‘I could never explain what intuitive sense I felt, but it all came for naught when I entered that room and saw her standing there, her thin frame made angular-like by the cut of her dress. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, and yet the strength in her hands alone could have crushed my will as though it were a piece of waste paper. And when I saw her sit down to the piano, I was angry because she could do something I could not. It was her words that handed out my final sentencing. I perceived in them two things - that she was a machine, and that she was more a woman than I had ever been in my life.’

    The clock reads 8:26 am, and Dorothy sits down at the piano with her fingers poised to lift the dust cover and reveal the keys for the first time in nearly a month and six days. She scans her memory for a suitable, no, for the appropriate song to wake Roger from his slumber when a voice interrupts her thoughts exteriorly.

    “Miss Dorothy, there is a visitor coming up,” Norman says with distaste.

    “Who is it, Norman?” her voice is cool; she already knows who it will be without asking. She reasons that it will be same visitor that attempted to gain entrance during Roger’s ‘leave of absence,’ and had been turned away at the door. The blond haired vixen probably forced herself in through the door and proceeded upstairs to try and beat the butler.

    Not so easy in a house such as this one. Not when the butler knows every nook and cranny and secret hall and weak point in the entire building and is fit enough to run up ten flights of stairs with ease.

    “Miss Patricia Lovejoy,” Norman says hinting ever so heavily that he would have used ‘Casey Jenkins’ instead.

    Dorothy does not respond, but continues to contemplate the proper song. The clock changes to read eight-thirty in the morning, and the sky is overcast a darker gray than normal. Norman moves to stand at the gate to the elevator and Dorothy hears him ask her to please wait a moment.

    “Dorothy, will you wake Master Roger? Miss Lovejoy says it is imperative she speak with him directly.” Norman bristles.

    “Immediately, I surmise,” Dorothy replies, deciding to forgo the piano music this morning since the routine is broken from its normal cycle anyway. She gently opens the door to Roger’s room and steps inside, closing it behind her.

    “She can’t just go into his room, what if he isn’t decent,” Angel mutters.

    “The two of them are not restricted by such limitations, Miss Lovejoy. Or is it Miss Jenkins? It would be like myself asking for your coat.” Norman stands rigid and stiff, his only form of protest against the guest to his young master’s house.

    “It isn’t proper,” she counters, arrogance high for an interloper.

    “Well it isn’t your house so you worry about proper on your own time,” Roger snaps, robe wrapped around him securely, hair tousled without any attempt to change its state from that of sleep. “Now what the hell do you want?” he asks coarsely.

    He had been dreaming the first peaceful dream in an entire month when Dorothy had gently woken him and relayed the message ‘Angel’ had given Norman. Complacent with Dorothy’s wake up call being in person, but angry at the necessity, he had decided to take it out on the source and not the messenger. So he got out of bed and got into the robe Dorothy held aloft for him and then prowled out to meet with the woman he was beginning to despise.

    “I came to see how you were doing.”

    “I’ll start breakfast,” Norman says, moving towards the kitchen as soon as he sees Roger emerge, satisfied he can protect his belongings in any mood, and aware that his crossness at being woken earlier than Dorothy’s piano playing would bolster his wit to evade the woman’s tactics at information requisitioning.

    There is silence between the two for a moment, then Dorothy exits the bedroom with a small basket of dirty clothing and moves to one of the rooms towards the back of the long hall.

    “I’m obviously doing all right, no funeral notices were posted,” he says dryly, moving across the room to the windows at the far end, those looking out over the bay side of the city.

    “No, Roger, I meant… about…”

    “I don’t want to discuss this with you,” Roger replies evenly, seeking out the couch in the parlor where the piano sits forlorn and almost forgotten. He looks at the ebony instrument and imagines Dorothy seated there playing and it lifts his spirits. “Since I am almost fully recovered I will be returning to my work soon, if that is your underlying reason for coming this morning. But it shouldn’t be because you obviously can tell I am not a very good morning person.”

    Dorothy returns to the area with a few hangers of clothing and reenters the bedroom.

    “Who is that?” Angel inquires, attempting polite conversation to cover her fear at the sight of the girl who looked so much like the crazed and homicidal R*D that she found herself frightened for the first time in many long years. She hadn’t been afraid of anything… then R*D had, and this young lady she was only catching glimpses of appeared, in her eyes, to resemble the other.

    “None of your concern at this time.” Roger turns to look out the window, smoothing back his hair with his right hand ineffectually. “Now please either explain your purpose here this morning or leave me to my breakfast.”

    Dorothy emerges from the room again and pauses. “Shall I play the piano this morning, Roger?”

    He nods stiffly, thankful for that much of the routine salvaged, at least. She crosses the room between the two of them and takes her seat at the piano, caringly brushing the dust from the cover of the keyboard before moving it out of the way and setting her fingers on the keys. Her mind finally made up after the quarter-hour in which had passed since she was last seated in front of the ebony masterpiece.

    Angel takes a step further into the room as the first bars of music leave the piano in a forlorn improvisation on ‘The Kiss,’ a song from an old movie she had heard while passing a shop downtown with Perot previously. It had been a brief burst of the Morgan Creek song, but her ears had identified and acquired the rest of the song easily, and she found it an appealing song in tense situations. Roger never asked the name, and if he had, she might have lied to save face for the both of them. Dorothy closes her eyes and allows her arms to move her upper body with the flow of the music. The tune moves slowly from her fingertips to the air about them with practiced ease and a grace only her unerring skills, wrought by both Instro’s tutelage and her own mechanical perfection could only produce.

    Roger relaxes on the couch a bit and Angel freezes as she takes in the scene before her. The girl at the piano striking a chord within her memory, “Red…” she begins, but then stops and looks at the young woman at the piano, obviously an accomplished pianist, and yet so familiar. Similar down to the smallest degree, but something seemed different about this young woman. She appeared more… alive…

    ‘Is this the blueprint or the prototype?’ Angel puzzles in her head. ‘She certainly appears harmless, so small and frail looking. Her skin does not appear that it has seen the sun much. But so did that of Red Destiny. I hope Roger is not so foolish as to trust that she is not…’

    “Do you have nothing to say at all, Miss Angel?” the young lady asks quietly as she continues to play. “You seem at a loss for words. Is it something I have done to offend you?”

    “No, of course not…” she barely catches herself before calling the young lady Red Destiny. ‘Now what was her name again…?’

    Roger murmurs something sleepily and Angel’s eyes narrow dangerously. ‘Why is he responding to this… music so emotionally? And what does this girl have to do with him? She was never even mentioned when I spoke with him before.’ She balls her fist at her side and sees the girl eyes move and notice it. ‘She is perceptive. Perhaps this is who he hinted of so fondly.’

    Her mind goes blank as her eyes bore into his more laconic ones. His body relaxes the more she remains standing in the room with the girl at the piano playing softly. Neither woman offer any more words but Roger can see the gears of her memory turning, bringing back his words before to try and place this girl in his life. He allows a little of his smirk onto his lips and motions her to the empty space at the other end of the small divan.

    “If you cannot speak and you will not go, please sit down, Miss Angel.” His eyes linger on Dorothy as she sways her head in time with her fingers. As the piece draws to a close he hears Angel whisper tightly, “Child molestation is against the law, Negotiator.”

    Eyes still trained on Dorothy’s body, he sees her stiffen and begin another tune.

    “Ah, yes,” he replies. “But it isn’t that sort of a relationship, Miss Angel, she is a client of mine.”

    He hears the angry snort from her end of the couch as he continues to watch Dorothy play the jazzy tune. “Some client.”

    “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, Miss Angel,” he chides. “It might be flattering if either of us cared about each other in a more than business-like manner, but under the circumstances I am inclined to believe you mean some barb to the young lady rather than any playful teasing to myself.”

    “I merely state the facts, Mr. Smith.”

    “A virtue.”

    “Until you step on the wrong person’s toes,” she counters. ‘Why do I feel so inclined to fight him? Who is she? Why do I feel so threatened? I don’t feel anything for Roger. He is the negotiator. I am only a potential client that seems to end up around him more than normal. Nothing more.’

    “You didn’t seem to think that when we were trapped under so much water, Mr. Smith.”

    Dorothy’s eyes steal a glance at the two of them, satisfied at the space between them. Angel catches that look as well. ‘If that’s so…’

    ‘Then why am I jealous of her?’

    ‘Is it even jealousy? Or is it fear?’

    “Breakfast is served, sir.”

    “Thank you Norman,” Roger stands. “Would you care to join us, Miss Angel?”

    The red haired young woman stops playing the piano as she brings the piece to a quick close, and stands as well. Angel nods, dumbstruck. “Certainly, what is…?” The other two start moving in the direction of the elevator. Angel stands and follows quickly. ‘So this is a day in the life of Roger Smith,’ she thinks. ‘If there is any chance for this stupid feeling in my heart, it’ll be confirmed or denied quick enough.’

    The table is a large, moderately wide slab of oak… or maybe chestnut suspended at a level comfortable for the young woman and, at the same time, Roger himself. ‘Interesting design. I’ll have to copy it.’ She stares in wonder a moment and then the young woman speaks up, “Shall I take my usual seat?” her voice is even.

    “No, it is customary to honor guests, you can sit down here next to me.”

    “Yes, Roger.”

    ‘Her voice is so subservient it makes me sick,’ Angel thinks as Norman shows her to her seat at the opposite end of the table. ‘She is so impartial that she seems bored with all this. I wonder how long she has been staying here.’

    The plates are brought out and Angel notices that the girl barely has anything on her plate. Roger inquires after this as well, but the redhead merely says, “I ate when I woke up this morning.”

    “When was that?” Angel asks.

    “Four,” she replies simply, taking a long sip of her tea. Perhaps it was coffee.

    Staring down at the two of them, and seeing Roger watching the other young lady despite the direction of his gaze towards herself made up Angel’s mind for her. Roger Smith was the wrong man for her. Too frigid, and far too disarming.

    She would do all she could to have him.

14: Interlude; Different Kind of Style | 14: Interlude;In Your Arms | Long Path of Recovery