The Count lay recumbent on a velvet-covered chaise, his robe partly open to reveal a major portion of his well-formed legs. He did not plan it so, nor would he have--his innate modesty would have prevented it. But on this particular occasion he had no control over his clothing's disarray, as he was asleep--or at least, in a state which to the casual observer might appear to be sleep. Upon closer examination, though, the observer would see that his eyes were open, and that he was not asleep. But neither was he awake, for his eyes gazed into nothingness and he seemed to be unaware of his surroundings. In other words, he looked dead.

Count du Faulk was not dead, however, nor was he sleeping. While his body lay immobile, his soul or spirit, call it what you will, was traveling. He often projected his inner-self, which he called his "subtle body", to places he wished to visit, or in which he had business. In this case it was personal business, as he was seeking a particular individual who would help him reshape the future he had previously looked upon with despair.

The Count wanted a woman--or more accurately, needed a woman-- with a desperation he had not felt previously in the 2,000 or more years of his life. All others of his race had long since departed, yet he had remained for there was work to be done. Superhuman, godlike, whatever his station or status, work did not provide fulfillment of man's basic need: to mate, to procreate--to love and be loved.

Ordinary mortal women were out of the question. He had attempted to mate with one centuries ago, but the heat of his passion had literally burned her to a crisp. He had not seen her since, but he supposed she still carried the scars. He hoped she bore him no animosity, although she had seemed quite upset at the time. Of course there had been a benefit; she was now immortal, for he had made her so.

The thought that his previous error, slight though it was, might be repeated horrified him, so much so that he had not dared to try it again. There had to be another solution, and having sought it for several centuries he believed that at long last he had found it. Sensing there were members of the human race who carried genes similar to those of his forebears and himself, he had "sent his soul into the invisible", as his long-dead poet friend, Omar, had liked to put it, searching for his genetic match. Success was imminent, for...

Living in Los Angeles, California was a woman who bore many of the characteristics of the women of his race. He had only to draw her into his sphere of existence and subject her to a series of tests, both physical and emotional, in order to make a final determination. He had projected himself into her sphere and stalked her a bit, reinforcing her apprehension with a few anonymous telephone calls, whilst he observed her general befavior. That she lived alone, was financially challenged, and apparently unattached made his ultimate task seem all the easier.

The Count sat up abruptly, now fully awake. He allowed a small smile to hover on his lips as he moved to his writing table and extracted a sheet of elegant stationery from a small drawer beneath it, dipped his quill pen in violet-colored ink, and began to compose two letters which, he hoped, would change his life forever.

Dmitra studied the ad which boldly stared back at her from the page of the magazine she held. It was circled in violet, and seemed to beckon to her...it gave her an odd feeling. The way she had gotten the magazine was also odd; a woman she didn't even know, probably another reader at the psychic fair she had worked the day before, had come over to her booth and dropped it on her table without a word. She had brought it home with her out of curiosity, but also she had had a hunch that there was something of importance in it--and she had been right. This ad had her name all over it. It read: Wanted experienced psychic to read for clients of exclusive resort hotel. Must be free to relocate to France. Excellent benefits. Send resume outlining experience, including vital statistics and brief physical description to. M. Surmont...

The address was a PO Box in New York City. Why New York and not France, if it's in France, she thought. And how can I possibly win against the other people applying for this job? Why, there must be hundreds, no, thousands of more experienced psychics wanting it...but...I don't just want it, I really need it. That was no lie. What with her divorce and being forced to sell the home she had lived in for many years, then renting this godforsaken rat hole; not to mention having a nervous breakdown and being fired from her job of fifteen years; also, not to mention being stalked by a one-eyed car and getting all kinds of "breathing" phone calls...she had always wanted to go back to France after the brief visit she and her ex had made there. Besides, that psychic woman had given her the magazine...that had to mean something. But, vital statistics and physical description. What if they wanted someone young and beautiful? She was middle aged and not beautiful. and way too short. Never mind; drab, slightly greying hair covered by Clairol could become "bright auburn". Her dark-hazel eyes could be described as "green", the color of her contacts. "Let's see," she said to herself, "although I'm 49 pushing 50, I look at least 10 years younger, so how about 39?" She could also add a couple of inches to her 5' height, who would notice? And as for experience, she had years of it--almost two years. As she typed she marveled at the way she had been able to stretch the truth without really lying; for if there was anything Dmitra hated, it was lies, lying and liars.

As she started to get up from her seat on the sofa, she noticed that there was a cat on her lap, which was nothing new--they crept on and off it so unobtrusively she hardly knew they were there. And with six of them, she seldom knew who was there. This time it was Tuzi, her little black tortie. "Move it, Tuze," she said, gently shoving the animal aside as she stood, "Mommy's got an ad to answer."

She was walking along an unfamiliar path in a vast, wooded area, looking for a cat who had strayed from home. It was dark, and to make matters worse she had forgotten to wear her contacts. How would she be able to see the cat, who was black, even if she did find him?

She walked faster...something, or somebody, was stalking her, tracking her down. It wasn't anything she sensed; she knew , as well as she knew her own name, that something horrible would happen to her if she didn't get out of that place and back home. But where was home? For some reason, she couldn't remember. A voice said to her, "Call out your name and you will be safe." What was her name? She knew it as well as she knew her own...for God's sake!

Something told her that she had better start running; but as she tried to lift her feet she saw they were attached by chains to a great, heavy slab of stone. Straining and struggling, she managed to lift one foot a fraction of an inch off the ground, but the effort left her out of breath and without the strength to try further.

IT, whatever it was, was right behind her now, breathing hotly on her neck. She groaned in terror as what felt like enormous steel hands clamped down heavily and painfully onto her shoulders, then...

"Huh?" Dmitra sat up abruptly and shook her head. My God, where was she? Not in L.A., that was for sure, but where...

She looked around the strange room, waiting for the last of the nightmare to evaporate. She could see that her mind was now wide awake and had started its interminable harangue. Yep, the old thought factory was fully operative, cranking out the questions and answers, and now she began to remember how she had gotten here, and why.

"How" was the easy part, in theory at least. After traveling halfway around the world by plane, she had been picked up at an airport in a neighboring town and brought to this isolated resort, or whatever, somewhere in south-central France, along with her basic luggage and six cats.

She tried to shift her feet into a more comfortable position, but they were apparently still weighted down from the dream. "What..." she muttered, peering in their direction. "Well, no wonder."

A couple of the cats were draped across her legs and ankles, not seeming the least bit anxious to move. She pulled her feet up from under them and tried to remember exactly how she had gotten here, in this room and in this bed.

She vaguely recalled a tall man, kind of lanky, with longish, unruly hair and a funny accent, taking her somewhere in a pickup truck...but that was all she could remember. Had she fallen asleep?

And my God, how did she get into bed...had he undressed her? She felt along her body, relieved to find she was wearing underwear, at least. Well, if he did--undress her, that is--he probably didn't see anything he hadn't seen a dozen or so times before, so she wasn't going to worry about it. But had he really ...and if so, what else had he done?

Her thoughts went on as usual, needing no prompting, while she automatically did whatever was necessary at a given moment, which at this moment happened to be getting up and around. After forcing her muscles to stretch to the limit, she slid out of bed, suddenly anxious to look over her new home.

As her clothes were still packed, she dressed in the tights and big top she had worn on the trip and padded on bare feet into the house's main room.

For a living room it was big! A plus, for sure. She walked around it, examining every inch of it, checking for electrical outlets and other necessities. She noted with satisfaction that one wall was nearly covered with built-in bookcases, and thought that it would take even more books than she had in her sizable collection to fill them. The cats, of course, would confiscate any empty spaces--my God, the cats, she thought, I only saw two...where are the rest of them?

Her six beauties, who represented for her the children she never had, were of primary concern to her. No matter what she did or where she went, they had to be taken care of, protected and loved. The fear that they might have gotten out of the house somehow, before they were familiar with their surroundings, brought a worried frown to her face. She sighed with relief when she saw Hootie, her longhaired, red-tabby male peering up at her from under the couch. The others were no doubt hiding in other places.

"Come on out, 'ootie," she coaxed, in the silly cat-talk she often used on them, "it's okay. Mom won't let anyone 'urt you."

As if he had read her mind, Hootie trotted over to her, rose up on his back legs and rested his front paws on her thigh. The anxious look in his pale yellow eyes took second place to the show of businesslike fangs as he opened his mouth and let loose with a loud, "Maw?"

She laughed at the sound; Who said cats can't talk?, then reached down and stroked the soft, silky fur of his back. "Okay, all right, don't get excited. It's not time to eat yet, but when it is you'll be the first to know. In the meantime, you have to leave Mom alone and let her work." As if he understood, but wasn't too happy about it, the red cat dropped to all fours and sauntered in the direction of a nearby cushion, where he flopped and did his best to look mournful.

Now that she had made sure her family was intact, she continued her tour of the living room, still marveling over the size of it. One wall had been nearly taken over by a huge fieldstone fireplace, which made her think of chilly nights and how cozy it would be, her sitting in front of a cheery fire, knitting, while the cats sat with her, unraveling. Imagining it, she could almost feel the heat and smell the pleasantly pungent odor of burning firewood...but something was missing from her mental picture. A man. She commenced drawing him into it...it wouldn't be hard to do...she had a pretty good idea of the kind of man she wanted in her life, because she had seen him. Not really, of course, but she had seen one almost exactly like him on one of her soaps. That reminded her...what would she do without her daily bubble bath? She probably wouldn't be able to get them here, and even if she could they would be in French. Oh well, since HE left Daytime TV the shows hadn't been as good anyway.

Her mind backtracked to the original subject : the man of her dreams.

He would definitely look like that actor, and maybe talk like him, with that sexy French accent. But he sure wouldn't be chasing everything in a skirt like those soap characters did. Nope, he would love only her and not even look at another woman...she was much too jealous to settle for anything less. She let her mind replay the fireplace scene, this time with the man of her dreams as the leading male, when it suddenly shut off just as he was taking off his shirt. Just like the soaps, she thought; just when you get to the interesting part it's time for the commercial. It was just as well, though, as she had to get down to the business of checking out the other rooms.

She crossed the small hallway that ran along the side of the living room and entered a fairly sizable bathroom, noting happily that it was quite modern and had lots of mirrors. She smiled into one of them, hoping that somehow she had become beautiful overnight, but the all-too-familiar face smiling back at her seemed to say, "Are you kidding?" She wished she could trade that face in for something newer and better put together. It wasn't really bad, but if she had been able to order a custom job she would have made it shorter and a bit wider, with larger eyes and fuller lips. Her nose was fine, because she had gotten it from a plastic surgeon, and it had held up very well. And thank God, her skin was still virtually wrinkle-free.

In spite of the way she felt about it, it was an acceptable face and bore little or no trace of the mileage put on it by her forty-nine years of intense, often careless living. She looked an easy ten years younger than her age, which she had never--until now--lied about, although she could have and gotten away with it. And anyway, she hadn't actually lied in applying for the job, just fudged a little...hating lies as she did, she would never tell one unless it was absolutely necessary.

The thing that really worried her was that she had withheld certain other facts, praying she would not be found out. Even a hint of her past "trouble" would spell the end of this job and her new found security. But she just had to stop worrying about it; no one who could blow the whistle on her even knew she was here...did they? Certainly no one would have followed her here. The thought that someone (who?) might have remained with her as she checked out the two bedrooms, one on either side of the bathroom.

Farther on, at the back of the house, was a large country kitchen. The minute she entered that room the cats, who had come out of hiding, jumped up from their various resting positions and ran to her. Like a furry, multicolored swarm, they curved around her, their silky tails brushing her legs as they begged for, then demanded their food.

"Poor kids, you must be starved," she said to them. And these guys definitely were, it was no act this time. Neither she nor they had been fed since leaving L.A. She quickly grabbed several cans of cat food from a bag on the counter and began opening them, muttering as she did so, "If I ever run out of cat food I'll be their next and last meal."

She had brought a moderate supply of cat food from the States, and seriously hoped she would find a place to buy more before it ran out. The alternative would be buying steaks for them and canned beans for herself. A movie unrolled in her inner vision, starring her six cats, snowy-white napkins tucked neatly into their collars, sitting at the dining table eating mammoth T-bones and drinking champagne from fluted goblets, while she huddled in a corner over a can of baked beans and a bottle of cheap beer. She laughed aloud as this silly fantasy played itself out, until the chorus of meows, wows, maws and eeks from around her feet became impossible to ignore. She began spooning the cans' contents into plastic bowls, then set them in a row on the floor where they were immediately attacked.

That done, she sighed with relief. Peace at last, she thought. She sat on the sofa, mentally listing the things she would need to get the place in shape--paint, cleaning supplies...

A loud, angry pounding on the front door broke her concentration, and for some reason threw her into a panic. The stalking episodes and weird phone calls in L.A. had thoroughly spooked her...made her fear the worst of every situation. But whatever it was awaiting her on the other side of the door, she had to face it; she couldn't go on hiding forever, and now that she had burned her bridges there was nowhere to run. She walked across the room quickly, pausing as she reached the door to draw in a deep breath. The pounding didn't stop, even as she projected her low-pitched voice to call out in her deepest, most intimidating tone, "Who's there, and what do you want?"

Jules sat at his desk in the Hotel's main lobby, studying several printed documents which lay spread out before him. He chose one, pushed the others aside and picked up his phone, quickly punching out a number. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk as he waited. In a few seconds, the voice he had expected to hear rippled through the line. He listened, then spoke. "Yes, she arrived last night, cats and baggage." A pause. "No, I have not yet seen her. Our handyman brought her in by helicopter, and took her directly to the cottage." A longer pause. "Yes, yes, of course. I've sent them for her--they should be here in approximately," he glanced at his wristwatch, "twenty minutes. Yes, I'll report to you as soon as I complete the interview." The corners of his mouth turned up in a mirthless, tight-lipped smile as he hung up the phone.

Jules Soleil, Manager of Hotel Finistere, could be considered handsome in a slick, contrived sort of way, that is, if one liked the lean, dark, somewhat saturnine look. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but could be a bit younger--or older. It was hard to determine. Of medium build and average height, he didn't seem very impressive at first glance--but when he spoke directly to a person, he projected an attitude which commanded respect. And those eyes, so clear and green--one could drown in them, which, depending on the circumstances, promised to be a very pleasant, or a most unpleasant experience. M. Soleil was only too well aware of his quasi-hypnotic power over others, especially those of the feminine gender. And he used that power, at times mercilessly, to attain his goals.

Now he waited for the arrival of the latest of those chosen by his employer and lured to the hotel, for what purposes he did not know. Nor did he wish to know. He did his job, he was paid handsomely for it, and the fringe benefits were certainly nothing to sneeze at, which was just as well. He hated the sensation one got from sneezing.

The pounding on Dmitra's door stopped briefly, long enough for her to ask again, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Miss. Hootie McGill."

She hesitated, suspicion mixed with disbelief making her stomach jump. He has to be kidding, she thought, I have a cat named Hootie.

A bit cautiously, fearing it might be a trick, she opened the door; but the sight of the leprechaun-like character standing before her banished any fearful thoughts she might have had. He might indeed be someone's idea of a joke, but he certainly didn't look dangerous. His fiery-red hair stood up in little peaks around the bald spot on top of his head; his cherubic face was adorned with rosy cheeks and what Dmitra called a "turnip" nose, and his bright-blue eyes sparkled with a life of their own. As short as she herself was, exactly five feet, she almost felt tall next to him. And to complete the picture, he was wearing a red and black bellman's uniform, minus the hat.

She was so absorbed in her study of him, so taken with his overall appearance, that she barely noticed the pretty blond girl standing a bit behind and to the side of him. Finally finding her voice, she invited the couple in.

As they entered, Hootie said abruptly, "Yer boxes are here. Mr. Jules has got 'em at the hotel, and he wants to see ya right away."

"And I brought ya a nice bookay of flowers, Miss, to brighten up yer place a bit," chirped the young girl. "If ya got a vase I'll put 'em in it fer ya."

Dmitra paused to organize her thoughts amidst the commotion. She first addressed the girl, "In the kitchen, back there. There should be a glass sitting out."

As the girl headed in the direction of the kitchen, she turned to the little man. "I suppose you mean my boxes of books and personal items have arrived."

"Yes, Miss, sure and that's what I said. We'll bring 'em back with us, just as soon as you've finished with Mr. Jules." Hootie scratched his bald spot and shuffled his feet nervously.

"I don't want your Mr. Jules to be upset with you, but I'm not accustomed to jumping on command. It will take me a while to make myself presentable." More than a while, she thought, considering the limited wardrobe I've brought with me. Most of her clothes were in boxes that had yet to be delivered, and weren't that good anyway. "I don't even have any good sandals unpacked. Just those old loafers, over there in the corner."

At the mention of shoes, Hootie's face reddened, his eyes gleamed surreally, and his ears seemed to perk up into points. He rapidly retrieved the shoes, waved them in the air and said excitedly, "I can clean 'em fer ya in no time flat. I carry a kit with me all the time, and I can polish 'em up till they look like new. You go on and do what ya hafta', and I'll have 'em ready fer ya in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Surprised and amused--for God's sake, how could somebody get so excited about an old pair of shoes?--Dmitra went into her bedroom to change. The problem was, she hadn't yet had time to unpack, so she would have to dig into a suitcase and pray. Thinking that the power of prayer, at least in this instance, was highly overrated, she pulled out the only things she could find that were even halfway suitable; a pair of long-outdated, black capri pants and a leopard print loose top. As she hastily changed into them, she wondered if her black boots would go better with the outfit...they probably would, but Hootie was already cleaning the brown loafers, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings--or spoil what seemed to be his fun.

A loud commotion in the other room brought her out of her thoughts and into the living room in a hurry.

"Hell and tarnation!" Hootie was shouting. "What kinda mud is this?" He was holding a shoe in the air with one hand, and his nose with the other.

From the kitchen came a "Wowrr!" and an "Oh, kitty, I'm sorry! I didn't see yer tail right under my foot!"

Dmitra gathered from Hootie's remark that one of the cats had left a little surprise on her shoes, as she hadn't yet put out a litter box. She tried to hold in the laughter, sputtering through puffed-out cheeks, but it broke its barrier, tumbling out of her in the form of a subdued cackle. It really wasn't funny--at least not to the person picking up the shoes--but she couldn't help it. It had been a long time since she had felt like laughing. In order to spare the little guy's feelings, she pretended to have had a coughing fit. "Oh, for God's sake, I think I'm catching a cold. We'd better go see Mr. Jules before I have to take to my bed."

Hootie had managed to finish cleaning the shoes, but his face still bore a quizzical look and he sniffed the air cautiously.

The girl had reentered the main room, a penitent look on her pretty face. She addressed Dmitra in a tremulous voice, "Oh, Miss, I'm afeered I stepped on your poor kitty's tail, and him so purty an' all. I'm real sorry, I am."

Dmitra smiled to put her at ease. "It's okay, I do it all the time. They just won't stay out from underfoot...uh, what is your name, anyway?"

"It's Crissy, Miss. Crissy Sawtrap. And you bein' so kind and all, I'll be pleased to serve ya any time. And if ya want to put in a garden, I'll be glad to help. I know where there's lots of flowers, I do."

"Thank you, Crissy. I probably will put in a garden, just as soon as I've settled in. I love flowers, but I also want to grow vegetables and 'erbs."

"If ya don't mind my sayin' so Miss, it don't sound right for ya to call 'em 'erbs'. When I was in school at the orphanage, back home in England, they taught us to say our aitches whenever there was one, not to leave em off. They said anyone what leaves em off ain't speakin' proper English."

Dmitra said, "Well, for crying out loud. Here I've been leaving the aitch off for years, because someone corrected me when I called them herbs. Tell me, is it 'a hallucination' or 'an 'allucination'? In case I have to talk to a shri..." She stopped talking abruptly. My God, she had almost given herself away. Fortunately, Crissy just stared at her blankly, while Hootie changed the subject with his own version of the language.

"Hell and tarnation! Mr. Jules'll be havin' a cat fit--no offense, Miss. We better git goin' and that's a fact."

Jules looked up coolly as the unlikely trio approached the hotel's main desk. It would not do for them to know he had, just moments earlier, been angrily pacing the lobby floor, soundly cursing them and his job. He prided himself on his ability to exact strict obedience from his underlings, keeping them, and thus all the affairs of the hotel, under his absolute control. He was well aware that control of others begins with control of self, and it would not do for them to see that he had nearly lost it. No, it wouldn't do at all, especially in the presence of the new arrival, who looked as though she might not be too easily reined in.

He smiled as he spoke to them, but the smile was not genuine and his tone was stern. "You realize, do you not, Hubert, that you are nearly thirty minutes late?"

Hootie looked down at his shoes, then back at Jules. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Jules, it was my fault, I'm afraid to say. But it would've put me in a right state to let the lady go out without a decent shine on 'er shoes."

"Your job, Hubert, is to do as you are told," Jules said. He glanced casually at Dmitra to test her reaction. Apparently there was none, as she just stood there with a rather blank expression--but one could never be too careful when dealing with these middle-aged American types. He continued less sternly, "Of course, I am not reprimanding you for doing a...good deed. But you must realize that I too have duties to perform, and if my schedule is disrupted the Devil will soon come around for his wages."

"Right, Mr. Jules. It won't happen again, sir."

"See that it doesn't. You and Crissy run along now and tend to your chores. And Hubert--"

"Yes, Mr. Jules?"

"Put on your bellman's cap before you go."

"Ah, that monkey-hat..." It was common knowledge around the hotel that Hootie hated the cap, and he began his usual complaint, but apparently thought better of it and caught himself before he got into deeper trouble with his employer. "Right, Mr. Jules," he said smartly, as he picked up the little red pillbox hat from the counter and snapped it on.

When the two had gone, Jules invited Dmitra into his "office". An area of the lobby was fenced off by a large, three-sided, oak paneled counter which served as the hotel's main desk. Inside the area were two smaller desks, separated by a worktable, against one wall of the counter. Indicating a chair at one of the desks, Jules motioned for Dmitra to sit. He then sat in another, more comfortable looking chair at the other desk.

He turned to face her, fixing her with his clear green eyes, as if to rivet her in place. "Before we proceed, Miss Halberg, I must tell you that I do not altogether approve of the plan my employers have for you. It is highly irregular and serves no practical purpose as I see it. A 'resident psychic'," he smirked a little as he said the words, "in a place such as this, which already has so many diverse amusements to offer its patrons, seems a rather frivolous addition. But that is only my opinion, which in this case is of no consequence. I, as does everyone employed by the hotel, follow orders. The same will be expected of you. Of course, your situation differs somewhat from the norm, as you are not officially an employee."

"Whaat?" Dmitra squawked, already put off by his patronizing attitude, "What do you mean I'm not an employee? If I'm working here and get paid for it, what else am I?"

He hesitated before answering, as if savoring the words on his tongue before spitting them out, "The hotel does not pay you for working here."

Dmitra's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "Well, for God's sake, you mean I came all the way here to find out I have to work for nothing? What in..."

Jules shrugged and smiled thinly. "Strictly for the record, you are classified as self employed. Although food, lodging and other necessities will be provided by the hotel, these are simply gratuities offered in exchange for your presence. There is no appointed position, therefore, no salary."

"But--but--," Dmitra sputtered, "it was my understanding from Mr. Surmont's letter that I would be giving psychic readings to hotel guests, and that I would be paid for it."

"That is absolutely correct, my dear woman. Our guests will be apprised of your location and the service you provide. When they come to you, you read for them and they tip you. Very simple, see? And don't feel you are being slighted in any way, Miss Halberg. All the shops in our little village are run by independents, and they do very well. Very well indeed."

The more he said, the more illogical it sounded to her. "But, if they're doing so well, why are they given food and lodging? What's in it for the hotel?"

Jules smiled, genuinely this time. "A good question, easily answered. It is atmosphere, my dear lady--ambience, you know? Our guests love the colorful shopkeepers and their unusual wares. The majority of them--the guests, that is--are enormously wealthy, many of them in positions of public responsibility. They are forced to live dull, conservative lives--not only for their own protection, but to maintain their spotless reputations. Here, they can give full vent to their wildest fantasies with the assurance of total privacy, and visit places they would never dare venture into in the world outside. Bad neighborhoods out there, you know."

Dmitra smiled wryly. She knew. And what he had been saying was beginning to make sense to her. "I'm sorry if I seemed hard headed, but I've been 'out there', and it isn't easy to find people you can trust."

"How true. But, Miss Halberg, you can trust us! And we hope, as we place our trust in you, that we will not be disappointed. Now, let us go over some of the finer details of our partnership."

Dmitra watched as Jules picked up a manila folder from the side of his desk and opened it. As he began sorting its contents, her mind wandered, drifted through memories of times long past, and finally touched down on the most recent episode of what she often called her soap opera life.

Newly divorced, she and her husband of seventeen years had divided the proceeds from the sale of their house and gone their separate ways. There were no custody battles--he hadn't really liked the cats, and there had been no children--so it had been a relatively clean break. After the divorce she had been left with a multitude of personal belongings, her six beautiful cats and a very uncertain future.

The rental house she had managed to find at an affordable rate, and where she could keep the cats, was too small, dilapidated beyond repair, and located much too close to East L.A. She had been fired from her job with an insurance company for various reasons she didn't want to think about now, and had been eking out a substandard existence by giving card-readings at psychic fairs.

It was at one of these fairs that the strange woman had given her the magazine containing the ad which had brought her here. She had answered it, hoping for a miracle but not really expecting one.

A month had gone by, and nothing...just as she had thought; miracles didn't happen to her. She was separating the junk mail from the bills, a huge pile of both, when she spotted it--a letter hand-addressed to her in purple ink, and postmarked New York! Her throat suddenly dry, her hands trembling, she had ripped open the envelope. The letter enclosed had also been handwritten in purple ink, the writing so elaborate, so sort of...well, fancy, it was a bit hard to read--but she managed to figure it out, and the bottom line was, she had the job! "...Instructions, travel tickets and expense check have been sent by separate mail. We look forward to your arrival at Hotel Finistere." It was signed by an "M. Surmont".

"Ah, here we are!" Dmitra started at the sound of Jules's voice. It seemed she had been lost in thought for hours, but it was probably only a few minutes. "These documents are for you to read, and sign where indicated. You may do this at your leisure, but get them back to me by tomorrow." He laughed at his little joke. "Seriously, though, I will need them to get you on the list."

What list? Dmitra thought, and as though she had spoken aloud, Jules said, "We keep a list of active independents and furnish a copy to each guest. This way, they are made aware of the services and goods available in the village. Also, we like to keep a record of those to whom groceries and household supplies are furnished. A petty thing, perhaps, but--" he shrugged and held out his hands, palms up, "the owners like to know where their money goes."

"Makes sense," Dmitra said. She was beginning to get a little antsy, wanted to get this over with and get back home. So much to do. This reminded her, "I wonder if I can have some paint. You know, white wall paint. And some floor cleaner. And, uh, some dish detergent and scouring powder, and, let's see--a phone. I will need a phone, won't I?" She knew she was babbling, had to stop before he got the idea she was a lunatic, or something.

In any case, he was obviously amused. "My, my, such a big order. Well, Miss Halberg, I will see that these things are furnished you no later than tomorrow. And you will no doubt want groceries and--" he paused, raised his forefinger to his nose. It looked to her like he was getting ready to sneeze. She waited quietly, not wanting to spoil it for him. It was horrible to want to sneeze and lose it, but he probably hadn't for he continued with what seemed like a satisfied smile, "cat food? Just make a list, choose from this sheet," he handed her a paper, "which lists available meats, produce, canned goods and sundry. The order will be filled and delivered to you tomorrow, along with your other...ah, effects."

Is this a fantasy or what? Dmitra thought.It seems I only have to think of something I want, and bingo, it's given to me. Now, all I need is a man...not just any man, though; I've had far too many of those. I wonder when my tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armor will show up? With my luck, he'll probably be short, light and ugly, wearing a cheap, rusty tin suit I'll have to take off him with a can opener. And speaking of can openers...

"I really hate to ask, you've done so much already, but I haven't eaten since yesterday, before I got on the helicopter. And I'm sort of broke at the moment."

Jules looked at her with mock pity. "That's too bad. I'm afraid you'll have to--wait! I just remembered, this is for you, from M. Surmont." He handed her a sealed envelope.

Dmitra turned it over in her hand, examined both sides, saw her name on the front, handwritten in purple ink.

"Well, open it!" Jules ordered.

"Okay, if you say so." Dmitra pried at the sealed flap, which was rather loosely stuck so that it came up easily. She withdrew the contents, saw that it was--a check! "Wow!" she couldn't help saying. "A thousand dollars? But why? Here's a note, 'We thought you might need this. Consider it an advance, or a housewarming gift. Welcome to Hotel Finistere.', and it's signed by M. Surmont." Dmitra looked up at Jules, who had an indecipherable look on his face. Was it envious, or resentful, or what?

"Well, I guess that takes care of your problem--for today, at least," he said, sounding a little peevish. "As you go through the village on the way back to your cottage, you will find a very nice little Hungarian restaurant about halfway down the row of shops to your left. It is called, appropriately, Paprikas. They serve an array of fine European dishes there; you are sure to find something to suit your fancy. And, if you like wine, I would suggest either the Tokay or the Green Hungarian. Both are excellent."

Dmitra thanked him, said she'd certainly try it, and wondered privately how he knew she loved European food, and that she preferred wine over any other alcoholic beverage--not that she wouldn't drink just about anything, but--it was probably just coincidence, or maybe that was the only restaurant in the place, but at this point she was so hungry she wasn't going to worry about it. She hastily scrawled out a list of needed supplies, told Jules not to bother having Hootie bring her boxes today--tomorrow would be fine--and was on her way out.

Just as she reached the hotel's massive front door, Jules called out to her, "One more thing--I've made an appointment for you with Dr. Tzarogy for tomorrow, at 9:00 A. M. His office is in the Clinic at the far end of the street--you can't miss it."

Puzzled, but anxious to leave, Dmitra merely nodded, pushed open the heavy door and made her exit.