kill me not to love you.

What else can I say? Only that in a while I'll go into the mist and talk to my trees, perhaps confessing to them my deepest and sincere sentiment for you.

I leave you with all my love, always.

An Admirer»

CHAPTER 24

"You should have seen them, Miss Fallon, all hugs and kisses. All is forgiven. They've been chatting ever since, waiting for you," Millie told me the minute I walked in about the encounter with Bethany and my sister.

"They're in the gardens."

I went down to meet them.

When Sophia saw me she raced to greet me. After a bear hug and tender, sisterly kisses, she confessed her amazement:

"I could never believe had I not seen it! My goodness, Fallon, how did this happen?!"

I shrugged.

"I have no idea. I wasn't even especially kind to him."

She laughed, happily.

"I still have trouble believing to be true though I'm standing in the middle of it all!" Sophia said, smiling and observing everything which now belonged to me: the gardens, the mansion.

"And the name, 'Muted Canary', where did it originate?"

I shrugged again. I told her I had absolutely no clue.

"There's more mysteries than certainties about this house, that's all I can say for a fact. Little by little I'm getting acquainted with its history. In the library there's a whole stack of old diaries and papers documenting the history of the mansion and its owners."

"Oh, do show me."

We walked to the library and ended up staying there for hours. Sophia loved books even more than me.

"How long are you staying?" I finally asked, after Bethany left.

"Want to get rid of your old sis so fast?" she said, jokingly.

"No! Quite the opposite! I was just curious."

"I can stay as long as I want. I got fired."

"Oh my God, Sophia...!"

"Yep! The bastards fired me. To hell with them, I say. I was sick of that job. Just idiots and incompetents surrounding me. Again I asked for time off, I hadn't taken a vacation since Forever. They said no, I was needed, blah-blah-blah. I got fed up and told them point blank: 'I'm going next week, either you like it or not.' The next day my new idiot boss, who still smells of diapers, called me to his office and fired me! The ass!"

"I'm so sorry, Sophia!"

"Oh, it was a blessing in disguise, Fallon, trust me. I settled in that job for ages. My husband, you know, has been telling me for years to quit and get a new one. I never got paid overtime and was expected to work more than ten hours daily and had less and less time for my family! Honestly, it got worse since you left. That's no life. He's glad, you know, Tom. He said: 'Go. I'll manage the kids. Stay as long as you want.'"

"Wonderful husband."

"One day you'll get one too, as good - if not better - as my Tom. Speaking of, ever since This you must be fighting them off with a stick!"

"Oh, so men will only have me for my money?" I observed, laughing.

"No, that's not what I meant! I mean, this new lifestyle must have brought a legion of suitable... suitors, I imagine."

"Not really," I said. I knew she wanted to know about Gordon but Bethany had already told Sophia we were no longer seeing each other and she was right, the age difference was too much of a gap. I asked Bethany not to reveal the horrors of the true story. But I dismissed my loving though nosey sister intentions of knowing more.

"You must have been paying little attention, Fallon."

Her hopes, it was apparent, was for me to find someone now more suitable, someone more on my level - and nice.

Overall, I was glad Sophia was there. Mom and Dad were coming next weekend which made me even happier. My nephews couldn't come because of school but next vacation they would spend it here, with me.

"As long as they don't mind the ghosts," said Millie.

"Ghosts?" Sophia asked. "What ghosts?"

It was too late to stop Millie from narrating her tales.

"Well, Ma'am, as long as you are asking, let me tell you. There's old Mr. McKinney, the original owner and builder of the house. He made his fortune in construction, so I was told. He occupies part of the attic in Old Canary."

"Old Canary?" Sophia had a puzzled look.

"That's what they call the old part of the house," I informed.

"And then there's Miss Avalon, she was one of the servants in the seventies. And, of course, her child who was seven when he drowned."

"God," Sophia said. "Have you actually seen any of these ghosts yourself, Millie?"

"Well... well, no, I haven't but the staff here has and they talk to them as if they were still living and standing right next to them. Just the other day Charlene, politely, asked Fanny to let her open the washing machine. And it did. Like magic."

"I see..." said Sophia, lifting her brow ever so lightly. She didn't believe a single word and to me it was clear as day she considered Millie to be credulous and naive. I smiled inside. There's old Sophia, whom I love and missed. I didn't confess to my sister, though, I had seen two of them myself: the child, twice, in one of the occasions he was playing with a ball on the garden, hiding between the trees (sometimes inside); and a canary. A ghost canary which appeared so real it fooled a real, living, eagle. The eagle saw him, launched itself to it from the heavens and his claws firmly secured nothing but air though the eagle and myself could see a yellow canary sitting on a branch of an oak tree - untouched.

I remember the eagle, from a nearby tree, looking at it and then at me as if asking: 'You see that, right? I'm not mental, am I?'

How could I tell Sophia? No. Better not tell her. Better just to enjoy her presence. I took her to see Blackie Rest. She met my former colleagues (couldn't shut up about the party), Yannis (for like a second) and Theresa. She had a slice of my rose cake (I left them the recipe) and adored it.

"Oh, Fallon, your skills have improved. My Lord, this cake...!"

"She's a goddess in the kitchen," praised Joey. "Yannis is furious to have lost her."

I laughed.

I took her shopping and she hardly wanted to spend anything.

"It's your money, Fallon. I can't spend as if it was mine. It's not. It's not fair."

And, as always, she meant every word.

"I want to give to you because you're my sister and I love you. Now shush and try another dress."

Two dresses and three pairs of shoes was all she allowed me to gift her.

Mom and Dad came a few days later and stayed ten days. They were amazed about everything.

"You are a lucky soul, child, a lucky soul," said Mom.

I showered them with gifts. Dad's new hobby was reenacting old battles. I got him a bunch of miniature soldiers from medieval times. He loved them.

"Another hobby," sighed Mom, rolling her eyes.

They returned home but Sophia stayed. She spent some time on the Muted Canary's Library, going through old documents and diaries of the house's ancient owners. I, for myself, still modeled for Bethany on occasion. She now had many other models to choose from.

Now, what do I do?, I thought to myself. I had no clue. I mean, I no longer had to work for a living so...

One day I found myself in New Canary's kitchen and I felt like baking bread.

It was a catastrophic disaster.

So I tried and tried and after twelve hours (which flew by) the walnut bread came out perfect.

"What's the recipe, Ma'am?" one of the cooks asked (the fact the house had two cooks still surprised me). I shared it and Sophia said, with her mouth full of warm bread (five or six people were ravaging it), "Maybe you should write a recipe book."

A little light bulb came on. Yeah. Yeah! Maybe I should.

And thus I had a new career and path in life. A writer! Well, a pastry chef/cook writer of sorts...

It kept me busy and Sophia, while she was with me (ended up staying for seven weeks) wrote all the recipes down and accompanied my experimentation process. When she returned home (after a job offer which paid less but she knew the people and they 'weren't crazy'), she left ready a whole book, filled with my recipes and crazy process. Bethany had taken the shots and I admit the whole thing, finished, looked lovely. I self-published and, honestly, forget all about it. It was there, in the world, and that was enough. To me it was done and it was time to work on some new recipes.

Mrs. Andreas assigned one of the staff to assist me. Her name was Petra, she was almost as young as me, and didn't talk much. Surprisingly we got along fine. Millie was no longer there but I saw her and Bethany almost daily.

While working on my second book, news fell on me like a ton of bricks.

Dash and Dana, according to TMZ sources, had married.

Married.

CHAPTER 25

I was devastated for months.

Slowly some sort of uncaring joy returned to my being. Five months had passed which helped my healing but my heart, inside, ached and howled. The house itself seemed to grieve with me, the walls silently crying.

I was getting better and better at hiding my moods and quiet desperation, unfortunately, not as good as I thought. The staff knew I was extremely sad, Mrs. Andreas knew, the ghosts were painfully aware, as was Bethany, who kept popping up to 'discuss work' even though now I only rarely modelled for her and rarely she would take pics of my cooked dishes. I suspected Sophia had probably asked her to keep an eye on me. It seemed no one knew the reason of my intense distress and pain, though sometimes I imagined the staff sensed it to be related with matters of the heart. The whole house seemed to be a harbor, a refuge for broken hearts.

Wanda, the Triple Wonder, came to visit and setup the new party. This was the third (or fourth? I lost count) and she envisioned it to be romantic and sentimental with a dash of adventure.

"Aquatic theme! I see water everywhere! Mermaids, Sea captains! Wales! We can rent an orca for a weekend, don't worry, I know people. Ships everywhere! Leave it up to me, Fallon, I won't disappoint."

My God the woman could walk and she was a lot older than me. "Pilates!" she would shout, "All this is the work of Pilates!" Slowly, almost in an unnoticed way, she drew me in into the party plans.

I was having discussions about models and how they should be dressed, carpenters and what boats should be built, what food and drinks ought to be served, what music should be played. Wanda was indeed remarkable. At night, my head spinning, I would wake up with a sudden body jerk. What scared me? Nothing. I was getting familiar with the ghosts and I do dare say they did their best not to bother or frighten me, they were keeping out of sight even more ever since the 'Gordon incident'.

I woke up and saw a little boy staring at me. He was dressed as a boy would in the seventies of the 20th century. He looked sweet. He had short blond hair and a brown ball in his hand, which he extended, in an invitation to play. I smiled. He didn't scare me one bit. Sometimes the servants would leave toys for him: cars and fire engines. Every Christmas, lying underneath the tree, there was a gift for him.

I extended my hand to touch his when suddenly a gentle, female voice was heard, whispering:

"Let Miss Newhaven sleep."

So the boy turned away and left, his body disappearing before he reached the door.

I, being wide awake, followed.

He was nowhere to be seen but from all around I could hear whispers, belonging to the house and its former dead occupants. It felt so comfortable walking around, I was not a prey to fear at all.

I was following, barefoot, in the direction of the whispers and sighs when suddenly I heard something different: 'She's coming. Hide. She's coming.' I shadowed the voices until they grew silent. Having no idea where to go I turned away and was about to return to the master bedroom in New Canary - when suddenly a fainting voice said, in the distance, in a relieved tone: 'She's leaving.'

I turned again facing the sounds. No longer was I returning to my bedroom. I couldn't sleep anyway and there were so many secrets in the mansion yet to be discovered.

I walked towards the stairs and found myself in Old Canary. This part of the house, at four o'clock, in the middle of the night, had a stark look, almost as if it was scolding me for walking about at such ungodly hour. It seemed it desired to hide something from me - but you hide nothing from a Scorpio. Ever. You may try but fail.

Silently I progressed in my journey and the voices grew louder and more anxious. I heard: 'No. Fallon. Don't. Go back. Go back! No! Someone call her. I will.'

I found myself on the Great Hall, almost ready for a new lavish party. Everyone was invited. Everyone else wanted to come.

I advanced a step and hurt myself on the floor.

"Ouch! Damn it."

A board with a nail protruding was there, in the middle of the floor, invisible to me.

"Damn it!"

"Oh, Miss Newhaven, are you all right?"

Now, that voice I recognized. I turned around to see Mrs. Andreas, wearing a robe and a concerned look on her face, advancing to me and then firmly holding me by the shoulders.

"Whatever are you doing here in the middle of the night? And with no light. With such a mess you are bound to hurt yourself. Did you, Miss Newhaven?"

"Oh, only a little. A nail."

"A nail!"

"It's nothing."

"Come. I'll put you in bed and we'll have a look."

We took the elevators this time and a corridor, which I didn't even knew existed, connecting the Old to the New Canary. In no time I was back to my bedroom. With all the lights turned on, Mrs. Andreas saw the nail hadn't do much damage. She cleaned the wound and tucked me in.

"There. Have a good night, Miss Newhaven."

"Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Andreas."

And she left.

Yet my heart knew something was hidden in the dark. Something was being kept from me.

*

The party was wonderful. In fact it was so good the police came - not to break it up or anything but they had to come up with an excuse just to witness it.

Next time, I told Wanda, we should invite a few of these guys. She rolled her eyes and said ok, but only two or three, no more! Police was trouble in her book. Me? I just wanted to make everyone happy.

This time it was five a.m. when finally the guests left (not all, a few stayed in our guest rooms) and the staff - with dozen others of hired help - were cleaning everything. I was amazed how quick, thorough and competent they were. I tried to help but no one allowed me. Bethany ended up in my bed and Sven was called away for an emergency surgery for a client who didn't follow his medical recommendations. It must have been quite a sight being operated by a corsair. Oh, sorry, 'a privateer', he corrected. I smiled remembering it.

I saw everyone busy and it was close to six a.m. Mrs. Andreas was tired and finally retired. I was still in my red gown of a Duchess turned pirate (I invented my own little back story). My hair had extensions and it was curly, black as a raven's, reaching almost my thighs. I felt so beautiful. Bethany - and others - couldn't stop taking pictures of me.

The Great Hall was almost cleaned and emptied. I was observing the fantastic job when my eyes fell upon a door. I remembered, in a flash, the first meeting I had with Mrs. Andreas. She pointed to this door, saying the room was always locked, was unsafe and needed restauration. Hmm. My curiosity sparked. I placed my and on the knob and turned it.

It was locked. I had no idea where the key might be and sensed no one would give it to me.

Never mind, I thought, I have other abilities. Google and YouTube are immense windows into human knowledge. I learned how to pick locks (never mind why) a while ago.

And this one seemed pretty easy to open. I still had my tools.

I peeked. There was no one in the hall, they were all busy cleaning the remaining areas, including the gardens.

It was now or never. I was going to get my tools and open the damn door.

"Miss Newhaven."

Mrs. Andreas was standing right next to me, wearing a furious look. Her hair was a mess and her robe open. Her shoes were mismatched. It seemed she was abruptly awaken and rushed to me.

"It isn't safe!" she said, trying not to shout. "The room. It's unsafe. It needs work."

"Really?" I replied, stepping back. "Good. The carpenters are here. Let's call them. Ask them how long it will take to fix it."

"I, I..." she was searching for an excuse. "I have no idea where I put the key. You must give me some time to search," she asked, in a quieter manner.

"No. We'll break it open. Simple."

"No! I mean, Miss Newhaven, everyone's tired. And they are busy dismounting the stage and other things. We'll talk to them next week, surely it's better."

I paused and looked straight into her eyes. Then I smiled.

"You are right, of course, Mrs. Andreas. It is better."

She flashed a smile of relief. We both went to sleep.

Or so she thought.

I quickly located my tools, changed into a jumpsuit and sneakers and leaped back into the Great Hall, determined to open the damned door.

But I found it already open.

I entered the room, closing the door silently behind me. It took some time to adjust my eyes to the light, but there, standing near a bed and with an oxygen bottle beside him, I saw Conrad Heather.

"Hello, my dear. Lovely to see you again."

CHAPTER 26

He was alive. All this time Conrad Heather had been alive.

"Do have a seat."

There was a table near him.

I sat on a chair and he did the same. I couldn't speak, I just looked at him in absolute amazement and badly repressed cholera.

"No need to anger yourself, Miss Fallon, don't frown your pretty little face," he said, half-jokingly. His pain and fragility were unmistaken, though.

"You're alive," I uttered finally, still gawking at him.

"Barely, Fallon. May I call you Fallon? You don't mind, I hope."

I didn't reply. I was too mad.

"Dear Fallon, don't be like that."

"Like what?" I said, under my breath, still fixating my Scorpio eyes on his lying face.

"Don't be upset. So I fibbed a little."

"Fibbed? Fibbed?! You're supposed to be ashes, ashes on a vase! Am I speaking to ashes, am I?! Are you ash, Mr. Heather, are you?!"

"Yes, Fallon. Indeed I am. And I have been for the most part of my life."

I stood up, furious, my hands clutching into fists.

"I'll have nothing to do with this, this... charade! Sir, I'll collect my sparse belongings and leave. Goodbye, Mr. Heather."

"Oh don't be so melodramatic, young girl. Sit down, sit down."

I flinched and again I sat. I wanted something, I wanted an explanation. Yet I was still determined to leave.

"You're using me," I accused under my breath, angry. "All of this is a lie. A horrible, wicked lie! Is this the ultimate prank, is it? Are you all having a laugh at my expense? I seem fragile and naive, perhaps week, but let me assure you, you damn Hungarian!, I am not, I am not! I could make your head spin if I wanted and I'm resentful. I never forget - nor forgive - a slight, specially a wicked, malicious prank!"

He started laughing and then suddenly stopped, unable to breathe. Franticly he put on the little mask covering his nose and mouth and breathed in the oxygen.

I felt, instantly, guilty.

"I don't want to add to your ills, Mr. Heather. I'll take my leave and call Mrs. Andreas. I suppose she is acquainted with the truth?"

I was again standing and when he felt a bit better he signed with his big hand for me to sit back down.

I complied, out of guilt once more.

"Fallon, so much drama. You are in your judgement of events utterly and completely wrong. This is not by all means 'a prank'. It is reality. I'm not dead yet but soon I will. What I have is incurable and it's only a matter of time until it eats me up alive. Honestly, everyone expected me to live no more than two weeks after the Estate was signed into your hands. No one is more surprised than I am. And my ashes, dear girl, will coat the Big Oak... eventually. As soon as I am dead."

"Who took your place? Who's the body cremated as if it were you?"

"An unclaimed soul. Someone, probably a homeless man, whose body laid in the morgue, unknown, for months. Died of natural causes, lucky bastard. So... I'm told. Meyer took care of everything. I didn't want to die in a vile hospital. I hate those meat gatherers. No spirit. No dignity. Here I'm with my own... tribe, so to speak. You have met them, I'm told. Not all, of course. Some are shy. They hide. In the attic there's lots of places to hide from the living. In the forest too. Even here, in the mansion, some forgotten closets, never used, old cabinets and wardrobes... some of the... former living took decades to even show themselves to me. They take their time. It's nothing personal, dear Fallon, they were... not the most trusting people while living. It's only natural their personality preserves its traits after their death..."

It was hard for him to breathe and talk. He had to stop from time to time to take oxygen in. My demeanor changed and now I simply listened.

"Smashing. You're no longer furious. Well, not as much. But do remove the look of pity from your face. It is tiresome."

After a long silence he added:

"This house... is different. It's full of heartache and shields those who have loved and lost. It's a sanctuary for heartbroken souls. Surely you have... noticed the pattern? All the servants, the former owners, beginning from the very first, old Mr. McKinney? Oh, hello, Sir, how are you, dear fellow?"

I turned my head and at first saw nothing but then, half inside the hall, half outside I saw Mr. McKinney, quickly, for a second.

"He probably went to fetch the others. They don't want to miss story time. You're not... afraid, are you? I hope not. They're your tribe now."

He was frowning. My heart did jump and even more when I heard the first owner was calling more ghosts to hear me and Conrad Heather talk, but I replied (probably unconvincingly):

"I'm... I'm fine, thank you."

He smirked, his eyelids were having trouble in staying open, and then took another breath of oxygen from the bottle.

"I can see you are very brave, Fallon. It was the first thing I noticed about you: a sense of quiet, unspoken, bravery. You are the type who shies away from credit and let others take it. I suppose you're expecting an explanation. We'll wait for the others. Just common decency."

I heard a multitude of whispers and twirled in my chair. Opposite, on the wall, there was a myriad of ghosts, some I'd known, some not; some I had heard of, some not.

"Don't worry, they will not harm you. Quite the reverse. They'll always protect you, as they have protected me and those who came before me and even themselves. You see, Fallon, this is a different house. It was built on hope and, then, lost dreams and lost affections. Every single one of the people who inhabits here, living or long deceased, had their hearts broken, their hopes scattered into the wild winds and their souls utterly crushed. Many suffered for unrequited love, others not for the love given but for the obstacles placed on their path, grave and big. They never had a chance to live a happy life as a couple. Some say the mansion is cursed. Outsiders who know nothing. Well, 'Muted Canary' has had a string of... unhappy love stories, yes, but I'm hoping, we are All hoping," he said, his hand and feeble arm sliding from one side to the other, "that you, dear girl, are the one who finally changes it. The one who breaks the spell."

He stopped talking and stared at me, lifting his eyebrows, as if waiting for a reaction. None came so he continued:

"Then what I saw in you was something so familiar for I had suffered from it for years and years: a sign of unspoken, hidden love. They say unrequited love hurts and that is admittedly true, but unspoken hurts just as much. Our words don't make the trip from the heart to our lips. They get stuck in our throat. It's unbearable. I recognized it in you when I saw you watching the news about a movie from an actor no one at the time knew who the devil was. But you knew, Fallon, didn't you?"

He leaned over, his face looking almost as a cadaver, very grim, pale and dry.

My heart jumped. I lowered my eyes and said:

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He leaned back and laughed for a short moment.

"Fallon, I have read the letters. Some of Dashiell's and the rest from you. The copies you keep in the Master Bedroom's safe. You think a safe keeps ghosts away? They have brought them to me and put them back - without even having to open it! Oh, the glories of immateriality. Can't hardly wait for it..."

I was mad and panicking, quietly, at the same time.

"Don't worry. We are on your side. Those letters will never come out. Well, except, one day - if you so choose - they will be on our private library. For the time being you can be sure they are safe. Dashiell has kept quite a few. You had no idea, did you? I know because his agent told me he burned some, a while back, but, after that event, he has kept them all. Every single letter you have sent afterwards, Dashiell has preserved. And he reads them quite often. There is hope for you, dear girl. I can feel it in my dying bones. He has feelings for this anonymous woman who writes him love letters, he tries hard not to, but he has them. Somewhere, in the depths of his heart, you have planted a seed of love and the moment he knows you're the author - it will bloom with swiftly, like wildfire."

I averted my gaze. I so desired his words were to turn into reality.

I tried to change the subject.

"Does all the staff know you're alive?"

"Yes. Everyone knows."

A silence grew bigger until finally I asked:

"Why me? Why did you choose me?"

"I've just revealed my reasons, dear girl."

"I... don't understand. Don't you have family to leave your money to? The house, everything? Why give it to a complete stranger? Everybody has heartache and broken hearts. It's quite common."

"I had a good for nothing nephew who did me the good service of perishing ten years ago. Apart from him, no blood relatives remain. Which is a good thing. You'd agree if you'd had the misfortune of meeting them. Mostly made of venomous blood, the lot. My true family is this house and all its occupants. Why you, you ask? We are the same, me, you and all the previous owners. In due time you too will be required to pick an heir, that is, if you don't break the... spell? Curse? Whatever it is, even though we don't feel it as such. It is not a curse to spend eternity here. We all quite like it! But if you do succeed in catching Dashiell, in... living a true happy ending, then the heirs will be your own blood! Whatever the future, it will be determined by you and your actions. We will assist, naturally. We are suckers for happy endings! You know, dear girl, even after all the heartache, we choose to remain... optimists!"

Another moment passed without any of us speak. Behind me the whispers died down. The ghosts were leaving.

"He's... married," I finally said. "He married."

"So?" answered Conrad, lifting his shoulders and placing the oxygen mask on his face.

"So? So he's married now! That ship has sailed!" I shouted and immediately regained control over myself.

"No ship ever sails forever. Sooner or later they all return to port. Have you been paying attention, child? He keeps your letters. What fully committed man does that? You have carved a place, a secluded niche, hidden from sight, in his heart - a place no one knows about and its existence he doesn't even dare admit to himself."

"I don't believe it," I whispered, my eyes lowered, feeling confused and sad.

"Why else would he keep the letters?"

"To give them to the police. So they can catch the 'stalker'."

"Nonsense. He wants to know who you are. He wants to be swept off his feet. Young men today, so much like Cinderellas they are..." Conrad said, mockingly and amused. In spite of all the pain there was still place for him to feel amused by Humanity. For an instant I was in awe of him.

"He desires to meet you. I dare say he probably has secret fantasies of seeing you, kissing you and be even more marveled at your sight than he ever suspected. Give him a chance, Fallon. What else can he do but to anticipate your next letter? He awaits you. Poor guy, he's more like the princess in fairy tales. He has no clue of who you might be. You tell him nothing, you give him all without actually giving him anything! You risk Nothing! So... he waits and waits and waits and..."

"And marries someone else," I said, my eyes watering.

"Dear girl. You do understand you possess the power to change it?"

"How?"

"The parties. Invite him."

"I do! Always. The last one nor he or his wife showed up."

"Persistence is key. Keep the invitations going. Eventually he will attend. Now, dear girl, be a sport and help me to bed, will you?"

I helped lift his light body and put him inside the covers. He immediately fell asleep.

Without telling me his own love story.

CHAPTER 27

A new lavish party was upon us. I was actually getting into them! Each one was even more fun than the one preceding.

"Oh, all right!" conceded Wanda. "We'll invite those pesky police men. But if they start to arrest people don't tell me I didn't warn you!"

"Ok, ok," I said, pleased.

The theme for the event was a surprising one: Scotland and Sci-Fi. Like mixing tea with whisky: unheard of.

There were the usual mix of celebrities and 'nobodies'. The Press wanted to be present, only a few were allowed (including Bloggers). Wanda didn't like press she couldn't control and, honestly, I shared her feelings.

"This can either be a success or a bust, Fallon. Let's hope for the best!" said the Triple Wonder.

"Who cares! Let's have fun!"

A merry go round was setup in the Big Hall and all sorts of amusements were scattered throughout the mansion and its gardens (the New Canary was always closed for the festivities, still some guests managed to find their way there - and into the rooms...).

Three hot new pop bands had been invited and when I wondered if this didn't implode our budget, Wanda revealed they wanted to be in the party so much they were doing the gig for free.

"God!" I exclaimed, astounded.

"Yep. That's how good the Triple Wonder is."

Oh my God, I never had so much fun - and only with a glass of champagne.

I danced and danced. The fact I was, again, wearing a mask helped me feel liberated.

Wanda pointed the police officers who were invited: five in total. One of them walked up towards us, wearing a big, white smile, a kilt, a wonderful torso and glittering brown eyes.

My heart did skip a beat.

(What? I have eyes.)

"Oh Lordy, Lordy," said Wanda, watching him as he got closer.

"Miss Newhaven. Mish Walsh. Thank you for inviting us. We are most grateful."

"You are very welcome, Sir."

"Please, call me Jim."

"Ok, call me Fallon. I hope you are all having a fantastic time," I said, smiling and feeling my face warm up. Maybe it was the lights.

Or his torso.

Who knew?

"We assure you, we are."

"Good, good!"

We chi-chatted for a bit. My goodness, he was gorgeous. Cops look good! Jim was so nice and only twenty five. Unwed, apparently (said on of him comrades, approaching).

"And looking for a wife!" the comrade added, much to his chagrin. We all laughed.

"Well, don't let me keep you in your quest!" I said, jokingly, as I left their company. "I apologize, gentleman, Miss Walsh is asking for me. Please, have a good time and enjoy yourselves."

"We will, ma'am."

"What is it?" I asked Wanda.

"There's someone who wasn't invited at the door."

I lifted my head above the crowd and saw, in the entrance, Dashiell's friends from Hollywood and two others from his ballet days.

My heart stopped. My Lord.

"Sophia."

"What?"

"Sophia is at the gate," Wanda said.

"What? Sophia, Sophia? Oh, let her in, let her in."

She didn't warn me, just decided to show up. Although she had seen a party before, she still was surprised with this one.

"My goodness, Fallon!"

"Sophia, how are you? Charlene, take my sister's luggage, please."

Although I was indeed happy to see her I felt Sophia should have warned me she was coming. I considered she could no more continue treating me as if I were a child, giving me no adult respect. Something in me felt my sister's behavior was no longer appropriate.

"Come, enjoy the party. Would you like a drink? The apple juice, I don't know what they put in it, it's phenomenal."

"No. I... I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"Oh, of course. Is everything all right at home?"

"Yes. Everything is fine. Everyone is fine."

I led her to the guest room, in New Canary, and quickly she fell asleep.

I returned to the festivities with a much somber outlook.

As if happiness had been washed away and replaced by worry.

Sophia here... and Dashiell's friends as well (though no Dashiell - nonetheless he was invited, along with his wife).

Something felt off.

I went to the verandah and observed our sacred forest. I needed air and a chance to gather my thoughts.

When I was about to return inside all the lights went out. The sky was strangely dark and there was no moonlight present.

It was pitch black.

Suddenly I felt grabbed and pinned against a wall, my hands held together behind me by a bigger, stronger hand and another one touching my head, my face, my lips.

The man - for it was a man - took my mask off and pressed his lips against mine. I fought first but then what I felt was a kiss so passionate, so full of tenderness and delight, that my whole body abandoned itself to it, tingling all over. The stranger kissed me as a lover, a long missed soulmate, a long awaited husband returning to his endearing spouse. That's how he kissed me. I had no breath when the stranger let me go and left. I felt only his enticing taste on my mouth, my lips, my tongue. There, against the wall, shivering, I stood - until the lights were on again and I could hear Wanda's screeching voice announcing: 'The generators are up, people. Party on!'

Oh my God, what just happened?

*

I went back to the party, confused, tingling, my body had been awoke for the very first time and - I sensed - the way a woman's body should be awaken by a man's hand and a man's lips and a man's intense, heartfelt desire.

Oh my God, oh my God, who was that? Who was it?! A fearful thought crossed my dazed, numbed mind: one of the ghosts? No. Impossible. The body pressed with lust against mine was so entirely made of flesh. No. He was living. Living, breathing and devouring me. I had to sit.

The party had hours to go. I, on the other hand, decided to call it a night and went to my bedroom. It was unoccupied (the deceased made sure love birds would stay away from the Master Bedroom) and simply collapsed onto the bed. Too much to process, too many things, too many people. Sophia, here!, again - something which increasingly I noticed annoyed me. And the stranger! The stranger's taste... oh my, I could feel it, I could feel once more his tongue exploring tentatively and passionately my mouth, touching, teasing my tongue and twirling across my teeth.

I fell asleep and woke up around 5 a.m. with the need to speak to Conrad. Bethany was already home and I couldn't nor did I want to wake up Sophia just to talk.

Maybe Conrad was awake.

Silently I made my way to the Big Hall. The door to Conrad's lodging was, as I suspected, open. Probably Conrad liked to witness these events, hidden. Quietly, I went to meet him \- and found him sound asleep on his bed. Guilty, I turned around and left. I would not disturb his probably only good night in God knows how long. Quietly I closed the door and headed for the elevators but changed my mind and went to the library instead. There I saw the paintings of all the former owners. Conrad's was there as well - in his portrait he appeared ten years younger.

Out of the blue I heard a noise and slipped, quietly, back to the Big Hall - in time to see a burgundy dress disappear, after the person went inside the room where Conrad now lived. I recognized the dress.

Sophia was wearing it when she arrived.

She followed me.

God damn it, Sophia, I am not a child!

God, I was infuriated.

I waited and again she exited. She probably saw Conrad, along with the oxygen tanks and the vast amounts of medicine.

The moment she vanished I rushed back to see if Conrad had been awaken.

"Who's there?"

"Shush. It's me, Fallon," I whispered. "Sorry to have woken you up."

"No, no. Please stay. I need youth beside me."

I wanted to keep quiet and not be a bother but was incapable and told him about Sophia, the stranger's enchanting kiss, Dashiell's friends, everything I could think of. I was like an overflowing well. He listened with compassion and an ever present smirk. I liked him more and more.

"Will you write another letter? How many were they by now?"

I confessed to the amount.

"My lord! Since his ballet days you've been writing anonymously. Fallon, take it from me, maybe it is time to tell Dashiell the truth."

"He'll hate me. He detests me now."

"No, no, Fallon. I believe he eagerly awaits each letter you send and his eyes devour every line with hunger. Don't wait too long. Tell him. Confess your love."

"You're tired."

"Not in the slightest," he replied but I could see he was - so I left and returned to my bedroom. There a woman was awaiting me. She had been one of the Mansion's Heiresses, a Canadian who died in the 1950's.

Her ghostly figure passed through my body and revealed:

"Your sister is unsettling Conrad."

My eyes widened. She waited for me to leave and followed me.

I rushed to the Big Hall once more, in silence. I could overhear altered voices - actually, Sophia's was louder.

Mrs. Long, in ghostly figure, led me by the hand to a secluded place - so many existed on the house - behind big curtains, and we could hear, unseen, Sophia and Conrad speak.

"This is why she left! For a boy?! A stupid boy! And you all, you all, rather than taking care of her, her needs, instead you let her imagination run wild! A boy who doesn't even know who she is! Writing letters! Stupid letters!"

She listened to our conversation!

"They're not stupid, they are lovely and heartfelt," defended Conrad in a low tone of voice, simply not amused.

"Heartfelt! Lovely! With such nonsense and gibberish she sinks further into her illness."

"She is not Ill," said Conrad, clearly making an effort not to lose control.

"She's naive and fragile. She can't handle the outside world and its... malice! If you had seen her at her absolute worst you'd, you'd Not behave so carelessly, fulfilling her every crazy whim, not providing Fallon with structure, tearing her away from stupid, stupid imagination!"

Each word Sophia uttered was like a dagger stuck in my heart.

"Clearly we're not discussing the same person," said Conrad, sternly.

"Evidently we are most certainly Not!" said my sister, furious.

Conrad's eyes darkened and in a subtle voice he said:

"You always want to control her."

"I care. I love Fallon. I want to keep her safe."

"You want to keep yourself safe. Always the big sister," Conrad said, his voice growing deeper and deeper, though not loud, a severe tone increasingly inhabiting the space surrounding them, "your identity being dependent on Fallon's fragility, making you the strong, forever the strong one. The sane one. There is power in that. But what of your identity if Fallon no longer is frail? No longer is in need and grows emotionally to a place of inner security? What of your precious identity then?"

"No, no..." Sophia was in tears.

"You are left with a shell of a woman in a meek marriage, in a job she probably loathes, having an awful boring, unheroic life."

Sophia collapsed in a chair, defeated and sobbing.

I didn't felt sorry for her. Not terribly.

I was afraid that, out of revenge, she'd tell the authorities the truth about Conrad, the fact that he really was alive. I only felt sad for Conrad. He had little life left and was forced to use his failing breath in my defense.

Sophia departed and my first instinct was to run to Conrad's side, making damn sure he was fine.

Mrs. Long, however, stopped me, whispering in her ghostly voice: "I'll go."

The next morning Sophia revealed nothing of the conversation with Conrad - nor did I tell her I'd heard the whole thing.

"I missed you," she said during breakfast. "You hardly speak to us anymore and you grow distant."

"I'm sorry. I... I don't do it on purpose. It just... life gets so hectic."

Not a good excuse but the only one I could think of.

"I'm sorry. I'll skype more often, I promise. How are the kids?"

"Growing. And nagging."

The heavy mood lifted and we both laughed.

Sophia ended up staying only four days.

Relieved, I took her to the airport.

CHAPTER 28

"Problems in Paradise! See, Fallon, your ship just came in!"

Conrad was pointing at a tablet. He was reading TMZ. Mrs. Andreas was near him, smiling.

"He had a good night," said Mrs. Andreas, adjusting his pillows.

"Take your chance, take it by the horns!" said Conrad suddenly needing the oxygen mask.

Mrs. Andreas leaves and I stay, to keep him company.

I take the tablet from his trembling hand.

The TMZ article states "Dana and Dashiell, recently newlyweds, are already having marriage problems. According to our sources, Dana discovered an anonymous love letter - addressed to hunk Dashiell Skye - and, incensed with fury, destroyed it. After, she uncovered a stash of dozens other letters. Dashiell hid them, salvaging his romantic tokens from Dana's hands, who was resolute on burning the lot. Subsequently, a fig fight ensued."

My heart rose to heavens.

He's keeping my letters. He's keeping them!

"See?" said Conrad with a sparkle on his eye. "You must trust more. Take it from one who has lived enough. My dear child, look at you, you're beaming!"

I was elated and red from embarrassment. So I changed the subject.

"You haven't shared with me your love story."

"And I'll never will," he replied, a bit coldly.

"Why not?" I asked timidly. "Most of the others' I already know. Why is yours so special?" I inquired, teasingly.

He somewhat frowned and replied:

"We are all special, my pet. My story isn't abnormal. It would bore you to tears for its non-rarity."

"I still would very much like to hear it."

He sighed, quietly furious.

"Thought luck. Ain't gonna happen, kid!" he said, finalizing the discussion.

"Now go. Go tell Dashiell about the intensity and strength of your feelings. Sign your name this time, for Pete's sake."

I left, leaving him to his tablet and a few books.

I did ask Mrs. Andreas about Mr. Heather's personal story but she refused to share it. The spirits weren't much help either... they all slipped away from sight when I gathered the courage to ask.

I sat in my own private office, near the Master Bedroom, and started a new letter for Dashiell.

*

«[Letter Number 40]

Dashiell, my love;

You keep my letters. You hang onto them!

You cannot know how much it pleases me, how much it incenses my heart with pure joy.

Thank you, thank you for keeping them. I read on TMZ. I understand it might not be true - but I want to think it is. I choose to believe you read and reread my words - my affectionate words to you.

I need to trust you've placed the letters near your heart and pressed them to your chest, closed your eyes and tried to picture me.

I want to envision you tenderly kissing my lines, and then passionately and fervently, caressing me.

I will forever love you.

An Admirer»

And then I mailed it myself to his new agent (he changed agents due to his recent career's success, which took everyone by surprise - except me, of course).

I was at the Post Office and decided to go for a walk - only to be deterred by a beautiful summer dress and I had absolutely to buy it.

I must confess - a wealthy life suits me.

*

Two days after I wrote Dashiell, I checked TMZ's site to see if there was news about him.

And sure enough - there was.

"According to our sources," I read online, "Dana Lee Devereaux got a hold of a new anonymous letter addressed to her husband and torched it. Furthermore, she wrecked a cabinet, retrieved all Dashiell's love notes - as far as we can tell, our sources say they are probably from and old flame, - lighted a fire, burning them to ash. Dashiell Skye, upon arriving after a long day filming in a new Sci-Fi mystery series, was received by an infuriated Dana. Afterwards, ensued yet another big row and Dana dramatically left home. Also, still according to our sources, she is presently pondering divorce."

I should feel sad for helping breaking up a marriage.

I know I should.

And yet my heart silently began to sing a joyous hymn.

CHAPTER 29

The theme for the party was XVIII century Court of Versailles.

I was Antoinette. I swear, how did the woman move?! The dress and wig weighed as much as me.

The party was exquisite and I had no idea on how Wanda managed to keep on budget (she kept declaring: 'I know a guy.' Wanda had connections everywhere and got everything sometimes free, others almost free, and others we were being paid to have them! After a while I stopped asking questions).

We really seemed to be on the (somewhat) traditional Court of Versailles. The Big Hall had mirrors all over the walls, from top to bottom, making it appear ten times larger; outside there was a very complicated labyrinth (also with mirrors - actually its function was to play a little game). There was a quest and hired staff, dressing for the part, where placed in several locations within the constructed maze. They were supposed to answer certain questions in riddles and provide tips in puzzling word conundrums. There was a Big Mystery to solve at the end. I decided not to play the game and simply enjoy the party. Also the carpenters had constructed actual canals, filled with water and mini gondolas (which took two passengers and no more). It went round and round, entering the Big Hall, and out again. And then there were the fireworks. Oh my God, everything was wonderful. This party could last for days!

When I entered I saw all the people dressed as extravagant and lavishly as me. It seemed we had all time travelled - though some guests looked more like characters of a steampunk novel.

I glanced around and discovered many familiar faces: Joey, Shayna, Theresa, Yannis, Bethany. Even Mr. Meyer had come. The staff was dressed in period costumes as well.

I felt so happy, so glad, so content to know this was now my life. A sort of quiet and ever burning soul contentment, knowing I was helping others' happiness flourished in my spirit.

As I scanned the Big Hall I saw the police officers who had been invited again. This time they were seven and some had brought their spouses or girlfriends. And, out of the blue, a sudden thought crossed my mind: the stranger who had embraced me. Who was he? Was he here? Why didn't he stay and looked me in the eye? My body trembled remembering his ravenous passion, his lips' hunger, how I couldn't take a breath, my knees going week, his scent - I recalled ha had no perfume, nothing, and still it was intoxicating.

Tonight I'd write Dashiell another love note. I hadn't seen him in a while. From JustJared, Hollywood Gossip and TMZ I knew his relationship with Dana was on and off, getting worse by the minute. Part of my heart sang, elated by the knowledge of his unwillingness to let me go; and yet another side of me considered I had no business breaking up what was once a happy couple. How could I be pleased if he was miserable? It felt wrong. And wicked.

I decided I'd only drink club soda and fruit juices. I didn't like having much alcohol in my parties. I felt one could have a much better time without being intoxicated - so it was restricted (the number) and after all the glorious wine and wonderful champagne was gone you could still enjoy a non-alcoholic beverage. The fact wasn't appreciated by many but I didn't care. It's my party and I do what I want to.

Moving, slowly, from one place to get to the garden someone put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and gulped when I saw Dashiell.

He had come.

"Miss Newhaven, thank you for inviting me again."

"Oh-oh. You're, you're most welcomed. And please call me Fallon. I hope you and your wife have a lovely time."

I did my best to hide my trembling voice.

"She couldn't make it. She's filming in Finland. But I'm sure she'd love this. It's right up her ally, as the natives say."

He laughed and so did I, nervously.

"Fallon, would you do me the honors of dancing with me?"

Oh my Lord. I nodded, muted, in agreement. I'd been preparing for a fortnight for the traditional French court dances. Wanda hired several instructors and not only did they teach me, they went to dozens of a few selected guests to teach them too. Plus, we hired professional dancers as well.

He danced perfectly, smiling like Mona Lisa. I did a mistake or two, which he immediately and gracefully forgave. He was so perfect, my God. So wonderful, so beautiful. Our hands touching sent me straight to heaven.

"I never noticed before," Dashiell said at the end of the dance, "your eyes are of a peculiar color. Amber?"

"Yes," I replied, "they are."

Most people, somehow, never seem to notice.

He was about to say something else but suddenly changed his mind, smiled and asked me to accompany him out on the gardens. There we walked for a bit, slowly, as if characters from another era.

"I... wanted to ask your advice," he said. I looked at him, baffled.

"My advice? I don't know you enough to offer any type of useful advice," I said.

"That's the point. Everyone who is advising me knows me all too well. They're my friends and family and incapable of impartiality. I'd like an honest outside view on... my situation. If you don't mind. I mean, I don't want to impose."

I gulped and said no, no, by all means, if there's anything I can do to help, I will.

After a silence, Dashiell asked:

"Do you read tabloids, Fallon?"

Oh, my name on his lips! Heaven!

"No, no. Not really."

I lied, naturally.

"Me and my wife have been on the tabloids for months, most of the things they write are utter, revolting lies. However they are right in one matter: we have been experiencing difficulties and are thinking about divorce."

He stopped and looked at me in an enigmatic sort of way, somewhat disturbing. The party's sounds were left behind and now we were deep in the scarcely lit Canary woods.

"I'm sorry to hear it," I lied again.

"I don't know if I should call it quits or give it another go. As soon as Dana returns from Finland, next week, we'll have an honest conversation. What do you think, Fallon? Would you like to live, day in and day out, in constant battle?"

"I think not."

"So, it would be better for us to divorce?"

"No, I didn't say that. What do your friends and family tell you? What do they think?"

"I'm not going to reveal it to you."

I kept quiet for a moment, having no idea on what to reply.

"We just fight all the time," he continued, in the saddest voice tone I had ever heard. "It wasn't like this in the beginning. I want that back, that feeling, when we loved each other so much everything was forgiven. You understand?"

His eyes were watering. I gulped and said:

"Yes."

"I don't know what to do, honestly... I don't."

"You should give it another try. Give it all you got. Try your hardest to make it work. Sometimes I think we give up on marriage too easily."

His eyes widened, in quiet surprise, almost in awe. I wondered if the advice he had been hearing from his family and friends was altogether different.

"You're right," he whispered to himself and then repeated to me the exact words, louder, "you're right! I won't give up. We won't. Dana and I still love each other very much. I love just to stare at her, you know? She's perfect. She's the perfect woman. Thank you, Fallon. You've helped me tremendously."

And he leaned over, with an open smile, and quickly kissed my cheek. After, he took off running, saying he had to get back.

He was going to Finland.

Did I just help save the marriage of the man I love...?

*

And for weeks - nothing on the tabloids, except that "Dana and Dashiell seemed to worked things out and now their marriage is as steady as a rock."

Stupid, idiot, moronic Fallon!

I had my chance and blew it.

CHAPTER 30

Sophia sent me an email. We had found a way to rework our relationship. She now organized, edited and published (in free publishing eBook platforms) the cooking books I worked on.

I had to keep myself occupied so I tried new and old recipes, cooked them again, got all the process recorded on tape and photoshoots (not by Bethany anymore, she preferred shooting people, not food), worked out every single step and finally sent the finished product to Sophia. My files would be transformed in beautiful books with beautiful covers, and then published in Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, iTunes, Google Play and Createspace. I didn't care how well they did, if they sold or not, I just desired to keep my head (heart and soul) occupied so I wouldn't burst into tears.

"You're selling! Your e-books are selling, Fallon!" Sophia wrote on an email.

I didn't care. Big deal. Apparently I was also getting some invitations to local TV shows. I declined. Didn't feel like going out and make the effort of meeting and talking to new people. What's the point? I stayed in the house, wrapped on that most magnificent and comfortable cocoon.

Sophia didn't pressure me. Plus, I wanted to be near Conrad. Every day he became weaker. It was heartbreaking watching him slip away, slowly descending into death. I grew to like that damn Hungarian. I didn't want to leave one day, come back, and find out he was gone while I was out - filming some stupid two minute segment on some ludicrous show no one watched anyway.

He hardly ever woke up now. The staff - and me - took turns reading to him. He adored mystery novels.

One night I left his secret room. He was sound asleep.

On my bedroom I opened up my laptop and went to TMZ's site (though I tried my best to keep away).

The headline, in red, said: "DANA'S PREGNANT!"

My heart didn't sink but I knew - for a long time I had known - there was no hope for me. Dashiell had struggled and saved his marriage.

And now they were advancing to another stage of their lives: becoming parents.

All hope was lost. All I could do was love from afar.

And write letters (which I didn't even knew if he was receiving or not). But my letters were scarcer - I did not want them to be a reason to their unhappiness. So I did write, yes, but most were never sent. I pressed them in my heart, closed my eyes, and send the words to the clouds, so the angels could carry them to Dashiell's eyes and soul and spirit.

Dana's pregnant.

They have all their life ahead.

Mine is behind me.

*

I remove myself from the latest bash. The theme is Halloween.

I didn't care for it. The entire time I stayed in my room, a few ghosts stopped by, curious. I asked, politely, to please leave and they did.

I cuddled with Dashiell's green scarf and silently cried, thinking I could never love again this intensely.

It was past four a.m. when I was awoken by Charlene. Mrs. Andreas told her to fetch me.

"Mr. Heather is awake. He's calling for you."

We quickly went to him, still there were people cleaning up after the festivities.

"Ah, dear Fallon. So good to see you. Could you be a dear, Mrs. Andreas, and gives a bit of privacy?"

Mrs. Andreas left and we were alone. I saw it in his eyes he had hours to live. She was sobbing as she was leaving.

"Fallon, sit near me. Come close, come closer, dear girl."

I did as he asked. The light was soft because stronger illumination hurt his eyesight.

"Look at me, look... look..."

He placed his big, bonny and feeble hands on my face and made me approach him.

"Tell him your true feelings. Confess your love. I did not. My biggest... regret. She had, she had... eyes like yours, Fallon, amber eyes...! Exactly like yours... so... magical... so beautiful..."

His eyes stopped, suddenly, gazing at mine and his hands abandoned my face as if he had abruptly turned into a rag doll. Tears were running down my face.

"Conrad? Conrad!"

I felt a weekly hand touch my shoulder.

It was Mrs. Long.

"He's with us... hush, don't cry..."

She was whispering her comfort words when Mrs. Andreas returned, running.

She took me and held me.

I don't remember when, but Mr. Meyer came and took, covertly, Conrad's body. After a few hours he returned with a vase. We all waited for the house to be deserted of outsiders and then walked to the Big Oak.

I don't recall the words said, if there were any. Mr. Meyer scattered Conrad's ashes on the Big Oak's base and we all stayed there, in silent grieving.

Amber eyes... so that's why he picked me.

Days later I was going through his things and saw an old photograph of a young gipsy girl, no more than fourteen.

Her eyes were mine.

We possessed the same gaze.

My heart broke when I read that his own family, his own blood, had kidnaped her, violated her body and finally murdered her when she was only sixteen.

My poor, poor Conrad. I hope she was the first soul he saw. The very first, loving soul.

CHAPTER 31

The new party's theme was 'Animal'. The guests were supposed to come disguised as their favorite animal. People were being extremely creative (no surprise - the Triple Wonder had given them the requirements two months in advance).

The guests were masked as lions, zebras, horses, birds, orcs, dolphins, centaurs, Pegasus. Well, a mixture of mythical and real beasts; and also many extinct species. Wanda dressed as a humming bird (it made perfect sense, she was always so fast, it was hard to keep up with her).

"Fallon, you look... uh, rather gothic. A scorpion?" asked Bethany. She herself was wearing a bee costume.

"Yes. I'm a Scorpio so..."

"Ah! I like it. Makes you look rather like a dominatrix."

I laughed, nervously.

"It does!"

"Oh God. That was not what I was going for."

"I like it. You look wonderful. More beautiful."

She gave me a hug and was off with her new camera, taking pictures of the people and their costumes.

While I was scanning the room to see who had come (some guests were new, Wanda liked to mix it and just because one was invited to a party it didn't mean this invitation was to be extended to the next), while I was scanning I saw a few 'entertainment reporters' - whatever that is -, some film critics, painters, artists, wild life documentary directors and producers. There were the usual actors, actresses and rock stars.

And out of the blue my eyes fell on Dashiell and Dana. Dashiell was dressed as a tiger and Dana as a black swan.

They were arguing.

The reason was obvious - she was drinking way too much. A feeling of a knife being stuck, hot, on my heart punctured my soul for less than a second.

I decided to avert my eyes and just try to enjoy myself, the music, the shows, everything.

I walked to the other side of the Big Hall and poured myself a glass of white wine. One. I would have one and that was it. No more. Darn it. I was beginning to like wine (a certain type, not all types) but addictions had always scared me. I finished rather quickly and felt sad. You are not the type of person who drowns her sorrows in alcohol, Fallon. No. So I reached for a glass of pure white water and was about to make my way outside, when a hand grabbed my arm.

"Fallon! How nice to see you!"

Dana embraced me and talked as if we had been intimate for years.

"Thank you so much for inviting me and Dash! We couldn't make it the last parties and simply could not miss this one! Oh, Femme Fatale, great costume!"

"No. It's a scorpion. I'm disguised as a scorpion."

"Really?" her body jerked in disbelief. She was so very drunk, couldn't hardly stand.

"Me and Dash needed to have fun! This party does just the trick. Dash and I have been having... well, spats, actually. Nothing serious. I confess I am partly to blame. I'm so very jealous!" and she laughed a drunken laugh. Others around noticed. She had firmly attached herself to my arm. I had started walking outside hoping she would let go - but she just kept going, still attached to me. I was doing my best to hide my discomfort.

"You know," she whispered after emptying yet another cocktail, "he had a secret lover. He said no but I know he was lying. He had letters, dozens!, of her. He said it was just a fan writing him. A fan?! And he keeps the damn letters?! Who'd believe it? Not me! So he burnt them, every single one, in front of me."

My heart shriveled and shrank. I missed a step but kept walking.

"That made things between us better... I'm so ridiculously jealous!"

And she started laughing like a mad woman.

"I was even jealous of you! Can you believe it?! And you hardly know him!"

Bitch. I kept silent.

We were outside and watching an animal show (trained lions on a stage. Beautiful) and before I left her, doing my best to hide my anger, I said:

"I'm glad everything turned out all right."

"What?" Dana had drifted off, searching for a new glass.

"You and your husband."

"Oh right! Yes, I guess it did..."

I left, walking quickly, while she was latching herself onto some film director.

I went to my room and launched myself to my bed, screaming with rage. That got rid of some of my anger. I laid there, stomach down, punching the pillow when I thought I heard something in the wardrobe.

I stood up and entered it, slowly, quietly.

The first thing I saw was the safe: unlocked. Empty. No letters. No scarf. Nothing.

Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD!

A sound startled me. I turned my head and saw, in the corner, sitting on the floor, Dashiell - with all the letters (the copies I always keep), reading one and holding his green scarf. Without looking at me he said:

"I... I was looking for the bathroom... a nice, a nice gentleman pointed... directed me here..." his voice was failing and when he finally looked at me I could see his eyes were watering.

"The safe was open... I... recognized my scarf. Don't ask me how but I knew it was mine. I'd lost it ages ago. And you, you had it. You had it all along. The letters. Some, some you never sent. Some you never sent me."

His voice was calm and at once failing. He was shivering.

"Dash... Dashiell..." I said, in an ashamed whisper. "I... I..."

"I suspected it was you but still I had doubts," he said, this time more strongly. "Your first event. There were pictures, paintings of you all over, all over the main hall. The letter you sent... you described yourself taking one of the photos. I recognized it immediately."

My God. I sent the wrong letter! With the sudden realization I pressed my mouth with my trembling hand.

"It was a mistake, wasn't it?"

He was awaiting my answer and I just couldn't look him in the eye nor could I speak.

"Wasn't it?!" Dashiell shouted. I immediately sat on a chair, crying, and silently nodded yes.

"I thought so..." he replied, "because you never wrote anything much too private about yourself. You always kept hidden."

I still couldn't look at him, yet I tried to speak:

"I... I..."

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused in my life? Do you?"

I gulped.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Dashiell. I, I didn't meant to hurt you. I'm... I'm..."

"If you truly cared about me you'd never, Ever!, behave in such appalling way!"

He was so mad.

"If you truly cared you'd..."

He stopped.

"I'm sorry," I didn't know what else to say. My whole body shivered and I couldn't stop the flow of tears running down my face.

"You'd know," he whispered. "You'd know it was me."

I stared at him, puzzled. He was crying too.

"I kissed you. Me. When the lights went out."

Suddenly the impact of such revelation was so big and startling I stopped weeping and just gawked at him, astonished.

Dashiell got up and said:

"I never want to see or hear from you again. If you contact me I'll report you to the police."

And he left, leaving the letters behind - but taking his dark-green scarf.

I was destroyed.

*

Weeks passed. I was lethargic, in bed most of the time. Mr. McKinney kept apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Fallon. I thought he'd behave differently. Forgive me!"

"It's ok, Mr. McKinney. It's not your fault."

He had led Dashiell to my bedroom and had opened the safe.

The staff was worried about me, the ghosts also, Bethany kept coming, my parents visited and Sophia called all the time.

Most of them knew the reason of my distress, though not all. Sophia knew (I finally confided in her) and she had told our parents only it was "matters of the heart", offering no more information. This was also what Bethany knew.

I never wrote Dashiell another letter, not even to apologize. He had taken the scarf so I had nothing to offer me a bit of comfort.

I missed writing him so much. I miss him. I still loved him and the love was entrenched in my heart. Impossible to get rid of.

Weeks went into months and slowly I felt better; however I hardly ever went out and spent most of the time in our library, reading about the tragic love life of the Muted Canary owners - which, of course, didn't help my mood.

A new party came and I couldn't care. I stayed in my room, reading Mrs. Long diary. I fell asleep and remembered having a nice, wonderful conversation - in my dreams - with Conrad. We were having tea, he looked about fifty, with a glowing smile and for the life of me I can't recall the subject of our conversation, only the good, happy feelings.

*

I woke up suddenly with a large, intense noise.

Outside there's a big storm. It's raining, thunder and lightning everywhere. I can't go back to sleep, I just lie on my bed for a while, remembering the happy feeling I had just experienced in my dream. Then I got up, went to the bathroom and washed my face. Outside the rainstorm got bigger and bigger and all the lights went out.

I stepped back into my room and there he was, soaking wet, in a tuxedo, Dashiell, shivering - looking straight at me.

"I couldn't stay away. I couldn't. I love you too. I can't help it anymore."

Dashiell walked right up to me, held me and kissed me passionately. Our breaths fused, our lips locked, our hearts were beating, beating as the lightning scattered glowing brightness onto our faces.

We fell on the floor, embraced, kissing and touching each other's body, hair, face, lips.

"I remember your eyes," he confessed in between kisses. "I remember your amber eyes."

*

Dana was pregnant, yes - by another man.

She was the one who filed for divorce and that had been weeks ago. I had no idea until he told me.

Dashiell moved in with me two days after our second kiss. At night, in bed, he would ask, sweetly:

"Fallon, read me another letter... whisper the words to me..." and then I would, while he kissed me gently. I would feel his soft fingers running down all over my shivering skin.

"I love you, Dashiell."

"I love you too, Fallon. Kiss me."

*

CHAPTER 32

We'd stay in bed for hours and hours, enveloped in each other's body, skin and scent.

He had a quiet way of making love and I adored it.

"Show me the pictures you took of me," he asked me once. I was letting him read parts of my diary.

"I call it my Enchanted Album. It only has pics of you."

He smiled, gently touched my face and said:

"I'll make another one of you. Tell me again what you love about me."

I said, in a soft voice, timidly:

"Your beautiful, flawless skin; your deep dark eyes. your scent...!"

With fear in my voice I asked:

"What do you love about me?"

Kissing me gently he replied:

"Everything..."

In my diary Dashiell read: 'Will you ever see any beauty in me?'

We were curled up together in bed, the ghosts keeping well out of sight and the staff was instructed (by Mrs. Andreas) not to disturb us in our nest. He turned to me, kissed my cheek and declared: "Always! You are beautiful! I love your eyes."

With a shiver I remembered Conrad. He loved my eyes too and with his dying breath told me so. My God, I was so lucky to be having this, my love, my beloved one, embracing me.

Dashiell stated:

"You lied about your age, about so many things."

"It's true, I did."

"Why?"

"I feared you, rejection. Even love, I feared."

"Silly girl."

After a tiny silence, he added:

"I remember you wrote: 'You gave me more just by existing and walking by'. And you wrote: 'I hope my love warms you, as it caresses, secretly, your ivory, beautiful, perfect skin. '"

"Yes," I said. "I did. I wrote that."

"Sometimes... sometimes I wanted to write you back... I stopped myself several times."

"Why didn't you? Even if you couldn't send any of the letters."

"I thought... they would never be as good as yours. They would pale in comparison."

I caressed his hair and said: "Silly boy..."

*

Dashiell, one day, took the green scarf, put it on my neck and pulled me towards him. It was day time, we were about to start our day: he was going to set, to film; and I would spend the next few hours in our kitchen, cooking with Petra and Charlene.

"No," I asked. "We have work to do."

"We can spare a few minutes," he said in a murmur which travelled throughout my body. "Tell me what you did with my scarf."

I leaned and kissed his ear lobe and said:

"I used to sleep naked enveloped in your scarf, smelling it all night long."

"Show me."

We were both late for work.

*

I loved connecting with Dashiell. We sleep naked, our bodies touching each other's. At night we live inside each other, with very little movement, sensing our breath, travelling from one to another; gazing at each other, getting lost in each other's eyes. Our fused bodies sometimes explode, slowly, into joy.

One time Dashiell asked:

"You numbered your letters. Why?"

"I wanted you to know they were mine, they belonged to me."

He smiled and bit his lip and caressed my breast, softly.

Another night he took one of the letters and asked:

"Please, Fallon, read this one to me."

So I did: 'The moment I saw you I fell in love. Or I fell into love. Love was always there, at my feet, it took one look at you, passing by, at your beautiful face, your figure, to marvel me so much that I missed my step and in I went - into love, into cherubim's Fire and delight. I saw you, I loved you.'

On another occasion he was expecting me. Dashiell gently lead me to the wardrobe and begged smiling:

"Please, Fallon, this one, whisper it to me..."

I took letter from his hand and read: 'Lord, I love you. You are my reason - one of them - to be alive. I was sent from heaven to earth because of you, because you existed here. I'm so glad I saw you pass by. I'm glad you've awakened my heart - and nobody else. It was a privilege having been awoken by you, Dashiell.'

That day we bathed together. I spread essential rose oil (diluted in sweet almond oil) in our bath. We made love, slowly, smoothly, all night long - smelling like roses. We were together, united. And so happy.

*

Dashiell grabbed my arm with sweet tenderness and said:

"Sit next to me. Let me read from your diary the words I wish I had written to you - but they are perfect to describe my feelings for your, Fallon."

I gave him a tight hug while he read to me: 'You are loved and will always be treasured. My love is upon you, constantly, and it will never cease to exist. You are loved by me. That is my intent - to inform you. Though I'm hidden, the truth is out. You are as treasured as the rarest jewel. '

Then Dashiell recited to me William Blake:

"I thought Love liv'd in the hot sun shine,

But he lives in the Moony light!

I thought to find Love in the heat of day,

But sweet Love is the comforter of Night."

He confessed, stroking gently my shoulder, gazing deep into my eyes, in a husky and sultry, soothing voice:

"I used to say it to myself, at night, to make me feel better and loved. I dreamt of you so many times but I would wake up just before I saw your face. One day, in my dreams, I saw something. I saw the color of your eyes: amber."

He likes to rest deep inside of me. We sleep face to face. We wake up many times still inside each other's bodies. It's like awakening in paradise. Every little movement we feel it in every cell of our bodies. This wonderful stillness is how we make love. We live love.

"I love you so much, Dashiell."

He kisses me on the lips and says:

"I love you more."

*

We make love, in perfect, beautiful tranquility, and many times we talk, yet slowly...

"You thought I was a 'crazy chick'"

"All my friends did. They were worried you'd come and boil a bunny in my kitchen."

He laughed. I felt embarrassed.

"And then my agent starts receiving your letters... I admit I missed them a bit... I recall in the beginning I laughed to my friends when they saw me read your letter and said it was stalker. You were starting to enchant me, as well as creeping me out."

"How should I have behaved? How would you have preferred it?"

"Being honest, talking to me, saying hi."

"I couldn't, I was too scared. I thought you would never share the same feelings."

Dashiell kissed my forehead sending shivers along my spine and stated: in time I would..

*

Dashiell declared:

"I still can't believe you just took off, like that! It took guts! You got on a plane and left your life behind... for me...!"

He was truly amazed.

"I had to. I simply had to."

He hugged me and kissed my hair.

"You hid so well. I never saw you."

Deep inside each other, moving from slow to quick, Dashiell said:

"You wrote: 'Fear it not, my love is quiet, silent, obscure, anonymous, serene.'"

Oh God, I'm feeling the waves travelling from my toes, to my belly to my face:

"I did."

He plunged his body quicker, faster, deliciously into mine and murmured in my ear:

"You wrote: 'My soul flies to you at night, while I sleep. I see you in my dreams.'"

My whole body trembled and my sighs of pleasure were heavy and loud. In the end I answered:

"I did!"

While, still fused and sweaty, and stroking my body, I continued to reveal:

"The first time we met - I could die."

"You were red and trembling," he said, grinning and biting his lip. "It was lovely".

"It all unraveled with letter twenty five, which you sent by mistake! Remember our second meeting, in the party?"

"You were so close."

"I was trying to remember where I had seen those eyes before. Somehow you enchanted me. And I loved your scent. You were exquisite. And then I saw the photo. In the first party: I wanted to leave because I recognized one of the photos - and I knew it was you; Dana, however, wanted to stay. We argued."

"I remember," I said.

"I went back to the verandah because I wanted to take a better look at you."

"I recall it. My skin rose, my soul shivered."

He moved himself, slightly, inside of me, while grinning. And then asked:

"Tell me again what it felt like... "

I sensed his breath on my face and lips. I moved to kiss him but he moved away, with a grin and shinning eyes. I loved him. Forever.

"It was as if a spell was upon us."

We moved inside one another, gently, in tenderness.

"And then that wonderful, glorious, kiss...!"

He touched my face with his fingertips.

"In letter number forty you said: 'You keep my letters!' Finally, it almost felt like we were having a real conversation!"

After a nice and peaceful silence he continued:

"I asked your advice, remember? I was testing you. You lied, didn't you?"

"Yes. I wanted you to breakup and keep you all to myself - but it felt wicked and mean."

"Kiss me. Kiss me."

*

One day I finally inquired:

"Did you burn all my letters?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But I had taken pics on all of them and they were saved on my IPhone."

"Wicked boy..!"

"No way I was losing you, whoever you might be. And what Conrad told you? He was right: you had carved a sacred space in my heart. I'm so happy to be with you."

We fell asleep every enchanted night in a sea of warm bliss.

THE END

December 2014/May 2015

*

OTHER BOOKS

### An Angel's Gaze

Fern is a thirty year old overweight woman, working on a dead end customer service job, with no boyfriend and no prospects.

After months of pleading God for a boyfriend, someone else to love, and not just her cat, finally she is heard.

One day she wakes up and sees an angel staring at her.

Finally, her insistent prayers have been listened.

However, this is no ordinary angelic entity.

Angel makes an assessment of her life, devises a plan and then makes her work to achieve her wishes and desires. Soon Fern is getting up early to exercise and after a hard day's work, Angel makes her work on her cartoons for four hours straight. In addition she must also go on dates arranged by Angel.

And there's no saying 'No' to him. He just doesn't like it and has no problems showing it.

Will Fern get her heart's desires, now that she has to work hard for them?

***

### Tell Him

(free)

Bonny is visited by an angel, Angel Cole, who forces her to declare her "eternal and undying love" for a boy she likes, Chuck.

Unable to stop this angelic creature from pestering her, she gives up and declares her love for him, in the cafeteria, in front of everyone.

However, one time is not enough for Angel Cole. He demands Bonny say it again. And again. This doesn't help the way she is viewed in school. One friend, though, Sam, stands by her.

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### Wolf and Vampyr

(free)

Wellington is a werewolf, forever fragmented between his human side and his beastly part. What is he, the Man or the Wolf? And, more important, what does he want to be?

This is a secret well-kept in the family, a secret more easily hidden because, being a merchant, he travels quite a lot.

One day, at the market, he sees her, a beautiful woman with golden hair and amber eyes.

He tries to speak to her but she turns a corner and vanishes into thin air.

However, soon he will meet her again and his whole life will change.

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