.

      “I never dream, sir,” I answered with as much dignity as possible.

      He seemed impressed by my answer, sensing that it was extremely honest. “You're lucky then. Dreams are always a scam. If you have nightmares they upset your sleep. If you have pleasant dreams, the awakening will be doubly bitter. It’s best not to dream, after all.” His eyes didn’t leave mine, they were captivating. “You're an interesting

      character, Melisande. A little slip of a thing, but funny” he added teasingly.

      “I’m glad that I have the necessary requirements for this job, then,” I said, ironically.

      I tortured my lower lip with my teeth, overwhelmed by repentance. What was happening to me? I had never reacted with such deplorable impulsiveness. I had to stop it before I lost my control completely.

      His smile now went from ear to ear, amused beyond words. “Indeed you do. I'm sure we’ll get along well. A secretary who has no dreams, like her boss. There’s a special affinity between us, Melisande. In a certain sense, between our souls. Apart from the fact that one of us has no longer had one for a long time now...”

      Before I could make sense of his ambiguous words, he returned serious, his eyes were again inscrutable, distant and lifeless.

      “You must send a fax of the first chapters of the book to my publisher. Do you know how to do it?”

      I nodded, and with a pang I realized that I already missed our verbal joust. I wished it would last forever. I had drawn from that exchange as if it were a miraculous source, filling me with vitality and an exceptional energy.

      The next two hours flew by. I sent several faxes, opened the mail, wrote letters of refusal for various invitations, and sorted out the desk. He silently wrote on the computer; his forehead corrugated, his lips narrow, his white, elegant hands flying on the keyboard. Toward lunch time, he caught my attention with a wave of his hand.

      “You can take a break, Melisande. If you like you may eat something, or take a walk.”

      “Thank you sir”.

      “Did you start reading my book, the one that I gave you?” His face was still far remote, immobile, but a flash of good humour showed in his black eyes.

      “You were right, sir. It's not exactly my kind of literature,” I said sincerely.

      His lips curled slightly, in an oblique smile, able to penetrate the armour of my defences. An armour that I thought was stronger than steel.

      “I don’t doubt it. I bet you prefer Romeo and Juliet.”

      There was no irony in his voice; he was just making a statement.

      “No, sir.” Controversy became natural to me, as if we had known each other forever, and I could be myself, fully, without deceptions or masks. “I just love stories with a happy ending. Life is already too bitter, I’d hate to make things worse with a book. If I'm not allowed to dream at night, I’d like to do it at least by day. If I'm not allowed to dream in life, I want to do it at least with a book.”

      He carefully considered my words, for such a long time that I thought he wouldn’t answer. When I was about to leave he stopped me.

      “Did Mrs Mc Millian explain the name of this house?”

      “She may have done it,” I admitted with a half-smile. “I fear, however, that I only listened to her half-heartedly.”

      “Good for you, I get lost after the tenth word,” he complimented her without sarcasm. “I’ve never had a generous spirit. I'm selfish.”

      “Sometimes you have to be,” I said without thinking. “Or else other people’s expectations will crush you. And you’ll end up living the life that others have decided for you.”

      “Very wise, Melisande Bruno. You’ve found the key to spiritual peacefulness and you’re only twenty-two years old. Not many people manage to succeed in doing so.”

      “Peacefulness?” I repeated bitterly. “No, the wisdom of knowing something doesn’t necessarily mean you accept it. Wisdom is born in our minds; our heart follows its own path independently, although dangerous. And it tends to make fatal deviations.”

      He moved his wheelchair, and came to my side of the desk, his eyes probing. “Well? Are you curious to learn the reason for the name Midnight Rose? Or aren’t you?”

      “Midnight Rose” I translated, struggling against the emotion of having him so close. I had avoided male company for a long time, since my first and only date. It had been so disastrous to mark me forever.

      “Right. In this region there is a legend of centuries, or perhaps thousands of years ago, according to which if we witness the blossoming of a rose at midnight, our greatest and secret wish will magically come true. Even if it’s an obscure and cursed wish.”

      He clenched his hands, almost challenging me with his eyes.

      “If a person wishes something that will make him happy, it's never obscure and cursed,” I said calmly.

      He looked at me carefully, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. A devilish laughter escaped him. I felt a chill run down my back.

      “Very wise, Melisande Bruno. I’ll admit that. Those words are scandalous for a girl who couldn’t kill a mosquito without crying.”

      “A fly maybe. With a mosquito I wouldn’t have any problems,” I said bluntly.

      Again he became alert, a dim flame warming the frost of those dark eyes. “How much valuable information I’ve learned about you, Miss Bruno. In a few hours, I’ve found out that you’re the daughter of a former miner with a passion for Debussy; you can’t dream and you hate mosquitoes. I wonder why. What did those poor creatures ever do to you?” I heard the amusement in his voice.

      “Poor my foot,” I replied promptly. “They are parasites; they feed on people’s blood. They are useless insects, unlike bees, and not even as pleasant as flies are.”

      He hit his hand on his thigh, laughing out. “Flies are pleasant? You're very strange Melisande, and very funny, maybe too much so.”

      As unpredictable as the weather in March, his mood changed abruptly. His laughter choked into a cough, and he stared at me again. “Mosquitoes suck blood because they have no other choice, my dear. It’s their only source of livelihood, can you blame them? They have refined tastes, unlike the praised flies that are used to wallowing in human waste.”

      I gazed at the desktop, cluttered with papers, uncomfortable under his cold stare.

      “What would you do if you were a mosquito, Melisande? Would you give up eating? Would you starve to death so you wouldn’t be labelled as a parasite?” His tone was unrelenting, as if he required an answer.

      I contented him. “Probably not. But I'm not sure. I would have to be in a mosquito’s place, to be sure of it. I like to believe that I could find an alternative.” I carefully kept my gaze off of him.

      “We don’t always have an alternative, Melisande.” For a moment his voice trembled, under the burden of a pain that I knew nothing of and that he had come to terms with every day for the past fifteen years. “See you at two o’clock, Miss Bruno. Be on time.”

      When I turned to him, he had already turned the wheelchair, hiding his face.

      The awareness of having made a mistake crushed my heart in a vice, but I couldn’t make it up to him in any way.

      Silently, I left the room.

      Chapter three

      At two o'clock, I entered the office. Kyle was leaving, carrying an intact tray, with the air of a person who wants to drop everything and everyone and move to the other end of the world.

      “He’s in a foul mood,