Chapter 3

He couldn't keep his mind on anything. After asking three times what Jamie thought of the remixed orchestral background on a certain track, his assistant sighed loudly and went out for coffee with his girlfriend. Jamie stayed in the studio, one leg propped on the other, a notebook balanced on his knee. He was jotting down random snatches of notes and words, his brain whirling with color and sound.

He hadn't imagined that he'd be able to sleep after the bizarre encounter with the girl-- Jane, he reminded himself-- and the resulting adrenaline rush. Sure the bruises and aches would start back up, he'd taken a couple aspirin and headed for a hot shower. Surprisingly, he'd felt fine, better than fine in fact. He'd fallen to sleep the moment his head had hit the pillow and he'd dreamed...

He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, but he'd woken up smiling, feeling refreshed. He'd felt ten years younger, light and free of all his recent worries. More importantly, he'd started writing as soon as his feet hit the ground, scribbling notes on every available scrap of paper. He'd stopped and bought a new spiral bound notebook on his way to the bus, and the words and notes hadn't stopped flooding the pages ever since.

By the time he looked up from his reverie, the clock on the wall read half-past six. He chuckled thoughtfully to himself and clambered out of his chair, stretching his long muscles from their cramped position. He should have been exhausted-- it seemed everything exhausted him these days-- but he felt clear-headed and easy. The feeling lasted through a leisurely dinner at a local Italian restaurant and an impromptu walk that left him staring across Mulberry at the Gothic splendor of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

The intermittent snow had left a delicate frosting along the steep pitches of the roof, rimed the windows with a tracery of spun sugar ice that sparkled in the glitter of Christmas lights wrapped around the streetlights. It looked like a fairytale castle, he thought whimsically. Well, where else would a lost little girl seek sanctuary? He crossed the street and made his way up the steps of the church, putting a hand on the doors. They were locked, of course.

The cemetery, however, was not, the gate swinging wide and allowing him to waltz right in. Thin snow crunched under his boots and he shivered. It was a cold night for wandering around the city, but curiosity had driven him this far. He checked his watch and frowned. It was only eleven, and he didn't like the idea of lingering in a graveyard for an hour. Tentatively, he whistled the opening bars of Für Elise. The notes lilted oddly in the clear, cold air, dying abruptly.