Vigil's spirits were high for the rest of the day. She wrote a whole sonnet on the color of moss, and danced a waltz with Milo in the sunroom.

Even the piano tutor couldn't deflate her romantic mood, even though piano days happened to be her least favorite of them all.

"Please, Vigil. Play Piano Sonata No. 14," Harold tried to sound patient, but his knuckles had turned to a lovely shade of plum.

"It's called 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart'," Vigil said cheerfully as her fingers danced along the ivory keys. "It's a beautiful song, really. I have it a record of it, I can play it on the gramophone if you like." She was talking in a constant flow, and the tutor was getting irritated.

"Lord Albert!" The old man roared.

Vigil's father came strolling into the parlor door, a tea saucer in one hand. He was chuckling to himself as he looked at a newspaper in the other hand.

"I am done with your daughter's foolishness." The tutor said, jabbing a finger at Vigil.

She plastered a look of childish innocence in her brown eyes and pressed her hands together like an angel.

"Vigil Vanbric," Her father's tone was stern, but a smile was tugging at his lips. "Please cooperate for your teacher. He has given up his time to teach you."

Vigil replied with a dreamy sigh. "Here's what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs." She gazed out the window and clasped her hands together like an opera singer. "When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover's eyes. If you frustrate love, you get an ocean made out of lo—"

"This is what I'm talking about," The tutor yelled, grabbing the sheet music.

"Do you like it, father? It's Shakespeare." Vigil said.

"I noticed," Albert had his arms crossed and was studying her.

Eleanor walked in, dressed for a party. "Albert dear, I'm going to a friend's garden party. I'll be home for dinner, though—"

"Do you want to keep doing piano, Vigil?" Albert was still looking at her.

Vigil sat up. "It is the deepest form of evil in my short and curious life."

"Oh, you are being ridiculous." Eleanor scowled.

Albert chuckled and returned to his paper. "You are free to go, Harold. I will send you a check tomorrow."

Harold opened his mouth several times, but grabbed his briefcase and stocked out the door.

Eleanor stared at her husband, irritation over every line in her face. "Excellent job, Albert. Go ahead and just let him go."

Albert shrugged. "Vigil didn't want to do it anymore."

"Do you know what? I believe you are spoiling her extra because you feel guilty."

"Guilty," Albert exclaimed. "For what?"

"For her..." She dropped her voice and craned her neck out the window. "Sickness."

"If she doesn't want to play the piano she doesn't have to." Albert said.

"This isn't just about the music lessons, Albert." Eleanor had raised her voice and was gripping her handbag in a white fist.

There was a silence, and both her parents glanced at her nervously.

"Please go to your room, Vigil?" Her father asked. "And the poetry was beautiful, by the way."

Vigil nodded and stood up. Before she went out, she spotted a freckled face at the window, staring at her. James' eyes dropped quickly when she looked at him, returning to the flower bed.

~~~~~

She was starting fresh. Life seemed to somehow lighten with that one smile James gave her.

Her dark curls were gathered into a ponytail and she had a pallett of paint in one hand, a brush in the other. Her eyes swept over the clean white wallpaper, looking for inspiration. A pop.

Of course, moss green had become a new favorite of her's, but the color gold gave her such a exciting feeling.

She dipped her brush onto the pallette and started to paint, the bristles gliding over the crisp paper. She started to form tree branches, tiny blades of grass. With just the right shades of gold, almost living sunbeams were streaked across the parchment.

When she was finished, her bedroom had become a morning in the forest. Dew clung to tiny leaves, and the rising sun was just filtering through the slender tree trunks. The golden beams and the damp moss that grew out of the rotting logs created a beautiful dance between her two favorite colors.

With a satisfied sigh, she plopped onto her bed and observed her creation. It felt good to be the leader of something, when even her own mind was beyond her control.

As if on que, her old friend whispered his seven famous words. I won't stop until you give up.

"No," She whispered. "I won't give up. I will kill you somehow. Don't worry."