A Fall of Night

"Nicholas," the man behind the counter said, lifting his hand in greeting, smiling warmly at them. "What can I get you?"

"Hi, Pietro. Two Fasnacht, one doppio," he said, turned to look at Dorien. "What coffee would you like with your donut?"

"Um, cappuccino, please." To Dorien it looked as if the cafe - and Pietro too, she thought - had remained unchanged since the fifties.

"Ah..." Pietro said, waving his hand, smiling. "For such a pretty girl, I'll make you a real cappuccino, not the muck they serve in this country."

They slid into a booth, waiting while the sound of the coffee machine, the clatter of plates filled the space.

"So, tell me about yourself?" he said, lighting another cigarette.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. "What would you like to know?"

"Okay. Do you have a job?"

For a moment the arrival of the donuts, the coffees, disturbed them. The donuts were still warm and they quickly devoured them, licking their fingers clean of the sugar afterwards. They were exceptionally good, rich and sweet, the perfect complement to the bitter-sweet cappuccino - stronger than she was used but very good, nevertheless.

After, she found herself chatting easily with him, telling him about her father's carpentry business, her mother's teaching, her own ambitions as a musician. It was as if she'd known him for weeks, not hours.

It was much later, well past midnight, when Nick offered to take her home. She laughed, she hadn't even noticed how late it was. They got a cab from the cafe, Nick embracing Pietro like a lost relative before they slipped into the night. At some point in the evening, she realised, she had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be seducing him for money. Somehow, sitting in the back of the cab, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand holding hers, she just didn't care.

He kissed her goodbye at the entrance to the students' residence, just the briefest brushing of his lips on hers. Chaste, but it made her heart skip. Up close she noticed that his eyes weren't entirely grey - in their depths tiny motes of gold floated, bright like fireflies in the night.

It was only later, restlessly awake in her bed, that she realised that she hadn't learnt a single thing about him.

******

Saturday dawned cooler and drier than Friday, a breeze off the coast sending the clouds scudding inland. Perhaps dawned was the wrong word, Dorien reflected. It was nearly eleven when Anna finally dragged her out of bed.

"So, did you finally get to meet the mysterious Nikolay Alexandrov?" Anna said, handing her a strong black coffee. They sat in the coffee shop just off campus.

"Kind of... He calls himself Nicholas Alexander."

"Must be ashamed of his freaky, virgin buying dad," Anna said, blowing the steam off her cup.

"Could be. He didn't mention him. At least I don't think he mentioned him," she said.

"What, were you that drunk?" Anna said, grinning.

"No, not at all. We had donuts and coffee. Well, one beer," she said, conceding, smiling a little with recollection. "We talked a lot. Actually... I talked a lot, he listened."

Anna looked at her carefully. "And are you on track for your five mill'?"

Dorien shrugged slightly. "I think so. We're meeting later for dinner."

"And the recital?"

Dorien's eyes widened, Anna smirked. "Oh, God Anna, I forgot about that... Shit, what am I going to do?"

"Ask him?"

"What?"

"Ask him to come... It's hardly likely to be packed is it?"

Dorien thought about that for a moment. "I don't know if it's his thing..."

"Is it your 'thing'?"

"Of course it is. Okay, I get it... I'll ask him," she said. "God, Anna - I'm nervous enough as it is."

Anna laughed slyly. "I get the impression that Ivan could have saved his money, looks like our friend Nicholas would get it for free if he wasn't paying..."

"Anna!" she said without anger, smiling confidentially.

******

Performing at Elebash Hall was normally reserved for members of the college's doctoral program. On this occasion, however, it was playing host to the burgeoning talents of the undergraduate faculty - a series of short pieces to showcase upcoming talent. Dorien was supposed to feel honoured and privileged that she had been invited to perform - a recognition of her 'extraordinary talent'. What she actually felt was sick.

She paced the dressing room, little more than a collection of tables and mirrors - so cluttered with discarded instruments, cases, clothing and, bizarrely, a plastic polar bear that even nervous pacing was a challenge. Her fellow musicians, equally stressed, were likewise scattered about the room - pacing, tuning instruments, reading music, talking, or just getting in the way. They only added to her anxiety. She hated the dress she was wearing, blue and flouncy and fancy. She felt too hot. She felt thirsty. She was afraid to drink in case she needed to use the toilet. She was afraid of making a fool of herself in front of Nick.

There, that was the problem. Nick. Why the hell did he matter so much all of a sudden?

"Ten minutes, Dorien. Ten minutes." Disembodied voice from the door.

Oh, God. Now she did feel sick.

"Hi." She jumped. Nick stood behind her, a large bunch of roses cradled in his arms.

Oh, God. Now she felt sick and embarrassed. She blushed bright red.

"Sorry, did I do the wrong thing?" he said, smiling. He looked about the room, taking in the chaos, the shouted conversations, the frantic preparations, raised an eyebrow.

"No. No, not at all." She pushed her hair back from her forehead. Two musicians in tuxedos entered from the stage entrance, rushing past. She guided Nick into the corner out of the way. "I'm just a bit nervous. Uh... Thanks... For coming."

He smiled at her again. "My pleasure. Thanks for asking me. Here... These are for you," he handed her the roses, looked about for a vase, someone to take them.

"Thanks. They're beautiful." She smiled at him, sniffed them, looked about for somewhere to put them down.

"Five minutes, Dorien. Five minutes." Who the hell was that, anyway?

She twisted about. Where was she going to put the roses? She could feel herself panicking.

"Uh..." she said.

Nick laughed, genuinely amused. "Here," he said, taking the roses. Still laughing he stuffed them into the paws of the plastic polar bear. "Frosty can hold them for you."

"Thanks," she said, relieved - her panic receding in the face of Nick's amusement.

"You'll be great," he said.

She smiled at him. He kissed her. Just briefly, a touch of his lips on hers, a hint of something more.

"Two minutes, Dorien. Two minutes." She wondered if she could get Nick to strangle him.

"I'd better go," he said. "I'll see you after the recital, okay?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

With Nick gone she could retrieve her flute.

The case lay on her table - beaten, battered, scuffed. A working case, not a case for display. With ritual precision she clicked the catches open, lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in its bed of crushed blue velvet, the flute gleamed, a gift from her mother. When she lifted it from its bed she found herself again surprised by its weight. It was solid silver, heavy and perfectly weighted.

"Dorien, you're on."

She took a breath, the weight of the flute reassuring, her focus shifting. Then she turned, and walked out. Calm, controlled, ready.

Elebash Hall could seat nearly two hundred people. For this performance there were fewer than half that many seated around the shallowly raked hall - many of them students, lecturers. As she walked out she was met by a low wave of applause, sporadic, not over-enthusiastic. For a moment she paused in the centre of the stage, searching the crowd, partly blinded by the low stage lights. Even half-blind it didn't take long - Nick stood out like a wolf amongst dogs. He sat in the centre of the third row, where his eyes could most easily meet hers. She smiled shyly at him for just a second, then she bowed briefly. She played Partita in A minor by Bach, no longer than nine minutes, and she played it for Nick. At no stage did his eyes leave hers.

At the end he stood and applauded. She was a student, an undergraduate - good but not yet worthy of a standing ovation. It didn't matter, Nick had such a powerful presence, such a commanding influence that in seconds most of the crowd had joined him on their feet. More to impress him than her, she thought, but she blushed happily, nevertheless, bowing several times before retreating to the relative sanctuary of the backstage environment.

He met her at the stage door.

As soon as she saw him she laughed happily, grabbing his arm in delight. "You got me a standing ovation," she said, kissing him impulsively.

"If I knew it would make you this happy, I'd make sure you got one every time..." he said, smiling, wrapping his arm about her shoulder.

"If you promised to come every time, you wouldn't need to," she said before she realised what she was saying. She blushed, something she was doing a lot recently, she thought, and pressed herself against him, pulling his arm tight around her shoulder.

"Fancy a drink after all that blowing?"

"Blowing!" she said, laughing. "Philistine. But, yes, you can buy me a drink."

Saturday evening was busier than the Friday had been. The weather perhaps played a role, but Dorien also thought that Valentine's Day falling on a Sunday had made the Saturday a popular alternative. Certainly the bar they chose had been decked out in an excess of red and gold, cherubs and hearts, so that it more resembled the boudoir of a hopeless romantic than the elegant wine bar it had once been.

That hadn't stopped her from blushing in delight when Nick bought her a rose to make up for the bouquet she'd lost to Frosty, handing it to her so that his hand lingered on hers for a little longer than was, perhaps, strictly necessary. In keeping with the Valentine's theme, the bar was doing a special on pink drinks - with the consequence that she ended up drinking pink champagne while Nick managed to look almost elegant with a pink gin. It was too noisy, too crowded and too 'in your face' to allow any romance to blossom. She stuck it for as long as she could.

"So where are you taking me for dinner?" she said at last, when the cloying faux romance became too much and the craving for the real thing finally overcame her.

Nick grinned. "Bit much isn't it?" he said, swallowing the last of his drink. "How do you fancy letting me cook you dinner at my place?"

Dorien's heart skipped. She hesitated. It wasn't that this wasn't what she wanted. The bold, romantic part of her wanted - desperately wanted - Nick to take her home, to make her dinner, to spend time with her. The other part was simply frightened. She liked him, really liked him - but she knew next to nothing about him, and not a lot about men. She didn't know if she was more nervous about disappointing him or frightened for herself. Then there was the five million...

He watched her levelly, his eyes unreadable. "Or I know a little Italian place not far from Central Park, the owner's a friend..." he said.

Her bold part won.

"No, Nick, it's okay. Let's go to your place. I'd love for you to cook me dinner, please." She took his hand, holding it gently, smiling shyly at him.

******

The distance between the bar and the park was short, but as soon as they stepped into its shadowed precincts Dorien knew there was something wrong. There was a tension in the air, a strange anxiety touching its chill hand to her heart. It wasn't cold - holding Nick's arm it was as if the chill couldn't reach her - but she felt chilled nonetheless. It was a feeling that made her look about her, searching for something. Whatever it was, it remained hidden.

Nick led her further in, tracing the twisting paths apparently unconcerned. It was a new moon, the sky dark, but Nick appeared to have no trouble seeing, leading her surely along dark paths she could barely make out. Unsettled she found herself gripping his hand tightly, her feeling of unease increasing with the dark, the sudden loneliness.

All about them the vegetation pressed in, hiding the little light that leaked in from the surrounding city. Even just this short distance from the road it was quiet, her heels clicking loudly on the path.

"Nick, I'm not sure this was a good idea... Perhaps we should go around?"

He didn't answer, his face serious, his eyes searching the surrounding darkness as if he would see what it concealed. Pressed close against him she could feel the tension in him.

"Nick, something's wrong. Someone's following us or something..."

"I know," he said, calmly, looking at her with a flicker of interest in his eyes she hadn't seen before. "It's okay, just stay close to me alright?"

She nodded, cold sweat prickling her back. She could feel something out there, watching them. Trees overgrew the path, encroaching onto its even surface - pools of darkness that could conceal anything. She closed her other hand on Nick's, gripping him anxiously, eyes darting about.

She gasped, jumping, clutching Nick's hand with sudden fear.

She could have sworn that the path ahead was empty - she only looked just a second ago. Now when she looked back what she thought was just the shape of the branches, the silhouette of a distant bridge had become a figure, standing in the centre of the path just ahead of them. It was as if it had coalesced from the shadows, the foliage. Nick squeezed her hand, holding her tightly.

It was staring at them, its eyes twin points of light in the darkness beneath its brimmed hat. It wore a bulky overcoat, long to its knees, and Dorien knew, just knew - somewhere on a visceral level, somewhere where instinct overcame rationality - that whatever it was, it wasn't human. She felt the hairs standing up on her neck - a fear so sudden, so intense it was a physical shock twisting at her stomach.

A profound silence - absolute, unnatural - seemed to crawl over them, covering them like a shroud. All the small noises she had taken for granted were stilled: the sighing of the breeze, the hiss of the leaves, the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth, the distant sound of traffic - things she hadn't noticed until they were no longer there. She had to fight not to run - her body was screaming at her to get as far away from the thing in front of them as she could - only Nick's hand in hers held her in place.

For a while that was how things remained, Nick and the figure still and quiet, the silence heavy like a leaden weight. Finally the figure spoke, its voice sibilant, hoarse, lacking inflection: "The Keeper would know which way you vote."

For a moment longer Nick stared at it, unmoving, his body taut against hers. "The Keeper knows that I vote as I always have. I vote to maintain the seal." She could hear the tension in his voice.

Again the silence fell, stretching, brittle - so brittle that Dorien expected it to break into shrieking or screaming at any second. She pressed herself against him, seeking refuge in his nearness. Her movement seemed to draw the figure's attention, it's gaze passed over her and it was as if a freezing wind had touched her - a wind so cold she gasped, gulped breath with shock. Goosebumps shivered over her skin. She almost squealed in fright.

Again the voice. "I shall convey your message."

Nick made no response, but she could feel the tension in his body vibrating through hers.

She blinked. The figure was gone. One moment it stood before them on the path, as real as Nick beside her, in the next breath all that remained were shadows, a play of light and dark that possessed the vague shape of a man in a coat.

"Oh, My God," she whispered, shaking.

For a moment Nick stood absolutely still, then the tension seemed to drain from him. Gradually the sounds returned, louder now after their absence. Feeling her shivering, he draped his still warm jacket over her and looped his arm about her shoulders. Still tense she snuggled in close, her body weak, shaky with the after effects of adrenaline.

"Is your place close?" she said.

"Just the other side of the park."

******

Dorien stood at the wide window, staring thoughtfully out into the night. Nick's apartment bordered the park, the view from the tall windows down onto the spot where the figure had stood. From the kitchen behind her she could hear sizzling, the sound of the fan in the hob's hood, Nick moving around. The apartment was filled with the smells of cooking.

Even now, some hours later she remained tense, nervous, unsettled. She sipped her gin and tonic, ice clinking. Nick, by contrast, seemed unaffected - as if the incident had been dismissed from his mind.

She shivered uneasily. With a last look from the window she turned and walked through to the kitchen.

"Hi. How's dinner coming?"

He smiled a reply.

For a while she stood, watching him move around the small space with his easy, sure grace. There was something comforting in watching him cook, in watching such a mundane activity - so commonplace after the strange encounter in the park. So far she hadn't felt able to broach it with him, it was too fresh, too raw, and she was frightened that she wasn't going to like what he said.

Instead she said: "So is this a rental or do you own it?"

"No, it's mine - I bought it a few years back." He looked about the room as if it was the first time he'd seen it, sipped red wine from a glass, meat sizzling on the hob before him. "I like the view over the park and it was a bit of a bargain. The last owner wanted something bigger and he was wealthy enough not to care a lot about how much he lost on it."

She smiled. "How much did you pay?"

For a moment he didn't answer, stirring the food. "Money is vulgar; let's not talk about money."

"Alright." She sipped her drink, banked her courage. "What about that thing in the park, then?" she said, watching him closely.

Nick didn't answer. The meat sizzled. The silence lengthened.

Finally he lifted his eyes, looked at her, sighed. "Some things are best discussed in daylight," he said at last.

For a moment she was tempted to protest, to push the issue, to make him answer her; but something in the way he said it stopped her. She glanced about, conscious of the night pressing silently against the apartment's windows, the yawning darkness of the park just below. She rubbed her shoulders as if chilled.

"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

He grinned, flicked the hob off. "You, of course."

She grimaced. "I'm not that interesting...and I know next to nothing about you."

"How about we eat first, then?" he said, pouring hot pasta into two bowls.

They sat in the living room, sharing the sofa and a low coffee table, ignoring the dining table in the room's far corner. Behind them the wall was hung with a large painting - a dark landscape of some unfamiliar country; on it, painted at a distance, stood a white stone croft, lonely against the dark sky.

The apartment, a penthouse suite with upward of ten rooms, was achingly fashionable - all wooden flooring, glass, leather and hidden lighting - built to maximise its dramatic views over the park, but there was something impersonal about it - as if it had been decorated by someone else. No pictures of him, or Ivan, or anyone else, she noticed.

"Mm. This is good," she said, around mouthfuls, conscious of his leg pressed warmly against hers.

"Pietro gave me the recipe," he said, his voice light. "Told me it never fails when trying to seduce the ladies."

She smiled briefly, then looked at him seriously. "Is that what you're doing - seducing me?"

Her words brought a new tension to the room, lent a weight to the silence that hadn't been there before. She felt nervous all of a sudden. For a while he stared back, his grey eyes dark in the shadows.