Twenty-five thousand, five hundred and fifty-one days.

I suppose that isn't right. I should add the years I spent living here as well—living in the literal sense that is.

That brings it up to twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and twenty-six. I can comfort myself knowing this house has been around longer than I have, though it is in far better shape. We are a historical monument, you know. So it says on the placard outside, proudly shown by every realtor that continues selling and reselling us. I say us because without me, I cannot imagine the house would have such a placard, or such notoriety.

140 Iris Avenue. Constructed in 1920 by the architect Aidan Avon Montclaire, who lived here until his execution in 1927. . .

Very well, it isn't entirely all my notoriety that makes us the monument we are. On the other hand, Aidan and the oak floorboards are hardly enough to keep buyers doling out their fortunes and then moving on quickly.

140 Iris Avenue. Constructed in 1920 by the architect Aidan Avon Montclaire, who lived here until his execution in 1927 for the murder of his mistress, the noted soprano and socialite Ana Caterina Millefleur.

Now, you see, it has something to do with me, as I said. Of course, they never knew about any of the others. I suppose I should be thankful, otherwise all I'd be left with save this dusty attic is a placard in which my name was replaced with a cast of hundreds.

As it is, privacy is hard won in this gloomy house. I suppose I should be thankful I was left with this. I recall well so many girls back then who gave their very souls to their lovers and were left without the pearls at their necks.

But then, of course, I kept my pearls, but lost my head.

New York, 1920

The room was full of smoke and laughter and the hopping, jumping line of a wailing saxophone. Couples spun, balancing martinis in spinning hands, slopping droplets of alcohol onto the waxed wooden floor. Thin women slumped over the backs of high chairs, tucking the tips of their bobbed hair behind their ears, smiling coquettishly from their dark red lips as they dangled ivory and onyx cigarette holders between their fingers.

Ana handed her long cashmere coat to the coat check, roping a finger through the strand of pearls that dipped down to her knees as she passed her eyes over the crowd. Setting her rose-tinted glasses in her handbag, she turned her cheek to the host by the door, putting her hand to her lips with a startled expression.

"Haven't you heard of prohibition?"

He gave her a sharp glance before looking over his shoulder to the bartender, who looked rather green. A soft hush came over the crowd.

The silence was broken by Ana's high rolling laugh before she winked and slid into the crowd. The host shook his head and chuckled while the tender slapped the bar, hard.

She moved to a crowded table, slipping through the intertwined couples as she plunged a leg on a mahogany tabletop littered with empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. The conversations halted as pairs of eyes followed the length of leg up to it's owners face, beholding a coy grin.

"I have arrived. Let the party begin," she said, pulling her leg back to the floor as she wedged her way into a chair with the vague shove of her hip.

"The party began hours ago, Ana! This is more than fashionably late," a laughing voice called from the depths of the tables crowd.

"Ah, and you know I am more than fashionable, Charlie," she barked back, plopping a kiss on his cheek. "Where's the wife this evening?"

Charlie's round face puffed out in a sigh. "He said he had to wash his hair. Why do I think he was putting me off?"

Ana curled over his lap, patting him on his head. "Most likely because he was, poor Charlie, but at least you'll go to bed tonight with a fresh head for a change."

They laughed again as she slipped his drink from his fingers, downing it with a small whoop. He clapped his hands over his head, calling the girl over from the bar.

"So. . . Who's here tonight?"

He pulled several glasses from the tray, sliding a fold of bills unto it as the girl slipped away. "Let's see now. Stewart and June came bickering by, that old fart Wallingsowrth came to remind me I still hadn't published. . ."

She sipped her drink. "So kind of him."

"Indeed. That Trappings girl came through balancing some weighty old thing on her hands. . ."

"On them or in them?"

"Hard to say, but I did notice the cobwebs had grown in on him already."

"Better dead than in bed, they say."

"So they do, dear Ana. The Walton divorcee poured through. We're lucky she left the rest of us anything to drink."

"You know what I heard about her, don't you?"

"What?"

"Our dear Mr. Walton apparently was a rather picky eater. He had quite the discerning palate. In fact, I had heard his exemplary tastes ran his tongue only upon delicacies from Cuba."

"Cuba? What does one eat from Cuba?"

"The housekeeper, dear Charlie," she said, looking to the ceiling with a grin.

He roared, whipping her up from the chair and dragging her to the dance floor as the brass jumped with newfound jazz. She flung her feet to the floor, bouncing to the rhythm that seeped through the floorboards.

"So. . . how was our day?"

Her attention had wandered and she diverted it back to Charlie, downing another drink as she waved her empty glass at the bartender. "Our day was pure bleeding hell, my pet. They've decided to put on La Boheme again. The last time I thought I had made quite clear that dying of consumption nightly for months is hardly my idea of a good time. Apparently not."

He patted her back mockingly as he twirled her around. "Ah, the pitiable life of a Diva. Remind me to feel sorry for you the next time you phone me from the Lyric in Paris."

Ana shuddered. "Stop that. You know just the thought of that awful cheese ruins my otherwise pleasant mood."

He shook his head and laughed, wiping his brow as the music stopped and the band broke. Ana's eyes passed over the crowd again, resting on a young man in the far corner of the club.

"Charlie. . . who on earth is that pretty child?"

He followed her gaze and looked back at her quizzically. "The one with the bluish goatee?"

She looked again. "Blue? Oh, it isn't all that blue." She slipped her glasses unto her nose for a moment, then set them back aside. "It's just the light in here. Or perhaps your gin-impaired vision."

He shrugged, looking again. "I haven't a clue. I don't believe I've seen him here before. He's a bit youngish for you, isn't he Ana?"

She waved her hand, slipping around him with a coy wink. "You know what they say, don't you Charlie?"

"No, I don't believe I do, though you always seem to."

She disengaged her hand from his as the object of her glances walked towards them. Turning her lips into Charlie's red ear, she whispered before turning back to smile with aplomb.

"You can separate the girls from the boys, but only a fool will try to keep girls from their toys."

New York, 1997

I cannot believe jazz has managed to last quite so long. Someone somewhere is playing it loudly so that it passes through the window here. Charlie Parker, I believe it is, this one. Before my time. I do recall well though, those stodgy farts at the Lyric prattling on about how all of these odd phases in music would pass. I did hear a bit of La Boheme spliced into another odd little tune about plagues and dying. I thought it quite poetic.

Now, if only that opera would die as terribly as our dear Mimi.

Those were certainly the days, those late nights spent in Harlem with the crowd, and with dear Charlie. It is a real relief to know Charlie merely drank himself to death like any respectable writer of our day would. In this day, he would have most likely contracted some horrible disease.

He did strike a handsome pose. Aidan, that is. That was Aidan back then in that smoky club after the brass players had quit for the evening. His beard truly didn't seem so blue then.

Only later was its cast more clear.

Then, well he had seemed entertaining enough for an evening, and if all else had failed he was at the very least hardly an eyesore. I was in my early thirties then, I cannot say which of them. When I turned thirty I conveniently lost track. Charlie never did like him, but I really thought little of it. Who thinks much of another's opinion of something one intends to be fleeting?

It was a charming evening. Aidan, well he was hardly one you'd call outspoken. I suspected I was a bit brash for his taste. On the other hand, taste flies right out the window when you're pressed between the sheets, does it not? It was a charming little affair it was, at first. Only after the third time I'd slept with the man did I even discover he was ‘that' Aidan. Aidan Avon Montclaire, who every Tomas, Frick and Countess Harriet wanted to design their next home. He was a genius, let there be no doubt, in a bumbling haphazard sort of way. What no one ever knew about Aidan's work was that it was completely unintentional. He hadn't the vaguest clue what he was doing. But then, I had a lovely flat and didn't give a damn about what he did outside of my bedroom.

Of course, it all went to rot. Doesn't everything?

New York, 1921

"Ana?"

She grumbled, pulling her legs off the couch and overturning her drink in one grand gesture. The room swirled as she stood, and she laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

"Ana?"

"Give me a goddamn minute, would you?"

Ana slurred to the doorway, opening it a crack as the pulled the silk edges of her robe over her chest, looking through the sliver of light.

"Ana," a deep voice pleaded. "Let me in. You look awful."

She huffed, throwing the door open as she walked away, her back turned as the robe fluttered open and shut with her lazy footsteps. "Well, you look like an auto wreck, too. My thanks for your kind and complimentary words. I hope you brought gin and chocolate, or else I really have no need for you here."

She poured herself into a plush couch, emptying another glass.

"Ana, I read the paper this morning. Why don't you just tell me what happened." Aidan sat on the edge of the couch, reaching out to stroke her hand as she batted it away.

"What is this, an accident scene? It's been like an Irish wake in here all day, people ringing and walking up. Shall we feast on my bones when we're through?"

He looked away, then back to her.

"So, they fired you. It wasn't because you aren't talented."

She scoffed, throwing her glass across the room. "No, it was because I have a damn backbone, and the rumor is, singers without backbones are cheaper." She picked up the paper and spat at it as she lifted her glasses to her face to read the by-line once more.

"Millefleur Diva Dropped for Tantrums. Tantrums. . . That's what they call it when you ask for a decent libretto, a competent conductor and you won't screw everything that comes crawling with roses."

She picked up a nearby bottle, raising it to the air. "Bottoms up, my pet. Let's wash this down the drain with my life, shall we?"

A silent rage glowed in his eyes for the quickest of moments.

"This is your career, Ana. It is hardly your life."

"Might I move to the planet you seem to be living on, my pretty fool? I hear that despite the dense fog, it's generally lovely this time of year. My career is my life, in case it escaped your attention."

He recoiled a moment from the sharp retort before kneeling on the carpet beside her. The light from the bathroom hit the edge of his cheek, shadowing his mustache an intense shade of blue.

"What about us, Ana?" His voice filled with a tender inflection.

She looked around the room. "Who?"

"Am I not part of your life?"

She barked in a high shrill before swigging from the gin bottle again. "You are I suppose. . . as much a part as any of the entire male population in New York I've slept with recently, if it's of any comfort to you."

He closed his eyes, and his hands seemed to shake for an instant, though it never met her attention. "I. . . I love you, Ana."

She nearly spat out her drink. "I knew you were a bit simple, Aidan, but I did not think you completely insane. You've either gone utterly around the bend or you've developed some sick delight for failed musicians."

He shook his head. "No, I am sincere, Ana. I truly love you, in spite of your temper and your bitterness. You are a remarkable. . ." he paused. "You're simply remarkable."

She slid a hand over her bleary eyes. "Dear God. This is embarrassing, and entirely on your behalf. This is completely too much for my innocent ears. Do stop. . . I feel my reputation sullying by each passing utterance."

He snatched her hand up and ran it over his cheek. He drove kisses from her fingers up the curve of her arm and over her shoulder before his lips reached her cheek and he whispered into her ear.

"I want to marry you."

She rolled her eyes. "You want to bury me. . . Well, no need. The press already has done a fine job of that themselves."

"That isn't what I said, Ana." His voice was tight with a frustration covered by tenderness and desperation. "I said, I want to marry you."

"You're confusing me with that Pinkerton twit again, Aidan. You know how I hate it when you do that. The has the stumpiest legs. I find it plainly an outright insult."

His voice was strained and he gripped her hand tightly. "Ana, please, this isn't a joke. I love you."

She covered her eyes again. "I'm going to attempt to be serious with you, Aidan, though this situation makes it difficult. I cannot marry you."

He recoiled, dropping his hands to the floor.

"I cannot marry anyone, Aidan. I. . . was married in Paris years back. Marcel, in the greater French interest of having his brie and eating it too, left me for everyone in a corset but refused to grant me a divorce."

"I did not know. " His voice was quiet, as if stooping down to pick up something he'd merely dropped.

"Of course you didn't. Aidan, we've barely spoken to each other save the occasional ‘Yes, like that', and ‘Take me again' save today's odd little conversation."

"Then live with me, Ana. Let me. . . Let me take care of you."

"Dear God, Aidan. You can't possibly be serious. One doesn't take a housemate based on her aptitude in the evening. Then again, this is New York. I retract that."

He moved her hand and looked into her face. His eyes were torn with a desperate light, an emotion one couldn't put one's finger on. He kissed her cheeks, holding her arms tightly.

"What else are you going to do? You can't possibly keep this flat on your own. I couldn't live thinking of you here, alone, suffering in squalor when you could be with me, and we could be in each others' arms night and day. Please Ana, I am begging you. I want to have you near me, forever."

She looked into his eyes, heard his words, slurred by copious amounts of gin and felt her logic begin to turn before it ceased altogether. There were tears in his eyes. The intensity of his presence inebriated her above and beyond the liquid in the half-emptied bottles.

She looked at him, her faltering will worn like a veil as he began to smother her in wild kisses, and slid her glasses to the floor, knowing her resolve had failed.

"I shall say this now: I will live to regret this."

In between the kisses and the embrace that melted into an evening spent between couch and floor, his whisper got lost.

"No. . . no, Ana. You won't."

New York, 1997

So, I suppose it is high time for my grandiose confession. Yes, the thought of running out of gin in my flat amidst the vipers of the press was horrifying, and yes, I was drunk out of my mind. However, despite how it may have seemed, I had begun to truly care for Aidan. You may think this odd, but let me enlighten you a bit.

Every man I had ever been with, well, the same pattern nearly always occurred. First came the abject worship, followed by my pure love of said worship, and at a certain point, I would always wake one day to find myself abjectly despised. This was generally signaled by finding another woman in my bed, a rather obvious comment on the state of affairs, so to speak.

I know I was more in love with Aidan's adoration of me than Aidan himself. I wanted it. Frankly, I wanted it to turn out differently for a change, and I simply wasn't thinking. Something, for a moment then, sent a ten-car alarm my way, but it seemed silly.

Deception is a powerful thing. It is by itself, on the behalf of one, but when coupled with self-deception, it is positively lethal. Unfortunately, that is something one only gets a chance to learn once, and then you find yourself forever giving lessons to an attic wall.

I wanted to believe Aidan was sincere, and I wanted to believe I could love him. Ah, yes, the old adage of the damsel in distress waiting for the gallant knight, but I tell you, this was back in the dark ages, long before we were raised with the views women are now.

So, I left my precious flat and joined Aidan in this house. I feel I should mention that the brainless twit who had the placard outside made up failed to do her research. Aidan was indeed a bit older than he looked (I did not even discover his age until months after I'd moved into this place), but not so old as to have constructed an entire house in 1920. It was in fact Aidan's father, the Sr. of the two, who had. Aidan merely ruined the framework with his ill-inspired architecture, and that was as he was just out of school then, in 1925. To this day there is barely a thing one can keep in the living room without roping it to the wall, due to the slant of the floor. Back then, they called it visionary, now they call it pre-surrealism. I myself tend to favor ‘Careless and Moronic'. It has a certain special ring to it.

But I've fallen off course. We actually had a swell time for a while there, Aidan and I. We drank like fools. I spent my days sleeping, my evenings about town at the clubs and parties, and Aidan spent his hours alone on the third floor of the house, connected to this attic. It was always roped off, which peaked my curiosity, but such a mess of undone beams and sawdust I found it off-putting. I avoided it, on the whole.

I lost several friends at the time, save my dear Charlie. Aidan was met with great disfavor by near all of them, Charlie being the worst, really, but then, he always remained loyal to me, the little dear. But he refused to visit me at the house. I had never really known why.

After a couple years, I received a call from an old chum at the Lyric. They wanted me back. Seems tempers beat ingenues after all. I spent a grueling month getting the gin out of my system. Initially, Aidan seemed rather glad I'd be signing again.

Initially.

Rehearsals began, and he set himself completely in the upstairs floors. Night and day he would hammer away. Sleeping became nearly an impossible task. Originally, he would acquiesce and stop his hammering until I fell asleep.

We were putting on Aida that season, and it was a difficult production. Funding for the Opera had dropped dramatically. We were constantly short orchestra members, and the costumers were a nightmare of the grandest proportions. I tried to practice my recitatives and arias at home, but it became utterly impossible. Understand now, Aidan did not exactly have what one would call a temper. He did not lash out, nor did he yell often at all. Rather, he crept. . . much like say, a cat secretly stalking a mouse. To catch his glance, you would find him looking skyward and cherubic. Yet, if he did not see me looking, there were a few occasions where I saw the oddest expression on his face.

It was the expression of a complete stranger.

New York, 1925

"Ana, this is really worrying me," he said, rubbing the thinning hair on his shining pate.

She eyed his fingers and looked over the dying field herself. "It's worrying me too, Charlie. You look like Teddy Roosevelt."

"Ana," he said, taking her hand.

"Charlie," she replied, sipping the hot water with lemon and tightening the scarf on her neck. "I know you're worried. You've always been such a dear that way. I'm worried myself, but I am honestly so incredibly busy with this Rossini nightmare I cannot possibly trouble myself with it."

He shook his head heavily, leaning back in the thin cafe chair and turning up his collar to shield himself from the blustery wind that passed over the street corner. Sliding his hand into his jacket pocket, he poured through its contents before shoving a piece of paper across the table to Ana.

"Trouble yourself with this, Ana."

She poured her black eyes over it slowly, sighing. "Another apparent affair. Oh my sweet Charlie, surely you don't believe everything you read, do you? The press are such horrid vipers."

He looked at her through the steam from his cup. "She's missing, Ana."

A bewildered expression crossed her fine-boned face. "Who is missing?"

"The Pinkerton girl in the article. Were you home last night?"

She looked at him, a bit annoyed. "Of course I wasn't home, weren't you at the Opera watching me?"

He eyed her sternly, his eyes welling with concern. "I was. Most of New York was. Was Aidan?"

"No," she opened a compact and ran a circle of wine-colored lipstick over her lips. "Aidan has never had an interest in my performances. He has caught one or two, and says they are marvelous of course, but he is hardly the first in line to get season tickets."

"The Pinkerton girl wasn't there either, and she in fact, had tickets."

"Charlie, you've been reading those penny-detective novels again, haven't you."

He downed his coffee and pulled another paper from his pocket, and began piling small pieces atop on another, holding them down with his cup. He slid them to Ana.

"I don't know why you're not taking this seriously, Ana. All five of these girls are missing, and all five of these girls have been seen in the company of Aidan."

"Well, were I not contracted to stay in town for the Lyric, I myself might do a vanishing act after spending time in Aidan's company these days. He's been positively dreadful."

He stood, buttoning his overcoat. "Let's walk, Ana. I'm getting awfully cold."

She nodded, rising and wrapping the long camels' hair coat around her, setting her cloche over her ears. They passed over the street as her eyes investigated the contents of shop windows.

"Have you asked him about any of this?"

She looked faraway over the street. "About missing girls? No, Charlie, but then, I do not spend my days playing detective. About these supposed affairs and his embarrassing the hell out of me by trying to pass his idea of charm over anything in a skirt? I have tried, Charlie. I do not care to be made a fool of in front of all of New York. He denies everything. I have simply stopped asking. I simply refuse to play the part of the suspicious clinging wife. It is beneath me."

He laced his fingers through her gloved hand. "Ana, you are my dearest friend, and like a sister to me. This worries me to no end. Aidan has become so odd, and for the life of me I cannot understand why it is you stay with him."

She gave his hand a squeeze as their feet clipped over the sidewalk. "The years are catching up with you, Charlie. I fear you are terminally sentimental. I will not lie and tell you there is much left between Aidan and I, save a lot of dreams a silly girl should have had, not a woman my age. We rarely speak, and when we do, it has been less than civil. I am in love with my work, and he is in love with the notion of himself as some dreamy romantic pining over me, who in my self-absorption, choose to concern myself with art and not domestic affairs. I haven't the tools to hammer down a brick wall, Charlie, especially knowing I will find nothing behind it but decrepit mortar."

"You can move into my flat, Ana. You don't have to stay. Surely you must be making enough at the Lyric by now to take back your old flat."

"Truthfully, I'm not. Times are getting hard, Charlie, and the Lyric is on a shoestring. Half the time, I don't even bother to take a pittance away from it. But that's beside the point."

He looked at her quizzically. "Then what is it?"

She sighed, winding her scarf more tightly over her neck. "Oh Charlie. Once long ago a young man looked into my eyes when I was at my very worst and begged me to let him love me. He asked nothing of me but that I allow him to care, and there were tears in his eyes, Charlie. I so wanted to believe it was me he adored so poignantly that I did. It did not at all occur to me that what he was so fascinated with was his own desperation. It hardly crossed my mind he was less than genuine, or perhaps simply completely delusional, because it felt so wonderful to believe otherwise. I could believe he adored me when no one else did. I was an utter fool, but now it is as if I have started something I cannot let go, merely because I would still like to believe in the dream of the thing."

She turned away, passing her gaze over a myriad of hats in a shop window. A long-brimmed hat caught her eye, spotted with red felt as if bloodstained, a blue feather in it's brim. Perhaps it was indigo. It wasn't really all that blue.

Charlie pulled her into a tight hug, patting her back. "Oh my dear Ana, why do you not tell anyone these things? You are such a brash little bird, with your perfect voice, your pretty face, those lovely limbs and those ridiculous little pink glasses. We see so much of you, and yet you so rarely open the door to any of us."

She patted his shoulder before wiggling out of the hug and walking on, a picture of the Pinkerton girl staring out at her from a newspaper box.

"I fear when I open the door, I will find it filled with skeletons."


New York, 1997

Ah, the skeletons in our closets. It is such a powerful metaphor, that. We all have them, you know. Some of them are figurative: lost loves, ruined careers, our little sins and secrets, mislaid friendships and burning bridges. On the other hand, some of us truly do have skeletons in our closets, the literal kind. The trouble is, we are so concerned with keeping our doors closed, we rarely find them until we are buried beneath them.

I did address Aidan that evening about the Pinkerton girl. He seemed much alarmed when I reported she had not turned up in a day. He confessed they had spent the evening amongst friends, and seemed genuinely appalled at the thought any harm could have come to her. I offhandedly mentioned I noticed a profusion of girls missing in New York as of late. He offhandedly suggested I was better off sticking my nose in my scores than in detective work. It was a brief dinner that night. I chased the mousse in my own company.

It was a busy season. I had finally begun to get great acclaim for my performances. The life of a Diva may seem fabulous, but the truth of the matter is that by the time you've been given any real notice for your work, the wrinkles are beginning to creep under your eyes, and your vocal chords have begun their descent into oblivion. And you find you are not even near forty and there are whispers of your fading youth and talent.

But I was lucky then. Perhaps I was so much the bitch (pardon my language, but I could not find another word quite appropriate) that no one dared say such a thing. Perhaps they felt sorry for me, I cannot say. My lover's flirtations received nearly as much press as my touted performances.

When not out gallivanting around, Aidan took to tending the yard out in the far end of the house. He was working with sculptural pieces, he had said, erecting great slabs that looked precariously like headstones, which I found rather disturbing. We were putting up Carmen at the time, and so the symbolism of the whole thing was entirely too much for my delicate soul. I spent my time elsewhere.

We still slept together, mind you. I don't mean retired, rested, engaged in dreaming side by side, for I do think Aidan had quit sleeping at that point, a skill of which I was horribly jealous, as I would have sold my soul to add so many more hours to my day. What I meant was that we kept on as lovers. Oddly, despite whatever else had gone about, and what was lurking in the distance, we always did seem to get along in that regard. I have to still confess to moments of daydreaming about the deft movements of Aidan's hips and the frivolous nature of his tongue. I know it seems catty and horribly misplaced in light of things, but one must be frank, and in my state, there is little left to be.

Something though, began to slowly creep in me I could not set aside. It may have been suspicion, or perhaps doubt, or perhaps simply no more than the recurrence of what I had felt in that fleeting moment when he proposed so long ago before my penchant for delusion brushed it aside. I alluded to this once or twice, most often on the topic of his liaisons, but at a certain point, became so frustrated at playing the role of the doubting lover to his part of the bewildered faithful lover that I simply stopped. Perhaps you think that foolish, but there are things that we begin to know so deeply that at a certain point, the more we meet with denial, the stronger our belief in them comes.

And I did not want to believe the things I was beginning to suspect.

New York, 1926

He wiped his chin with his napkin, folding it again and again before setting it down on the table. "Well, I have some work to finish. Will you take care of the cleaning up?"

Ana sighed, setting her fork down. "You know, Aidan, I have 300 pages of a score to learn in the next two weeks. I still cannot believe you let that housekeeper go. She was tremendously good. I've half a mind to step over you and call her back, though she most likely wouldn't accept the job again, having been let go when she was doing a fine job."

He looked incredulous. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

She looked up from her wine glass with a tired expression. "What I said, Aidan. Was that I did not believe you fired her, meaning, I find it appalling you would fire someone for no reason whatsoever. Should I think otherwise?"

He shook his head, clenching and unclenching his hands in the pockets of his woolen trousers. "You may not call her back. We can't afford a housekeeper as it is anyway. I haven't had a job in months and what they're paying you at the Lyric is laughable."

She sipped her wine again. "You mean, you haven't taken a job in months, Aidan."

His eyes flared as he glared at her. "You have your art, Ana, and I have found mine, however small that seems to you. In fact, I am going now to go tend to my pitiful little art while you set out to fill the opera halls and delight all of New York."

She sighed again, finishing her glass and rising as she began to set the dishes on a tray. "Perhaps you should finish the third floor, then we could take on a boarder and—"

"No," he said, with a low growl.

"No?" She recoiled as his bark bit the still air.

"The third floor is mine, Ana, and I'd appreciate it if I heard no more about it. I don't even want you up there. It is mine."

She picked up the tray as he snatched it out of her hands.

"I will clear the damn table. Set to your scores and leave me the hell alone."

She huffed through her lips. "Very well, Aidan. I will be in my study should you feel inclined to grace me with your brooding presence. Perhaps we can discuss the perils of dealing with unruly housekeepers, or better still, the difficult nature of stepping outside the house to find a job. Or, if you really wanted, we could prattle on about what a fool I was to think you and I could have some semblance of a life together."

As she stepped out the door, his wine glass crashed behind on the frame loudly, echoing through the house.

New York, 1997

The Lyric bottomed out later that year. Times were getting hard, and art, my dear, in hard times, is always the first thing to go, though it is the very thing we crave the most. It amazes me what a self-defeating people we are, on the whole.

My being home more often was, needless to say, hardly a joy for Aidan. He was home less and less often, and I felt him creeping around me, lurking in doorways like a mouse. Frustrated with the state of affairs with the Opera, I settled myself in my study and began to write my own. It concerned the story of Bluebeard, perhaps you know it? I didn't finish it of course until many years later, and now it is of no use to anyone, unless you are a scholar in ghost-hand. But I found the tale fascinating, and it haunted my dreams. There are, in this story, three sisters wooed by a gruff man with a deliriously blue beard. They are initially off-put by this beard, but he invites them on a fanciful time picnicking in the forest with all manner of sweets and delights. The two eldest sisters, upon returning home, still decide something about the man bothers them. The youngest, however, is charmed by him, and fancies herself destined for a well-to-do marriage, and so she accepts his offer.

At some point, Bluebeard must leave town on an errand, and gives his little wife his keys, charging her with the care of his home, though forbidding her to unlock a certain door. She invites her sisters over, and in girlish stupidity and curiosity, they use the key to open the door, and the key fills with blood. The young wife is horrified, and the blood will not remove itself from the key. She hides the key in her wardrobe as the husband arrives home, her sisters just departing. He asks of her time alone, and she informs him the house has been well kept, and so, satisfied, he asks for the keys. She returns them, and he notices the one is missing. The wife claims is has been lost, and he is on to her deception in moments. She calls to her sisters for aid, and they call to her brothers. Meanwhile, the husband is irate and rather round the bend. He sets to murder his young wife, chasing her through the house. Before the ax falls on her pretty head, the brothers arrive and tear Bluebeard into little grisly bits. It is said some nun or what have you somewhere still holds a remnant of his beard.

I found this story most fascinating, though it disturbed me deeply. At the time, I did not know just why, though, if I had troubled myself to think on it, perhaps things would be quite different. Perhaps, in fact, my score of Bluebeard would be doing quite well here or in Paris, as the Opera is doing rather well on the whole.

Alas, fairy tales, even the grislier ones, always have such potent endings. If they are not altogether bright and lovely, there is at least some satisfaction in them, some justice done.

Life must be lacking a decent editor. They are so hard to find.

New York, 1927

She turned on her heel and skidded down the long hall, her scream caught in her throat as she came to the stairs. It dislodged itself, though not before the perfect ring of a high A flat was cut short by the swift fell of a neatly sharpened ax.

New York, 1997