Chapter Four
There was music in the air. Not opera, not drums beating, but Mozart—a tender melody floating like lilies on clear water.
Ravel was at my side, sipping claret. I was on the bed naked, just as I was when I last laid down. Where was my dream? Where was Hans and his bawdy bed? Everything in my memory seemed so real, and fantasy and dreamlike all at the same time.
“Where have I been?” I asked.
I breathed relieved to find myself home.
“I don’t know, where have you been?” Ravel asked me in return.
“I was fleeing from here....” I said, trying to remember my last look at him before I was lost. “The red door vanished.”
“Because you weren’t ready to leave, I suppose,” he conjectured.
“And am I really here?”
“Pinch yourself and see.”
I stared up at him feeling lost and af
