but in an instant the whole scene disappeared before his eyes and he was back in his bed, eyes wide open, awake. The collar of the T-shirt he had been sleeping in was damp with sweat.
It was a dream. Or a nightmare. Dominik took a sip from the glass of water by the bed. It was three in the morning and in the darkness of his room, visions of Summer, pursued by men, lost, alone and violated, her precious violin smashed to pieces on the ground, filled his mind.
Dominik and Lauralynn were sipping coffee at the kitchen table.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I thought you had company last night. You were rather noisy.’
‘Was I?’
‘I swear I once heard you scream,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It certainly woke me up. I had to restrain
myself from coming upstairs to check your bedroom.’
‘No, I was alone, probably just some nightmare.’
‘You were damn loud …’
‘Sorry.’
‘I must say you also look a bit rough this morning.’
‘Just slept badly. Still suffering from a bad migraine.’
‘Poor you,’ Lauralynn deadpanned.
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
‘My pleasure.’
Lauralynn emptied her cup, went for a refill, then walked with it upstairs to the room she had made her own, leaving Dominik on his own, a prey to reminiscences and a terrible feeling of foreboding.
He had mentioned to LaValle that he was not superstitious, but what remained in the dark corners of his mind of the bad dreams, and the images that had followed in their wake, now left him anxious. About Summer and the violin. Curses were something that happened in books, not in real life, surely.
But what if something were to happen to her? He knew he would feel responsible and wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Should he warn her?
Contact her again after all this time? Disrupt her life?
He heard Lauralynn’s phone ring in the distance. Her ringtone was a thumping piece of disco music so much at odds with her restrained cello playing. He tried to remember whether she was working today or would be hanging around the house. He felt like company.
He moved to his top floor study to check out the notes he had jotted down yesterday following his meeting with the instrument dealer. He wouldn’t be able to use the story of Angelique, the Bailly violin, wholesale in his novel. He would have to embroider it, gather in a lot of historical details and weave an interesting set of characters around its story. But he knew it could certainly form the basis, the skeleton of a book. He enjoyed research and was aware that a lot would be required if he tackled a variety of periods, but that was also a challenge he would relish.
The one thing he would have to be careful about was to avoid any characters too similar to Elena, who had been Summer’s recognisable counterpart in his Paris novel.
As much as he would have wanted to do so.
Writing about her was not only a form of exorcism but a way to keep her alive in his mind. Her flame, her features, her skin, her smell, memories he couldn’t just let go. Even if it was all tinged with pain.
He sighed, shuffled the sheets of paper and pulled the laptop closer. He created a new document, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he tried to come up with an appropriate title for the folder.
He was typing away half an hour later, now oblivious to the rest of the world, when he heard the tap-tap at his study door. It was open, but Lauralynn was being considerate.
‘Dominik?’
‘Yes, what is it?’ He looked up sharply.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s just that something has come up.’
He pushed his chair back. ‘What?’
‘I just had a call,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It’s my brother …’
‘The soldier?’
His stomach tightened. After yesterday’s violin stories, nothing would have come as a surprise today. But then he knew Lauralynn and her family had nothing to do with the Angelique. Coincidences only go that far.
‘Yes, he’s been wounded. It’s not too bad. He might
It was a dream. Or a nightmare. Dominik took a sip from the glass of water by the bed. It was three in the morning and in the darkness of his room, visions of Summer, pursued by men, lost, alone and violated, her precious violin smashed to pieces on the ground, filled his mind.
Dominik and Lauralynn were sipping coffee at the kitchen table.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I thought you had company last night. You were rather noisy.’
‘Was I?’
‘I swear I once heard you scream,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It certainly woke me up. I had to restrain
myself from coming upstairs to check your bedroom.’
‘No, I was alone, probably just some nightmare.’
‘You were damn loud …’
‘Sorry.’
‘I must say you also look a bit rough this morning.’
‘Just slept badly. Still suffering from a bad migraine.’
‘Poor you,’ Lauralynn deadpanned.
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
‘My pleasure.’
Lauralynn emptied her cup, went for a refill, then walked with it upstairs to the room she had made her own, leaving Dominik on his own, a prey to reminiscences and a terrible feeling of foreboding.
He had mentioned to LaValle that he was not superstitious, but what remained in the dark corners of his mind of the bad dreams, and the images that had followed in their wake, now left him anxious. About Summer and the violin. Curses were something that happened in books, not in real life, surely.
But what if something were to happen to her? He knew he would feel responsible and wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Should he warn her?
Contact her again after all this time? Disrupt her life?
He heard Lauralynn’s phone ring in the distance. Her ringtone was a thumping piece of disco music so much at odds with her restrained cello playing. He tried to remember whether she was working today or would be hanging around the house. He felt like company.
He moved to his top floor study to check out the notes he had jotted down yesterday following his meeting with the instrument dealer. He wouldn’t be able to use the story of Angelique, the Bailly violin, wholesale in his novel. He would have to embroider it, gather in a lot of historical details and weave an interesting set of characters around its story. But he knew it could certainly form the basis, the skeleton of a book. He enjoyed research and was aware that a lot would be required if he tackled a variety of periods, but that was also a challenge he would relish.
The one thing he would have to be careful about was to avoid any characters too similar to Elena, who had been Summer’s recognisable counterpart in his Paris novel.
As much as he would have wanted to do so.
Writing about her was not only a form of exorcism but a way to keep her alive in his mind. Her flame, her features, her skin, her smell, memories he couldn’t just let go. Even if it was all tinged with pain.
He sighed, shuffled the sheets of paper and pulled the laptop closer. He created a new document, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he tried to come up with an appropriate title for the folder.
He was typing away half an hour later, now oblivious to the rest of the world, when he heard the tap-tap at his study door. It was open, but Lauralynn was being considerate.
‘Dominik?’
‘Yes, what is it?’ He looked up sharply.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s just that something has come up.’
He pushed his chair back. ‘What?’
‘I just had a call,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It’s my brother …’
‘The soldier?’
His stomach tightened. After yesterday’s violin stories, nothing would have come as a surprise today. But then he knew Lauralynn and her family had nothing to do with the Angelique. Coincidences only go that far.
‘Yes, he’s been wounded. It’s not too bad. He might
Similar Books
