In a way, he reasoned to himself, this is yet another creation. Even with that logic, he was unable to put himself at ease. What was he now with the arrival of this atypical piece? He was supposed to be Stefano Valentini—the artist of destruction! Il Maestro di Morte! And this? This formation of life? It was because of him. His creation.

Consider this a breaching of boundaries, he thought. A rite of passage all great artists took. Did Michelangelo not step out of his comfort zone to paint the heavenly sky of the Sistine, despite his dislike of the very brushes he held? Despite his preferred inclination towards marble, of which he is known the world over as the master of? And how great did his frescoes turn out! What a splendor of mankind that arose from one artist breaching the boundary!

Stefano sighed. He dipped his head down to wearily rub his eye. He was, however, not ignorant to the gravity of this situation. This was not simply just a piece. It was not something done, and then set aside.

A child. And not just any—his own. One that would share his name, call him 'Papa.' Call Celestina 'Mamma.' Look up to the both of them. Learn from the both of them.

Stefano paused, lifting his head. His gaze returned to the window in front of him. The first light of dawn was just starting to touch the world outside. Another admirer. No, not just that—a successor. He nestled an arm across his torso and perched the other atop it. With a finger tapping his lower lip, he deeply pondered this new thought.

Soft steps came from behind him. "Darling, you're up early."

"Mmm," Stefano absently hummed back, his stare still fixated on the glass. "Once the fires of inspiration are lit, they seldom let me rest easy."

The steps came closer until he could almost see her reflection in the mirror—only a ghost of a form. "I thought you might've liked her," Celestina said. "I saw that look in your eye last night when you were talking to her. And oh, how she sings so beautifully—makes me want to cut her tongue out mysel—."

"How far along are you?" Stefano suddenly demanded, turning around to face her. He saw her quickly place her hands on her hips as their eyes met. He couldn't help but glance down at her stomach through the translucent nightgown. It was there—unseen but present, like an idea.

"I found out last week," Celestina answered. "Won't know exactly how long until I see the doctor."

"Can't be more than a month," Stefano muttered quietly, turning back to the window. He felt Celestina hug him from behind and rest her chin on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she murmured into his ear. "I was just… nervous. I wanted to wait for the right time." She craned her head forward to kiss his cheek. "Will you forgive me, Papa?"

"How much will this change?" Stefano wondered, his voice still soft.

"Some things will change. Others don't have to. You can still be my dear artist." Celestina came around to Stefano's side. Finally, he looked down at her. "And think how wonderful the further immunity will grant you. How could the KCPD ever suspect a loving husband and father of being the dreadful Krimson City Killer?"

A smile twitched on his lips. "Amore, I do love the way you think," he said, gently tucking a finger under Celestina's chin. "Such a cruel, cruel seductress. Sometimes I think I ought to be scared of you."

"Of me?" Celestina took his hand out from under her chin. She traced a seam in his glove with her fingernail. "Don't be ridiculous. They call me Krimson City's sweetheart for a reason."

"Is that one her plane?"

"No."

"Is that one?"

"No."

"Is that one?"

"… Yes," Ledford lied with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Is she still inside?"

"No, she's gotten off by now. Probably getting her bags off the carousel." Or waiting for us, Ledford added in his head. They were a little late, but hopefully she wasn't being kept waiting.

"Oh," Lily replied from the backseat. She finally brought her face away from the window as the car entered the parking garage and obscured the idle planes from view.

"Are you excited to see her again, Lily?"

"Yeah!"

"Are you nervous?"

"Nope!"

"Not even a little?"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Alright," Ledford said, pulling into an empty space. "Just don't get all shy and run off to hide somewhere when she shows up, okay?" And Myra would kill me if I lost sight of Lily at a busy airport. Ledford stepped out of the car. By the time he came around to Lily's side, the little girl had already opened the door and hopped out of her seat. "Take my hand, Lily. Remember—stay by my side at all times, okay?"

"Why are there always so many people here?" Lily asked as they walked towards the garage elevator. Her wide eyes stared down the aisles and aisles of cars.

"This is an airport," Ledford answered. "There's always people coming and going. Come on Lily, let's go. I'll let you press the elevator button."

At the offer, the child tore her attention away from the cars and hurried so quickly she was almost pulling Ledford along. When they reached the elevators, he kept his promise and let Lily tap the up button. After a few moments, one elevator dinged and slid open. "Do you remember which fl—No! Lily, no!" Ledford cried, reaching out and grabbing the little girl's wrist before she could embark on her button-mashing fest. "Only one. This one—with the little star on it, see?"

"Does it have a star because that's the one we're going to?" Lily asked after pushing the button.

"No, it means ground floor. In any elevator, when you see the star, that means it's the ground floor." Well, I'm not sure about elevators in other countries. I'll have to ask Bunny about that when we see her.

"Why doesn't it just say ground floor?" Lily asked as the doors slid close.

"It'd be really hard to fit the words 'ground floor' in that little button, wouldn't it?"

"Not really," Lily said. "You could do it like this." She bent down in front of the button panel and wrote the tiny letters in the air above the particular button. Ledford suppressed a lighthearted scoff as he watched her. The ding sounded again, and the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit corridor. The footsteps and voices of a heavy crowd filled the air.

"Lily!" Ledford called when the girl was on the verge of running out. At his voice, she turned and took the hand he held out for her. They exited into the large, bustling check-in area. There, they weaved through the moving mass of people seemingly going in every direction.

"Where's Bunny? Do you see her?" Lily asked as they made their way through the crowd.

"She's not here. She'll be at baggage claim," Ledford answered, his eyes briefly skimming over the small group of people waiting to be picked up. Luckily, he didn't see his sister among them.

"What's that?"

"The spinning thing where you get your suitcases."

"Oh." As they neared the baggage claim area, the crowd thinned. "Can I ride on it?"

"On the carousel? No, not this one."

"Please? I won't tell Mom… or Dad!"

"No, Lily, no one's allowed on the carousel." Ledford glanced back to see the soured look on the little girl's face. No doubt she'd tried that one on Myra and Seb before, and was hoping for a more favorable answer from Uncle Jackie. Sorry Lily. As much as I'd love to let ya, I gotta be a man of the law.

When they arrived at baggage claim, Ledford paused between the two carousels. His eyes skimmed over the faces of the waiting people as they stared boredly at the slow-moving luggage, waiting for the sight of familiar-looking designs or tags. Lily, antsy from staying still, stood up on her tiptoes. "Do you see her? I don't see her."

"No," Ledford mumbled as he scanned the crowd again. "I don't—."

"Beep, beep! Move it or lose it, folks!" a voice declared playfully. Ledford turned and saw a luggage-filled cart moving towards them. At the sight of the girl pushing the cart, the detective broke into a wide smile.

"Bunny!" Lily squealed, breaking away from Ledford to rush to the girl. The young woman took her hands from the cart and crouched down with her arms wide open. When Lily jumped into them, the girl hugged her tightly. "Oh, Lily, look at you! You're so big now!"

"Guess how old I am!"

"You are… let's see, twenty three!"

"No, that's old!"

Ah jeez, Ledford thought. Way to make a guy feel ancient.

"Well tell me, then. How old are you?"

"I'm SIX!"

"Wow! Someone's a big girl now!" Bunny rose. Her eyes met Ledford's, and the brilliance in her smile was renewed. "Jackie!" she greeted cheerily. "I missed your big, dumb face!" She stepped forward and rushed into her brother's hug.

"And I missed your big, poopy head," Ledford mumbled into her hair. They parted, and Bunny returned to her cart. "Ugh, okay, let's get out of here," she said.

"Can I ride?" Lily asked.

"Yeah, sure!" Bunny reached forward and patted the large, black suitcase on top. "This one's okay—it's just clothes."

Ledford eyed the size of the suitcase as he hoisted Lily up on top of it. "All that is just clothes?"

"Oh, shut up," Bunny teased. She wheeled the cart around, and the three of them headed away from baggage claim. "Okay, okay, but like can I tell you something right now? Like, right now?" She seemed just about ready to burst from excitement from the news waiting on the tip of her tongue.

"Yeah, sure," Ledford offered. Knowing Bunny, he couldn't help but feel as though he'd just pulled the pin from a grenade. A very happy, chatty grenade—also known as his sister.

"Guess—oh my god I'm like freaking out trying to tell you—guess where I'm playing my first Krimson City show?"

"You're already booked—?"

"The Violet Crown Theatre!" Bunny interrupted excitedly as they entered the elevators. "THE Violet Crown! Jackie! That's where Beyoncé played!"

Ledford let a heavy exhale out through his nose. "Somehow I don't think you two are playing for the same crowd," he joked. "But that's great! I'm really proud of you." He reached out and pushed the button for the underground floor they were parked on. Glancing back, he added, "And I'm sure Mom and Dad would've been proud too."

He saw a flash of sentiment appear on Bunny's face, and then she looked down with a smile. "Quit being a cheese-butt," she said.

"So when's the show?"

"Two and a half weeks."

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. "Not a lot of time to unpack and unwind, then."

"Eh, I'm used to it. I got flown all across France. Sometimes I'd have a show the day after I landed, especially when I was starting out and couldn't get the best show times."

"Man, who's doing all this scheduling? Surely you're not, are you?"

"Jackie!" Bunny groaned with a roll of her eyes. "No performer books their own shows! I got Denis helping me. He's—oh, you'll meet him later. He got here a week ago to do some, I don't know, scouting I guess."

They reached the car. Lily hopped down from the cart. "Can I come to your show?" she asked.

"Of course you can, Lily!" Bunny replied. "Have Mom and Dad take you."

"Dad doesn't listen to piano music—he listens to old people music."

Now that I can agree with, Ledford agreed wickedly. He opened the trunk of the car and began loading the luggage inside.

"They'll want to come—go ask and see." She suddenly whirled around to Ledford and loudly clapped her hands. "Come on, man! Work faster!"

"You wanna ride in the trunk with the suitcases?" Ledford threatened.

"I do!" Lily exclaimed.

"No, Lily."

Additional immunity. Stefano wasn't fooled. That wasn't how Celestina saw the baby in her belly. There was a special connection between a woman and her child—a connection Stefano knew he could never understand, but was intrigued by all the same.

He thought of the woman who had raised Giacomo. And, in a way, him. He may not have understood the connection, but he knew how it worked. How it felt.

It was the soft, tinkling notes that caught his attention. When he followed the sound, Stefano heard her voice gently humming along with it. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed. Atop the nightstand, the small porcelain ballerina spun slowly on her platform. He didn't miss how Celestina had one hand draped gently over her stomach.

"That music box," he said, cutting through the music. Celestina stopped humming and looked up. "That was the one your mother gave Alessandra, wasn't it?"

"So you remembered," was all Celestina replied as she leaned forward to scoot the box closer.

"Why is it here?"

"After that night, Alessandra had no more use for it," Celestina replied. She rested a hand against the carved countryside relief. "Our baby will fall asleep to this song… on the nights I'm too tired to sing it myself, of course," she said. Stefano watched the ballerina rotate. His eye switched to the pearl necklace on his wife's neck. His gaze rested to the ground as he remembered the budding realization he had come to upon hearing Celestina's past. Without a word, he turned and left.

For the next few days, Stefano busied his mind by developing the blueprints of his next work. That girl Celestina introduced him to at the gala—what was her name again? He couldn't quite remember. And, astoundingly, he found himself having trouble recalling what she even looked like.

Hmm… what should the final piece look like? Dainty, elegant—always. That was the trademark of his style. Death was breathtakingly graceful—the way it seized the entire form and transformed it to its will.

And yet… Stefano glanced down at the glaringly empty page in front of him. All that white was meant to hold the design of his next masterpiece, but there was nothing. Not one touch of graphite. It was still all trapped in his head, these ideas upon ideas upon ideas. Tumultuous incoherency. He couldn't make a single thing out from among that which crowded his thoughts.

It worried him. This is more than just a mere block, he knew. He could feel it. His creativity had grown stagnate. Rotted like an undesirable piece of flesh. He couldn't even remember what that girl at the gala looked like.

The sound of the chair legs was loud and harsh as Stefano stood up. What is happening to me? he wondered wildly. Is this the end? Have I passed the peak of my greatness? No. NO! I still have more! So, so much more left to make! Please! With brisk steps, he paced to and fro in the studio.

There was nothing here—no peace, at the very least. And this constant back and forth was driving him mad. Stefano didn't know why, but he found himself leaving the studio to go downtown into the arts district. Before he knew it he was striding into the Gallery of Art. The receptionist looked up. She opened her mouth as he stormed past her desk, but shut it when she recognized him.

He flew past the works of others that barely intrigued him and found the section of the gallery where his own were displayed. Stefano's eyes skimmed over them—pieces so foreign he could hardly recognize them as his own. Portraits of beautiful women with immaculate hair, posed with meticulously arranged flowers, leaned on balcony railings, or pressed up against walls. One of his Celestina, standing in a blood red dress that seemed to morph into the red, velvety drapery that fell around her. And yes, on that end there were even those damned landscapes.

A farce—all of it. These pieces had been dredged out only so the critics could be kept at bay, so that the knives they constantly wielded would poke instead of stab. Stefano could only stomach these pieces because deep down, he knew these were necessary in order for his true style to flourish. Unseen, delicately festering into something special from the underbelly.

Stefano looked down, pinching his chin in his fingers. But where there once was growth, now there was nothing. He took a deep breath and willed himself to look back up at these… these placeholders.

If the spark had gone, were these all he had left? An artist without his style was… well, Stefano wasn't even sure what. An empty paintbrush, its bristles too dry and brittle for paint. An old camera left forgotten under a coat of dust, never again to take another picture.

Snap out of it, Stefano, he told himself as he turned to leave the gallery. Inspiration will come—it always has. It will strike you as a blazing flash of glory. Just be patient.

Stefano returned home. As he passed by the bathroom, he heard a familiar rumbling that told him a bath was being drawn. Stefano stopped by the dining table and sifted through the newspapers until he'd found the one saved from a few weeks ago. It'd been released a few days after the annual gala. Stefano flipped through the pages, scanning the pictures taken from that evening. Maybe, he figured, if he saw the face of that girl again, it would jumpstart his creativity.

But it seemed he was out of luck. None of the pictures held her image. Frustrated, Stefano threw the newspaper back onto the table. Perhaps a little time spent with his dear muse would get things kick started. The rumbling of the bath's tap had stopped, but the door was still closed. He stopped by it and gave it a few delicate knocks.

"Yes?" came the response from within.

Stefano opened the door and found her in the bathtub at the far end. Her wet shoulders glistened in the evening sun that filtered through the frosted glass. Celestina's eyes fluttered open as he crouched by the tub. "Darling," she said. "You sounded rather restless out there. Is something the matter?"

"Just needed some air to think," Stefano answered. He pulled off a glove and traced a line down her arm. "Don't you look picture perfect?"

"Another picture for your private album?" Celestina replied slyly. Suddenly, her brow furrowed. Closing her eyes, she adjusted herself in the tub with a soft groan.

"What is it, amore?"

"My back has been killing me all day," Celestina answered. "It's been like this for almost a week. A soak usually helps."

"Am I to expect to see you in here for the next seven months, then?"

"Perhaps." Celestina sat up, letting the suds slide down her skin and back to the surface of the water. "If I'm feeling generous, maybe I'll let you join me on occasion." She leaned back again, stretching her arms up. "Oh darling, I know it's a fickle topic at this point, but I do hope it's a girl—a sweet little girl. Don't you?" Her arms dropped down atop the rim of the bathtub. Stefano spotted a strange look in her eyes as she watched him, waiting for an answer.

Instead of responding the way she wanted, he said, "And if it's a boy?"

"I'll still love him all the same." Celestina settled back, lowering her eyes. Her hands came up from the water and cupped the suds. "But to have a darling little daughter… my own angel. I'd give her everything my mother never gave me."

Suddenly, Stefano saw Celestina's eyes widen as panic shot across them. With a startled gasp, she grew rigid. One hand flew down to grip the edge of the tub while the other seized Stefano's wrist with alarming strength. Pain from the pressure of her fingers shot through his arm. Startled, Stefano tried to pull his wrist back, but it was like fighting against stone.

Another heavy gasp escaped Celestina's lips. Her body heaved with every deep, intense breath. Suddenly, she let out a cry and jerked forward. As she did, her grip on Stefano was released.

Pulling in a shaky breath himself, Stefano held his wrist gingerly. Whatever had made Celestina act up seemed to pass. "Amore? What was that?"

"No… Nothing…" Celestina replied faintly. Her breathing slowly calmed down. "The doctor did say there would be cramps early on. I'm sure with time they'll subside."

Cramps? That almost looked like full on labor to me, Stefano thought.

Finally, Celestina looked at him. "Oh, darling, did I hurt you? My—these hormones are turning me into a mess!" She let out an airy laugh. "Let me finish my bath and I'll see if I can make it up to you." Her tone told him he ought to leave the conversation at that. Stefano gave her an emotionless smile as he rose and left the bathroom.

As soon as he was out of the steamy air, out of the sunlight muddled from frosted glass, the demons that had only been kept at bay slowly crept back into the folds of his mind. That little outburst of Celestina's had only served as a temporary distraction. Worst yet, his muse had done little to inspire him. What should have housed a growing spark was only cold emptiness.

Stefano fell into the routine of making himself a cup of coffee. Then, he settled down in the armchair by the window and silently watched evening fall slowly over Krimson City. Perhaps if he waited, his gift would find its way back to him.

After a few moments, Celestina came out in her bathrobe. She tucked herself in the snug space between Stefano and the armrest, letting one leg drape over his lap. "You look so forlorn. Is something troubling you? You know you can tell me."

Stefano, in lieu of a response, lifted the mug and took another sip of coffee. He wasn't sure if he could admit the truth to her—what would she think of her dear artist then?

He didn't know where this wariness came from. She was the only person he had ever gotten this close to, aside from… Well, stop right there. She was the only person he had ever gotten this close to. But here was this burden that he, for once, wanted only himself to carry. Why? He wanted to blame pride, but knew a lie when he saw one.

"I've just been thinking," he simply responded.

Celestina left it that. Whether she was satisfied with that answer, didn't care, or deliberately avoided the truth, Stefano wasn't sure. All she did was lean her head on his chest. He found the gentle pressure relaxing.

To his surprise, he felt as though the demons had left him. Or maybe they were still there, but their voiceless torments had stopped. The spark is still gone, he thought, but why do I feel content all the same? He snaked an arm around Celestina and pulled her closer. Perhaps this is why the artist left. He felt this change coming.

But if that part of him was gone, what was left? That sole thought kept alive his resistance. "I am an artist," he said aloud to Celestina. "That's all I am. All I ever will be. Isn't that right?"

She said nothing, and the silence was damning. Still he was obstinate, and he waited for his answer.

A few days later, the answer came.

It was a quiet evening when Stefano heard it. Like a blade sliding effortlessly through flesh, the scream cut through the air. Stefano had only heard it once before in the alleyway on the night that had changed him forever. Shrill and piercing—a true symphony of despair that needled a chill down his spine.

Like any good performance, it drew an audience. The bathroom door flew open and he hurried to rush in, but instead could only take a single step through the threshold before freezing. What he saw would stay with him for years and years and years, up until the day he would join his works of art.

She was on the floor. The bathrobe draped gently over her thighs. One corner fell into the crease of her bent leg. For a wild moment, Stefano didn't see the bathrobe and thought that she was wearing a dress—a brilliant red one that fanned out around her like a flower in bloom.

But then he realized there was no dress. The red was something else. It pooled around her bare legs.

He saw Celestina reach out and press her hands deep into the blood. Then she scraped it towards herself as though trying to pull it back in. As if trying to cradle something. Her fingers left trails in the viscous blood, letting the white of the tile show through. Once again, the creases and highlights of a red dress flashed in Stefano's mind.

When she lifted her hands from the tile, he noticed how they shook. Celestina held them up, palms facing towards herself, as thick streams dripped down her forearms. Her voice came out hollow and haunting, shaking just as much as her hands. "My baby…" And then a shriek so piercing, Stefano felt it hit him like lighting—a blazing flash.

"MY BABY!"

He never got to see it. He only saw the coffin it was contained in—a small, wooden box with carved reliefs of the Italian countryside—gripped tightly in Celestina's hands as though she were afraid of letting it go, even for just one second. She left the house without a word. Stefano wondered at first where the box had come from. Then he found the porcelain ballerina on the table, surrounded by discarded gears and snapped axles.

It was dark when Celestina returned. The box was no longer with her. When she walked through the door, Stefano was already there waiting for her. The moment her eyes fell on him, she began to cry bitterly. And he hugged her, feeling nothing but relief that his muse still had the ability to inspire him so.