11 HMV: Einar Rose & Fuglen Text

"Du danser inni hodet mitt/…Baby I love you/Jeg er farlig når jeg er sånn…"

Translation: "You dance inside my head/…Baby, I love you/I'm dangerous when I'm like that…"

-Unge Ferrari, song "Balkong"

5 pm, Week 4, Outside Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway

Macy reached for her phone and sent a group text to Maggie, Mel, and Matilda (Henry was busy at a writer's retreat, and Maya was preoccupied with a fashion shoot and a neuroscience presentation that afternoon):

We found Morgana, alive and well.

7 pm, Week 5, Hotel Room, Hotel Christiania Teater, Stortingsgata 16, 0161 Oslo, Norway

Macy surveyed herself in the mirror, not for the first time, wondering whether the short-sleeved Olivera: Zac Posen cocktail dress was appropriate for her 8 pm rendezvous, its mysterious, enigmatic dark electric blue and shadowy black hues positively beckoning for her to try it on, when she had purchased it earlier that day at a local boutique. What attracted her to the Olivera outfit was that the item would provide 79 essential supplies for a family in need through Save the Children, and she felt a certain level of obligation to give back to society after having achieved a relative level of success in her scientific career pursuits. Only one way to find out.

8 pm, Outside Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

The coffee bar had a bright cranberry-red circular logo, depicting a bird launched upwards into flight. Macy counted exactly twelve minimalist wood tables spaced apart by equal lengths, affixed to what appeared to be slotted park benches on the side closest to the café's walls, with wooden chairs on their opposite side. A warm lamplit glow emanated from within the shop, as she read the signage aloud, guessing that "Te" was "tea." She noticed a man sitting behind the glass wall, his attention toward whatever newspaper he was catching up with at that time of the evening, his dark reading glasses framing the chestnut silky hair that framed his visage—Norway certainly had its share of extremely attractive men, but this was the first time she'd seen a dark-haired gentleman—oh wait—she gave a start—that's Harry. She laughed to herself as she entered the sleek black metal-rimmed reflective glass doors.

8:01 pm, Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

Harry read the English-language Aftenposten ("The Evening Post"), peering curiously at the upper-righthand page, noticing a familiar bun of curly auburn and greying hair, when he felt two lithe arms embrace him from behind, causing him to sport a lopsided smile as he turned around and kissed her squarely on the lips. He noticed that she was dressed in a rather form-fitting ebony and feathery indeterminate, mysterious shade of blue. "Love," he murmured into her tawny curls, "you look absolutely divine."

"I could say the same about you," Macy murmured, stroking his slicked-back chestnut hair between her fingers, kissing him again, this time on his forehead, as she took the seat beside him to face the coffee bar's glass window, and the grey cobblestone street before them. Glancing behind her, she was pleasantly surprised to notice vintage décor in various corners, teak wood furnishings, a jukebox, and what appeared to be menus situated on clipboards throughout the cozy, eclectic establishment. Spotting one nearby her seat, she stood and regarded the beverage offerings. Words such as "Vinglet, Einar Rose, Balder Belafonte, and Galetangs" intrigued her, as she perused the various listed ingredients for each heady concoction. The Balder Belafonte had coconut and lime elements, but Macy was in a slightly more adventurous mood, opting for a Brutal Barista when she walked to the main counter to place her order.

"Harry—Harry!" Macy beckoned him over. "What do you want to drink?"

After a second's pause, he replied, "Cuckoo's Nest." The pair returned to their respective seats, continuing to people-watch as late-night employees streamed past from the Borgarting Iagmannstrett courthouse, a mere block away. There must have been quite a court trial, Macy imagined, to have so many people leaving the building at such a late hour. Norwegians, she learned upon first arriving to the country, took their work-life balance quite seriously, and were ranked, according to an online article she'd read, as the third-best country in the world for such matters.

8:20 pm, Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

Their drinks arrived, and Harry tasted his own chartreuse concoction, garnished with tiny sprouts of wood sorrel; the cucumber invigorated his palate, which was followed by a sudden burst of anise and caraway from the mixed-in Aquavit. Macy's own amber-colored drink had a touch of coffee, coupled with vermouth, Campari, and sweetened crowberry syrup, garnished with a bamboo toothpick through a candied grapefruit peel atop the glass. Wow, they thought to themselves, exchanging glances. "Delicious," muttered Macy, and Harry agreed.

"Switch glasses to taste?" asked Harry, and they did for the next minute or so. As the overhead ethereal music continued on, Macy aimed her phone toward the speaker using her SoundHound app to determine the artist. After a minute, the app revealed the piece to be Unge Ferrari's "Balkong." Macy inserted the lyrics into Google Translate, transfixed by the dark-sounding and altogether haunting melody. If Dark Harry had a song, this would surely be it, she thought to herself, as she waited for the English language translation to appear.

8:22 pm, Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

Macy stared at her phone and sucked her breath in sharply. The translation of the first two lines nearly had her reeling, thinking, hurtling back to those…nightmares? Dreamscapes? Of what she knew to have been Harry—looked like him, smelled like him—but talked differently.

"The devil is dressed…/Always keeping an eye on me…"

"Djevelen er kledd…Holder alltid øye med meg…"

She shuddered, recalling how his breath had come so close to her lips in the Vera Manor room in the middle of the night in her fever dream, shadows of plum, cerulean, and ochre dancing across the walls of the house as he walked forward deliberately, knowing she was utterly powerless to his rapacious advances.

"You dance inside my head/ Want to see someone, I'm locked up again…"

"Du danser inni hodet mitt/Vil'ke se noen, jeg har låst meg inn igjen…"

Harry took another sip of his drink then looked over at Macy, whose hands were now clenching the tabletop so that her knuckles were whitened. "M-Macy, are you alright love?" He grabbed and shook her by the shoulders, thinking her to be in a flashback, or similar. "Macy!" he exclaimed, finally capturing Macy's dazed attention. "You've seen something. What is it?" he asked. She shook her head, unable to speak—to formulate the words—knowing that to disclose the memories, the nightmares, the fever dreams evoked by the song, triggered by the song—would be to finally give her hallucinations a name.

"…Jeg er farlig når jeg er sånn…"

"…Baby, I love you/I'm dangerous when I'm like that…"

Macy took several deep breaths, waiting for the song to fade away, which was soon replaced by a flirty and whimsical "Dance Dance Dance" song by Norwegian pop star Astrid S. "Just a trigger," she whispered, her head now in her hands as a couple of tears spilled forth onto her cheeks.

9 pm, Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

"Darling," Harry lifted Macy's head and kissed her tears, wiping them away with his ever-handy starched handkerchief.

"You're always prepared," Macy nearly choked out the words.

"It's my job, as the family Whitelighter," remarked Harry, as he enveloped her in a gentle embrace. "How are you now?" he asked, as Macy sniffed loudly.

"B-better," she murmured. "Especially since you're here. With me," she all but whispered.

9:02 pm, Outside Fuglen, Universitetsgata 2, 0164 Oslo, Norway

Harry and Macy exited the bar to traverse back to the hotel when a mop of curly auburn hair caught their eye. Ducking into an unlit corner, Harry covered Macy's mouth to prevent her from speaking aloud. Once the unusually youthful thirty-something had passed them both, Harry uncovered Macy's mouth as they stared at the wavy-haired figure fast growing distant, heading in the direction of Othilia Bar at Grand Hotel Oslo, known for its citrus cocktails…and its extremely attractive, wealthy clientele.

"Was that—" Macy breathed aloud. Harry nodded.

"Morgana," they said in unison.

"Should we follow her? Tell whoever she meets that she's a centuries-old witch?" Macy wondered aloud. "There's nothing in the Book of Elders about stuff like this…" she trailed off, uncertain, gazing up at Harry.

To Macy's surprise, Harry shook his head. "No," he responded, sympathetic to the older woman's plight, being immortal himself and thoroughly overworked in his heyday. "Best let her enjoy her youth while she still has it. Though I'd recommend you text Matilda to convince her grandmother to return home."

"Roger that, Mr. Valensi," she answered. "Though I must ask—just how would a twenty-one-year-old convince a youthful grandma to come back, pray tell?"

"There's always the old-fashioned way," Harry replied, as he held his wife's hand, crossing the next couple of blocks, the streets themselves nearly deserted save for a lone car or two.

"What's that?"

He smiled to himself. "Letter-writing."