I remember rooms that have had their part

In the steady slowing down of the heart.

The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,

The little damp room with the seaweed smell,

And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide.

- Charlotte Mew, "Rooms."

The high arched windows opened eagerly into balmy air, where the lavender tinted sky glowed opal bright. Translucent curtains fluttered quietly in lazy breeze. Katherine Brooke stretched, variegated mosaic tiles were cool under her bare feet. The strong aroma of fresh mint tea flooded the room, as Katherine took the narrow delicate tulip-shaped tea glass with two fingers, from silver worked narrow tray, she took a small, almost ceremonial sip, of fragrant aromatic substance. Air was light with subtle scent of myrrh and violet parfume, along with mint twined with honey. Then she put on vivid orange silky kimono, the coolness of the silk against her skin, after all these years still felt arrestingly lovely, almost decadent. Little touch of presbyterianism in Katherine's soul resented whims like this, but mostly she dressed as she pleased, with vibrant hues, as if in retrospect she was still defying the darkness and gloom of her girlhood and adulthood by being as colorful as possible. Katherine was combing her dark, rich hair, that was lightly streaked with silver, with a silver hairbrush that was sadly Victorian. Heavy embossed travel trunks were stacked in the corner of the room, and in the alcove there was an old-fashioned wide and high bed that had seen better years, old walnut-colored wood gleamed softly. The narrow writing desk was half full of envelopes, and a few letters peeked out, amid stack of coloful notebooks. All around her, Venice slowly awakened into new day.

Gondolas glided almost silently on the greenish water, under various canals and arched bridges, light glittered in the dome of St. Mark's Church, as it rose towards the heavens. Katherine strode, among the mass of people, through the narrow streets that led to the Arsenal, as she recalled with amusement the latest letter that she had received from Dean Priest.

Dear Liberia. I know it's pointless trying to get you to change your travel plans, but I still want to say a few words. Venice, Venice, that ungodly tourist trap, or endless open-air museum, which nevertheless is the pearl of Ariadne's sea, where the glorious grandeur of the past, the majesty of the Doges, the boots of the Crusaders and the jubilation of Napoleon's troops, can still be felt at certain moments. Everyone is queuing for the gondolas, and there are all the languages of the world, people are drinking too much limoncello, buying Murano glass, or Burano lace, and may want to pass in the footsteps of Henry James, Casanova, and Thomas Mann, Pietro Arentino, and Shakespeare. You probably remember what Byron wrote, about that eternal city, in his " Childe Harold."

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,

Rising with her tiara of proud towers

At airy distance, with majestic motion,

A ruler of the waters and their powers:

And such she was - her daughters had their dowers

From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless

East Poured in her lap all gems

in sparkling showers:

In purple was she robed,

and of her feast Monarchs partook,

and deemed their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,

And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear:

Those days are gone - but Beauty still is here; States fall,

arts fade - but Nature doth not die,

Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all festivity,

The revel of the earth,

the masque of Italy!

Remember to enjoy the food. I would recommend Fegato alla venezia, or Sepe col Nero. As you very well know, music is always eternal, and especially the versatility of baroque, Vivaldi, Monteverdi, and Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, whose compositions glowed with strong colorization and sparkle. The more recent Italian opera should also be taken into account, so of course I'm talking about Verdi, Othello, if it's performed there, even if whoever plays Desdemona is not like that Titania-like singer that I met some years ago now, in that sweet little cottage all run over with lavender, where I was so pleasantly surprised with taste of Chopin, Lehar, and scent of cherry jam, in Poitou, enroute to Switerland, for my treatments. Has she taken yet, Desdemona into her repertoire, if not she really should do that. One last thing that came to my mind, if you can, go and see the Biblioteca Marciana, for it is worth seeing, but so are thousands of other places in that eternal city, where the whispers of countless generations of lovers seem to linger in the air, regardless of the time of day or year. There is delicate and tantalizing sense of opportunity and adventure, it seems to be waiting around every corner, even if it's only an illusion, and traders sell inferior paintings in markets, and puppies are sold on Italian trains, but the wine is always high quality and the fruit usually too. I found it pleasant to reminisce about my own visits there, although of course you don't ask for advice, although I still gave it. Enjoy Venice, I don't know which corner of the world I will go to next, there are many possibilities.

Cordially

Dean Priest.

Katherine shook her head, coolly polite, as a passing peddler tried to sell her overpriced goods. To avoid them she, changed her route to the back streets, away from the hustle and bustle of open markets. There was a small bristo in one corner of a quaint building the color of a pink melon, and wiping her face with a handkerchief, Katherine entered a low but simply furnished room with tables and the day's specials written on a chalkboard in the local dialect. Frowning, Katherine studied the menu, and finally decided to order, a dish that Dean had also happened to recommend.

Eating roasted calamari with lemon and side salad, made with local delicacies, Katherine recalled how by chance a couple of weeks ago, in Paris she had heard how Betty had practiced Desdemona's Salce, Salce from Othello. Her interpretation, had been full of instinctive sensitivity, and foreboding sadness. Verdi's music had glowed full of unspeakable sweetness, and fatality, when she in the guise of Desdemona had bid farewell to Emilia, those last, glittering, notes had been like a sudden stab of a dagger. Afterwards Betty had smiled slyly and said in her semi-serious style, that were so hard to resist. "I thought this would be appropriate for tonight, before you go." Betty had waved her fingers at a prancing creamy half-grown cat with sky blue eyes and a fluffy tail. Then she had said warmly. "Be open-minded, well you usually are, and who knows, pearls maybe can found on the Lido's shores."

Sharp words, sarcastic ones, were almost halfway to Katherine's lips, but then she subsided, for she had never been able to be very sarcastic to Betty, not by her standards, at least, and those standards were considerable. As from somewhere far away, through the mist of years, Katherine heard, momentarily, Anne Shirley's soft, delighted whisper. "Oh, Katherine, you really ought to smile more. Did you know that you have such a delightfully lofty neck as well as refined long fingers. Use them, don't hide them. Clothes are important. I can't wear red myself, but I think that shade, especially pomegrand or granite, is perfect for you, as it makes your skin look so creamy. That sharp fatality of your eyes, is accentuated, in a very becoming way."

Betty had smiled her slowly brightening smile, that wistful moonbeam one, to Katherine, as she had hummed one effortless glimmering stand of Mozart. Katherine had glanced amusedly at fair younger woman, who had been leaning on a concert grand piano, as she had remarked in a fond tone of voice, " That Vitellia´s Deh se piacer mi vuoi was very apt. So, I should trust you, and stop doubting?"

The morning sun fell between thin lace curtains on a framed black and white photo of two women posing side by side. A blonde woman with a Gibson hairdo was lounging luxuriously in a toga-style garment, on a Grecian-style bench, looking towards the camera with mischievous eyes, and next to her, leaning on the arm of the bench, was a person dressed in black, who was also a blond, androgynous dandy-like figure, in a tight suit jacket, and in dress pants. Thick, unruly curls spilled over the shoulders of the coat, and set off a palatial neckerchief with a sparkling stream of Brussels lace. Katherine glanced at the photo in passing, a nostalgic smile spreading across her face as she quoted, in sotto voice.

Tout s'élargit. Le soir qui tombe est magnifique

Et vaste… Comme un Doge amoureux de la mer,

Parmi l'effeuillement des roses, la musique

Des luths, l'or qui flamboie ainsi qu'un rouge éclair,

J'irai, les yeux voilés de volupté mystique,

Et, fastueusement, j'épouserai la Mer.

With light steps Katherine passed Betty, as she seated at the piano, and slowly with delicate touch she started to play. Soon a heady, bright-toned composition had shimmered in that apartment, as half-open apricot-colored roses had bloomed in a crystal vase, on a small table that was a model example of the Art Noveau style. After the music stopped, a peaceful silence had fallen in the room, and Katherine noticed out of the corner of her eye how Betty was carefully caressing ring on her right hand, it was oval-shaped pink tourmaline in narrow silver frame. Katherine felt her throat tighten as pain of loss was momentarily reflected in Betty's bright, golden-hazel eyes. At that moment, it was almost as if the honey-scented narrow candles had smelled, in the room, but it was only a sensory memory brought up by that jagged, fragmented look in Betty's eyes. Then Betty smiled a little tiredly, and a beam of light glinted on the stylized silver lily pendant that hung around her neck. Only the light purring of two kittens broke the silence as Katherine opened the small box and lit a narrow incense stick, and soon, the slightly sweet scent of frankincense and myrrh filled the bright apartment. Outside, the streets of the Passy district were quiet, and Paris glowed with the splendor of May.

Katherine woke up from her memories, and found that she had automatically eaten her squid, just as she had done in her unhappy youth, whlie living with her uncle Henry, who had sent her to Queens, but with certain conditions. Katherine shuddered as she remembered her tireless, almost manic, toil to pay off her debt to her uncle, and her dingy third-rate boarding house room, devoid of all comforts, it had been a downright miracle that her health had not been damaged in those years. Fortunately, the small carafe of local white wine, slightly lemony, was still cool enough, and triumphantly Katherine poured the rest of the carafe into her glass, and as she did so, she grimaced inwardly at the memory of her late uncle. With greedy eyes she looked at the view spread out before her. There were pastel-colored houses, and vibrant joyful people, all enjoying their life.

Soft, slightly mocking smile appeared on her pale lips, poised Katherine slipped into the warm evening, with eager steps, and she followed the crowd that passed before her, and soon she found herself, in front of the Teatro Santi Giovanni e Paolo, and that incredibly beautiful, and massive the opera house was one of the first in all of Venice, and had, among other things, been the place of premiere of Monteverdi's L'incoronazione di Poppea at the Carnival in 1643. Curiously, Katherine noticed that a crowd of people were crowding into San Zanipolo, a short distance away, as the rays of the setting sun were gilding that enchantingly beautiful church, calmly Katherine crept along with the others, into cool dimness. Soon a delightful sight opened before her cynical eyes. All around her was soft burnt pink and white, wide checkered floor, it had been polished silky smooth and slippery under countless thousands of steps over countless centuries. Katherine toured the church, and enjoyed ultimate aesthetic experience, it was as if she had stepped into a huge tender pink seashell, as upon closer inspection, the church was made of the same pinkish brick that was seen in the buildings of the Tolouise area. The altar of the church rose to the heights, as did huge pale columns, and colorful ornaments that supported the pale white domed roof of the church, walls were decorated with mahogany-colored wall cabinets, and pale statues of various saints. There were paintings, on the side platforms, gilded frescoes, and altarpieces with religious subjects.

While standing alone in the middle of the church, under the reddish murano glass votive lamp, with the scent of incense surrounding her, Katherine felt as if someone were stroking her neck, extremely delicately, the feeling came so suddenly that she almost shuddered at it, and cautiously Katherine glanced at the nearest altar where there happened to be a small bouquet of violets, and cautiously she bent down and touched the petals of the flower with her finger. Katherine, glanced high up, where the pale domed ceiling loomed in the gloom, and cautiously she made the sign of the cross, over the flowers, and almost silently she slipped out of the church, into the darkened, starry night.

Only couple of days later, in the afternoon, Katherine had headed towards Lido, which was, as always, packed with people, motley of striped parasols, and running children. Annoyed, Katherine found that her narrow sandals were filled with the pale sand of the beach, which was being whipped around by a light breeze. Light, soft clouds swirled in the sky and the waves crashing on the shore were a pure greenish gray, with a strange metallic hue. Suddenly the sky, which had been the purest blue, had darkened, as silent, silent drops of torrential rain split the surface of the sea.

The rain fell harder and feeling satisfied Katherine started to walk along the shoreline, carefully holding the hems of her red silk skirt. Cold, cool drops, drenched her hair, sudden coolness felt very pleasant, after weeks of oppressive heat. Katherine looked up and saw that she wasn't the only one enjoying touch of solitude in the rain. A woman was sitting a short distance away, on a folding bench. She seemed to be looking out over the churning sea, wind was ruffling her blond, honey-colored hair, in which a dark blue silk ribbon fluttered, as Katherine approached the woman's bench, the ribbon it came loose and flew, almost to Katherine's feet. For a few moments Katherine felt like leaving the silk ribbon in the rain-darkened sand, but then she bent down with difficulty, for she felt a little sharp crack in her right knee, and folded the ribbon carefully, and said in her cool way,"Mi scusi, signorina, ma le è caduto un elastico per capelli setoso."

Hearing Katherine's words, the woman raised her attention from the horizon, and glanced at Katherine. As she did so, Katherine froze in place, for those large dark eyes were the color of dark honey and syrup twined together. Her features were symmetrical, and clear, with a few charming freckles on high cheekbones. Quite simply, woman was one of the most instinctively attractive people Katherine had encountered in years, but that wasn't the reason why she was frozen in place, as a sudden electric shock-like sensation ran down her spine.

Woman's lips curved into a small, faint smile as she took one gliding step towards Katherine, as the hem of her delicate peach-hued, clinging dress swung. The air quivered between them, and instinctively Katherine found herself breathing shallowly. And then the woman said, in a pleasant melodious voice, in English with a slight accent, "There is no need to speak Italian, but I thank you for picking up my ribbon, as it has sentimental value. These July showers, of rain they can be unpredictable sometimes, this is not luckily not Acua Alta, flood, as they generally happen only in spring and wintertimes, so shall we go somewhere out of the rain, or do you perhaps want to get wet?"

Katherine, found herself nodding, in rueful amusement, so in no time at all, or so it seemed, they had walked, through the narrow streets, to a nearby café with red and white parasols, and graceful tables, in the shady covered courtyard of Palazzo, with large flowerpots on every side providing shade. A splash of Italian, and a bit of French, English, and mid-Atlantic accents, of the brash variety, echoed around them. Soon in front of them were small steaming cups, full of sweetly bitter aromatic coffee, and two tawny biscotti in a gold-rimmed pale plate. The fair woman, swept her abundant hair off her shoulders with a careless gesture, and tied it back, with a careless elegance, and after tasting from her glass full of ice water, she said, "I am, Marguerite." Katherine, a little amused, at this coincidence, told her own name.

The rain whipped the water of the Venetian canals, as the panorama of narrow streets, multi-colored palaces was, as ever heartbreakingly beautiful. When the rain finally stopped, Katherine and Marguerite stood on the Bridge of Sighs, the water below them were shimmering greenish blue tint in the light of setting sun. Katherine glanced around, cautiously, and said softly, and emphatically, yet lightly, "If you have nothing else to do tonight, would you like a nightcap, I happen to have some excellent Polish liqouer in my rented rooms." Marguerite slipped her slender fingers between Katherine's, and squeezed tightly, once.

Afterwards, Katherine didn't quite remember at all how they had walked, the distance between her rental flat and the Bridge of Sighs. Her rooms were cool and private, and the door was easily locked, with iron lock and old fashioned key. And on the small amber-hued table, as promised, was a bottle of Wísniówka, and from a small ornate cabinet recessed into the wall, Katherine took two small crystal thimble glasses with cut-out floral designs, the glasses glimmering in the honey-toned light. Katherine poured the glasses full, and handed one to Marguerite, in that moment, as her slightly dry palm touched hers, a soft, almost liquid and bouncy intoxication spread, inside her, and Katherine knew, with unassailable certainty that next few hours would be revelatory.

When those first, mutually tentative kisses arrived, they tasted like cherries, sourly sweet, bliss with a light bite of vodka, in the backround, it burned, and very softly, with her other hand, Katherine caressed Marguerite´s features lightly, and at the same time pressed a greedy, kiss to her already slightly swollen lips. Marguerite´s eyes were half-liddled, and she breathed intermittently, pressing down, wrapping herself against Katherine, in slow sinuous movement. Her dress was by now very rumpled, and thin almost opaque sift decorated with blue ribbons were revealed underneath, as Katherine hurriedly almost tore off the thin mother-of-pearl buttons. A deep wave of passion, that had been built up over hours, overtook her senses, and on the cool mosaic floor Katherine surrendered, slowly, lingeringly, Katherine sank, into the salty silkiness of Marguerite's skin; this was a dance that, once learned, was impossible to completely forget, and each new partner, or companion brought their own personal nuances into slight, ever evolving erotic alchemy.

The soft golden body of Marguerite, laying in reposte, next to Katherine, on imported egyptian cotton sheets, was like an unknown continent, every sweet, torturing strand, shadow, and secret that Katherine discovered, again and again, in moments that turned into a small, sparkling, bright, ageless eternity. Universe hummed, and there was nothing in the world, but the vibration of the soft salty skin, and the flexible curve, of her spine, the bend of the knee, roundness of the leg, and slender ankle, guitar-like curve of the hip bone, under Katherine's lips, and those reddish criss-cross marks, that her nails left on Katherine's shoulders, as she slid, inexorably downward. Katherine brushed her dark hair out of her face, and said with a sincere, passionate, tenderness in her voice that surprised even her, "Have you had enough yet?"

The only response was a dark rich laugh that soon turned into a soft damp low half-guttural gasp, as Katherine moved even lower, curling her fingers at just the right angle, as those the little moans only increased. A bit later, feeling very flushed and more than slightly smug, Katherine rose to a half-sitting position, on the bed, and leaned on Marguerite, in the hollow of her neck lingered a slight hint of parfume, of earthboud floral, greenish chypre tones. Marguerite propped herself up on her elbows, looked at Katherine, and in the depths of those dark eyes, something seemed to glow, as she remarked, impishly, "Katherine, with a K, turn about is always, fair, so now it's your turn," And it was so, with difficulty Katherine remembered to breathe, as Marguerite's hair touched her, lightly, playfully, the varying sensations seemed to hum, and then there was nothing but sweet fulfillment, and which rose, from Marguerite´s delicate touch, the sticky softness of curves of the lips, and eternal, inexorable waves...

Then it was morning, pale reflection of the ever-increasing light radiated, it illuminated pile of light honey-colored hair could barely be seen from under the sheets. Katherine pressed a soft possessive kiss to Marguerite's bare shoulder and said in a slightly hoarse voice, "Do you want breakfast?"

Marguerite's arm came up, from among the pillows, as she opened her eyes, with a slight smile. There was fresh coffee flavored with cardamom, and strong tea, in tulip glasses, wide shutters were open. Katherine, handed her orange kimono to Marguerite, and dressed herself, in her old burdungy colored one, which was very frayed, for it was one of the first articles of clothing she had bought after Redmond secretarial course, which had changed her life, and opened the doors to her present lifestyle. Marguerite sat down beside Katherine on the little couch, calmly, and pressed a light kiss to her hair, as if she had done so often, every morning, for years.

The effortless, natural intimacy of that gesture was more startling than last night's passion. Katherine glanced cautiously, in her prickly style towards Marguerite, but nothing could be deduced from the pale woman's face, except for complete concentration on cutting her breakfast brioche open. Katherine, glanced in the direction of her desk, but the thought of reading or even writing letters seemed too ordinary at the moment, her skin still tingling, so she said quietly, "I had thought that today I would pay a visit, to the Biblioteca Marciana. If you would like, I would be delighted if you would come with me there, because there is a lot to see, the atmosphere of the place is said to be unique. Library holds many works by the great painters of sixteenth-century Venice, making it a comprehensive monument to Venetian Mannerism, that is style of painting in later Renaissance style trend. Afterwards we can go to a late lunch, or an early dinner, because I think it will take several hours there."

Marguerite looked up from her coffee cup and brioche and a glint of interest came into her eyes as she said, ""That sounds like a fascinating way to spend a day, and I've never been there before either."

So, they walked hand in hand, towards Saint Mark's Square, where the library was located, in a beautiful office building from the time of the former Venetian Republic, with its long façade facing the Doge's Palace. Constructed between 1537 and 1588, it is considered the masterpiece of the architect Jacopo Sansovino and a key work in Venetian Renaissance architecture. The huge pale two-story building was stunningly impressive, as its facade was decorated with several intricate carvings, the themes of which varied from mythological figures of ancient deities, to natural phenomena and immortalized Heroes of Antiquity.

Quietly Katherine entered with Marguerite by her side into that palatial space. There was a delightful coolness everywhere, as the thick walls kept the sweltering heat outside, which had already risen to nearly 28 degrees. They walked enjoyably slowly and calmly in the wonderful rooms, looking at the art spreading around them, especially, the great dome staircase, was impressive. It consists of four domes the Dome of Ethics, the Dome of Rhetoric, the Dome of Dialectic, and the Dome of Poetics and two flights the vaults of which are each decorated with twenty-one images of alternating quadrilinear stuccoes by Alessandro Vittoria and octagonal frescoes by Battista Franco, and Battista del Moro. Unfortunately, they did not get to look at the paintings decorating the walls and ceiling of the reading room, because it was closed for restoration, as museum worker said in an apologetically smooth way.

They ate pleasantly tasty pasta, in a small local restaurant, far from the noise and hum of the historic center, for dessert, Katherine ate lusciously fresh and velvety peaches, and Marguerite drank some drink with a light peachy note in it.

Two days later the moonlight was shining, in the sky, and they were sailing in a gondola, through the canals, and Katherine found herself humming, in her dark, powerful mezzo, Monteverdi´s Pur ti miro, from L'incoronazione di Poppea, that most intimate and blissful expressions of romantic love, where occasional aching dissonances melt into sunny parallel thirds. When her reverie was interrupted by Marguerite's amused voice, " We just happened to go to see that production, and though I certainly appreciate the sentiment that lies in that piece, and in your version just now, yet I venture to remark that the end of our journey will not be so unhappy as Poppea's and Nerone's, bloody madness, and a violent death."

Katherine found herself laughing heartily, the night wind blowing their hair together, and Katherine touched Marguerite's fingers with her red gloves, and said, "These last few days have proved that we belong together." Marguerite, smiled and whispered in Katherine's ear, "And not only days."

Fernando, the rower of Gondola, glanced under his hat at the two women who were whispering something in a language that seemed very quick and cool, as he shook his head, bending under the Bridge of Sighs, for there were none of the usual exclamations of delight, that there were usually, as the curved shape of the bridge spreading above Gondola, like a silver-polished arch in the moonlight.

Heat of August was glowing in Venice, and the color of the sky was a deep dark blue, and the broken hues of the colorful palaces seemed to be born anew. During that time, Katherine had written few letters, and had only received one short telegram from Betty, which read:

Dearest Katherine. It's nice to know that you found a pearl for yourself, on Lido's beach, as I hoped that you might, but I meant ordinary kind. I can't wait to meet her, she sounds totally wonderful. It suits you to be carefree for once, as it is about time! Here I´m polishing my Desdemona in preparation for September season.

With all my love

B

One bright September morning, a thin letter arrived with a jumble of stamps that were hard to make out, and the handwriting on the cover was unfamiliar, it was a stylized old-fashioned cursive, in purple ink that no one had used in years. Cautiously, Katherine cut open the thin, almost translucent paper, and her knife dropped from numb fingers with a soft clatter to the floor.

Dear Mademoiselle Brooke, I bring sad tidings, which, however, may not be unexpected to you. The other day the world traveller, scholar, Dean Priest passed away here at Blair Water and he expressed in no uncertain terms that you would be invited to his funeral which will be held at Priest Pond at the end of this month. Mr. Priest also wanted you to perform at his funeral if possible, there will be other notable and famous people there, so I can guarantee you will be in good company. Cordially yours, with deep regret,

Susannah Priest

Marguerite glanced worriedly at Katherine, for her face had hardened and looked pale, and her slightly slanted amber eyes had an inscrutable expression, so she said cautiously, "Any bad news?" Hearing that dear voice, Katherine tried to soften her expression without success, so she put her face in her hands and said, brokenly, "I was informed that an acquaintance, or rather a friend, has passed away, and I am asked to attend his funeral."

Marguerite lightly rubbed Katherine's shoulders, and said matter-of-factly, "We won't be apart for long, a funeral is always an occasion, and there are letters and telegrams." Katherine, nodded as she pressed a light, lingering kiss into the underside of her wrist.

Next days were spent in a feverish rush of various errands. Katherine found herself lingering, it was very difficult to let go of this rental apartment, it had been a safe haven, where new memories had been created. Lifting her chin resolutely, Katherine carried the last of her bags into the hallway, and turned her back on the golden splendor of Venice.

A bedraggled Katherine stood in her red dress, provincial Blair Water, the atmosphere of which was not far removed from Summerside. She looked cynically at the family mansion of the Priest family, and the cemetery, which was elegantly placed at the end of a large linden alley.

Presbyterian crosses and stately memorials, already mossy names of deceased relatives, vied in splendor, and Katherine felt stern gaze of countless gray-green eyes, the eyes of the Priest family, upon her back as she entered the vaulted church, handsome but very stuffy and airless after the splendor of Venice.

Collegiate pews were of weathered dark wood, and as she took her seat, Katherine felt a flutter of astonishment in the air, and instinctively she turned to find a slim and handsome couple walking down the center aisle.

Man was dark-haired and handsome, in the kind of graceful way that must have once melted the hearts of many girls, and beside him walked a slim graceful woman whose almost translucent gray eyes seemed to have a hint of pale lilac, in them. Her thick dark hair was combed into a soft bun, as she was wearing bluish-grey silk, and as the pair passed Katherine she noticed that woman´s ears were a bit pointed, with small amethysts dangling from them. Katherine frowned as that woman seemed somehow familiar, but she was sure she hadn't met her.

In due time funeral service progressed as they always do. It was stiffly formal, and very presbyterian. Katherine knew that Dean would have hated every second of it, and she could almost hear his soft mocking voice, and the twinkle in his sardonic, self-loathing eyes.

Katherine slipped into the gallery, and sat down before the organ, and began to play, creeping, mischievous Scarbo of Ravel, merged with the passion of Strauss, multidimensional brightness of Todt und Verklänrung, and Katherine remembered how happy in his sardonical way Dean had been under the stars of Egypt, after hearing this piece. Katherine stopped playing out of breath, her eyes almost filled with tears that she wouldn't let fall. The floral arrangements on top of the casket, lilies, and an assortment of roses, and wildflowers, spread their fragrance into the quiet church where no one seemed to be grieving openly, or truly.

Afterwards at the reception, over the too dry chicken and salad, a sonorous warm voice said, "You played beautifully Miss Brooke. Ravel in particular suited him well and that Strauss too."

A small wistful smile spread across the dark haired woman's impressive face as she said quietly, reservedly, "I had a complicated history with the deceased, and in the end I couldn't give him what he wanted and demanded from me."

Katherine, nodded, and said in her witty, cutting way, "So you're Dean's Star, then?" And from those words, an extremely cold and commanding look spread across the younger woman's face, but it didn't make any difference to Katherine, she just drank her diluted lemonade.

The silence seemed to pulsate, and finally, woman sighed and said, "Well, he used to give nicknames, and that was actually a pun from my late Father´s surname, which he had known in his school days, although life took them on completely different paths."

Katherine nodded, and said, "He had the form to do that, and he was a complex and far from simple person." Narrow white fingers plucked at the bluish-gray silk, restlessly, and for a moment, a mysterious, arousing, smile flashed across the dark-haired woman's face, and Katherine felt as if she were not fully present, but then the fixed gleam in her eyes faded as she turned, and nodded, to Katherine, and slipped away into the crowd, which fell before her, as if she had been Cleopatra herself.

The clear evening was beautiful, and Katherine was walking in the grassy cemetery. Quite by chance, she leaned against one of the memorial stone that read in crooked letters, In Memory of Caroline Priest - Nancy Murray Priest's devoted companion, with her fingers Katherine scraped the lacy pale gray lichen off the stone and wondered what that woman had been like, who rested under that stone.

The acorns of the oak crunched on the sandy path as the steps crunched and in surprise Katherine looked up, and saw two fair figures, in elegant clothes, at the end of the alley, lifting her skirts on their arms Katherine ran breathlessly towards them.

There was a light, subtle dry autumn scent of leaves, it hung in the air, and at that moment, Katherine almost imagined she was in Paris, as acorns and chestnuts crunched under her steps.

Betty gave her a quivering smile and said, "You were captivating, choices were just right. It feels strange that he's gone now, as he was very irascable but interesting."

Marguerite, slipped her hand into the recess of Katherine's fingers, and said, perceptively, "I have been to many funerals, but never quite like this one. It was almost as if everyone was just waiting for some last scandal to break out, and the whispers I heard as I passed were by no means flattering. They seemed boiled down in one thing. That Dean Priest seemed to know too much. He was apparently a cosmopolitan and a thinker in a family that did not tolerate difference. He wanted, and was after something, and only God knows if he got what he was looking for before the end of his earthly wanderings."

A stiff wind picked up, and surrounding landscape was suddenly gray, and stretching out both arms, Katherine said with a little laugh in her voice, "My dears, let's go home."

A/N: Byron´s poem is " I stood in Venice" from Childe Harold canto IV, (1818). French poem fragment is A VENISE, by Renee Vivien,(1877-1909) from collection called Evocations(1903).Claudio Monteverdi´s" Pur ti miro", from L'incoronazione di Poppea, (SV 308) is subliminally wonderful piece of music.