Page 130 of The Witching Hours

He barked out a laugh then wagged a long finger in my direction. “Ms. Campbell. You are dangerously inquisitive. You know that many New Yorkers don’t drive.”

“Mr. Winkleman. Youhaveto tell me why answering my questions is dangerous.” He shoved his empty plate away. I gasped and jumped a little when it disappeared. “Oh my God. You really are magic.”

“Told you.”

“Did not.”

“Well, let’s say it’s been strongly implied.”

“Which would be the same thing as calling me dense. Or stupid.”

“In your mind, what’s the difference?”

“Wait. You’ve steered me into the weeds. Masterfully, I might add.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head just a little. “Are you ready to resume our tour?”

“No. I’m not. Now that I know we’re talking real magic. I want to know how old you are.”

“In years?”

“Winkleman. That may be the oddest question I’ve ever been asked.”

“Well, as they say, you should get out more.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the more you know about me, the harder it will be for you to forget this encounter.”

Having not expected his answer to be anything close to that, I sat back and stared. “So, the goal is to have me choose an experience. Experience the experience. Then forgot all about both that and you.”

He looked at the ceiling just before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Because the mystery you’re wearing like a visible aura is the very most interesting thing here.”

Central mezzanine – one of Christian Dior’s most famous gowns draped on a headless form that stood on top of the cabinet of a polished ebony, concert length Steinway. The miles of tulle that made up the skirt of the dress draped over the piano and scalloped in places. The overall effect was so dazzling I stopped on the next to last step.

Winkleman turned to see why I was flagging, but allowed a rare moment of quiet. In my peripheral vision I could see him looking from me to the display and back again. When the silence had proved too much for him, he asked, “Is it the dress or the piano?”

I shook my head without looking away. “It’s both.”

“Is there a story you wish to share?”

Was there a story? Nothing came to mind. Except that… “I guess I’ve always been a sucker for post war glamour. I mean we could dress like goddesses but we choose at leisure. How very weird of us. As to the piano, I secretly always wished I could play ‘Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini’.”

“Ah, yes. Your mother would allot a block of time for the turntable to play children’s songs then perform the rest of her household chores listening to the world’s great symphonies.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “That’s true.” Something about that memory pulled on a guilt thread. Perhaps I took my mother for granted. “She always said Looney Tunes provided a great service to our society by using classical symphonic music as the score.”

“She was astute.” I sighed. “I’d be honored to make both those things happen,” Winkleman said. “In fact, I could arrange for you to wear that dress and be the guest soloist with the New York Philharmonic on Rachmaninoff night.”

For a moment I projected myself into that scene. It had a certain cache, but it wasn’t the vision that came to mind. When I pictured myself playing Rachmaninoff, I saw myself in a glass-walled studio by a lake with sunlit water, playing a Steinway much like the one in Curious Goods.

Alone.

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