When the bellmen finally left her alone Cathrine kicked off her shoes and opened the drapes. They swept back to reveal a floor to ceiling wall of glass overlooking the Mississippi River.

This apartment suite wasn't the largest in the Hotel Maison Bretagne. But it would do. Cathrine sighed, pleased with the view. She popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, an amenity left by someone who recognized the name Bouin. The champagne felt good going down. Presently Cathrine folded her arms, enjoying the coolness of the glass in her hand, and stared at the river below.

It looked like a flow of black velvet bordered by diamonds. The city was alight and awake beneath her, bustling with people who made sure New Orleans never slept.

"New Orleans, of all places." She murmured, imitating her mothers' disapproving tones. Another sigh. The flight had been long, with too much time to think. Now she luxuriated in being alone, in the absence of demands from family and the conventions that bound them so tightly. Cathrine was surprised and irritated when the phone rang. Who could that be? She thought.

"Hello?" She said no hint of irritation in her voice.

"Cathrine?"

"Gabrielle!" She answered, recognizing the faraway voice.

"I'm fine, Gabri."Cathrine laughed, delighted to hear from her friend. "But I've only just arrived. How did you...?"

"Your mother, of course”, came the reply.

"Of course." Cathrine said dryly, sipped her champagne.

"Cati, the doctors say she is dying."

"What, again?" Cathrine belched.

"Cati!"

"Gabrielle. You know as well as I do that mother is stronger than the two of us together."

"But she worries so about you.” Gabrielle chided. They both knew it was more duty than concern speaking. Cathrine held the receiver between her chin and shoulder as she poured more champagne.

"Gabri," Cathrine spoke between generous sips of champagne, "The only thing that worries mother, and this would truly kill her, is NOT having anything to fret and pine over." It was obvious to Gabrielle that the subject of Cathrine's mother was closed.

"So", she said lightly,” what are you doing in New Orleans?"

"Well", Cathrine paused for another belch, "I bought a house."

"A...house." Gabrielle repeated, her eyes closed in exasperation.

"Open your eyes, Gabri." Cathrine said irritably. “And don't take that tone with me!" Here her voice softened. "Is it really so terrible? This is where I’ll live."

"Cati, you really have taken leave of your senses this time." Gabrielle sighed.

"Listen, Gabri." Cathrine spoke deliberately, trying to hold back her frustration. "I know you want what is best for me. I know you think..."

"That you've lost your mind!" Gabrielle cut in.

"That I've lost my mind, fine!" Cathrine stopped, took a deep breath, began again."Gabri, I'm going to be happy here. I know it. Can't you be happy for me?"

"Cathrine Bouin." Gabrielle said, shaking her head. "You really are crazy, completely insane. But I love you anyway and of course I'm happy for you. So be happy with your house and come see me."

"You know I hate Montreal, too cold." Cathrine laughed.

"Then I must come to see you. God, you’re impossible!"

Cathrine was still smiling when she replaced the receiver. No matter where she went in the world Gabrielle was there to watch over her, closer than a sister. It was the way things had been for as long as either of them could remember.

As she dressed for bed the surfeit of champagne provided a rose colored view of what lay ahead of her tomorrow. There would be several rounds with the realtors but somehow she didn't mind the thought just now.

Cathrine propped herself up in bed and leafed indifferently through several French and American magazines until she came upon a photo journal of a reporter's travels through Cote d’Ivoire, her father’s country.  She stared at the photos and remembered that beautiful place, known to her from a child’s' point of view. Cathrine and her twin, Jean-Paul, summered in Abidjan every year. And they had absorbed what it meant to be connected to Africa.

Andre Bouin had determined early on that his children would not be blunted by their priviledged existence. They must not take for granted the comfortable mansions in Paris and Aix-en-Provence, the chauffeur driven Rolls or their designer clothes. No, he wanted their minds sharp and questioning. So he'd brought them to Africa.

Cathrine had but to wish it and she felt the breezes of Abidjan, the violent blue of the sea. It was a place whose beauty inspired her, stoked the fires of her imagination. That same imagination, Jean-Paul often said, would get her into trouble someday.

But Cathrine's imagination was her anchor to sanity. It held her stable in the seas of duty and family paranoia that came with fabulous wealth. And she replenished it during those dreamlike summers in Africa, greedily gathered the psychic opulence that was half of her birthright.

In Africa Cathrine had decided she would write. It was the greatest of secrets, much too precious to be confided to family or casual friends. No, only Gabrielle was privy to this.

Gabrielle had a marvelous gift that bound Cathrine to her from their first meeting at the age of 11. Gabrielle listened. Not with the polite and disinterested half smiles her mothers' friends turned on her whenever she opened her mouth.  Gabrielle's eyes sparkled and saw only Cathrine when her friend told a a story. She would sit rapt an hour or more and when the journey Cathrine took her on was ended, she invariably clapped her hands in approval and squeeled "Tu est fous, Cathrine! Tu est dengue!"

Cathrine had nurtured the dream, firmed her decision through 'the long penance', as she called her years at university. Jean-Paul had helped although, Cathrine was convinced, this had been purely unintentional.

Her brother, now a dealer in Islamic art, had gone on to become the pride of Sotheby's. He, like the rest of the clan, now regarded Cathrine with an air of waiting expectation.  The question could not have been more plain if they had spoken it aloud:  'What will you do with your life'?

Actually the Bouin clan had come to New Orleans before, a consortium of some sort where Madame Bouin represented her own family's holdings in Bordeaux.  Her parents' disdain for the torrid feel of the city was been plain to Cathrine, but she had reveled in it.How far removed from her cloying existence in the family compounds. Another world!   

Jean-Paul had his own reasons for thinking the city a hit.  While her parents clung to the refuge of their suite, Cathrine took to wandering the Esplanade end of the French Quarter. She drank in the faded ochre facades of silent mansions, their elegance strained by time and rot. Young boys tried to hustle her but she looked through them, imagining the iron coolness of filigree balconies overhanging the street. She had never forgotten and now, finally, she was here.

Cathrine laid the magazine on her nightstand and sighed, thinking of her family. She had anticipated her mothers' theatrics, even the call from Gabrielle, but she couldn't imagine her fathers' reaction to what could only seem a rash and impulsive move on her part.

After she switched off the light she lay there, willing her mind to shut itself off. As the gentle tide of sleep washed over her there were the sounds of Abidjan, the smell of the sea and the sweet sun of Africa on her face.

It seemed the morning sky of her first day in New Orleans competed with the remembered brilliance of summer in Abidjan. Cathrine felt renewed, free, as she stooped to enter a United cab. She was grateful for the silent cabbie (a rarity in her experience) as she watched the central business district whip past.

As they entered the Garden District the cab slowed, in 'tour guide mode', Cathrine thought. But she was seduced by the faded charm and tired beauty of this place. She thought of Martinique, even Africa as she contemplated these old estates. Yes, she told herself, I will do well here.

At Valmont Street the cab turned toward the river and pulled to the curb.She paid the driver, got out of the cab and coughed as she inhaled it's exhaust. But she had eyes only for the prize before her.  The house presented a pale yellow facade, stucco. The roof was red tiled with a high wall enclosing a private patio and garden. The tops of pomegranate and banana trees waved temptingly from behind that wall.

"Magnifique!" she breathed. It was exactly as the House Agent had described it. Suddenly all the planning, all the secrecy, seemed worthwhile.

"Good morning, Ms. Bouin." The House Agent called from the front door.

"Come in, let me show you your new home." Cathrine hurried across the street, liking the way that sounded.

Within the hour Cathrine wrote a check for a sum that clearly delighted the House Agent. Her pretty brown skin flushed when she looked at all those zeros. She was all bubbling solicitude and Cathrine had but to command her. When she was finally alone Cathrine strolled through the house once more.

"Chez-moi." She breathed.

Within two weeks, with all her furniture installed, Cathrine was settling in nicely. She often sat in her breakfast nook staring down St. Charles Avenue, a last cup of coffee in her hand. She enjoyed the way the ancient green street cars arced in and out of her field of vision, found their clanging good company.

How like Africa this place, she thought, satisfied. How like Abidjan the old Farmer's market at the Mississippi's edge, bustling till after dark.

Her own garden, its walls blocking sound from the street, was like a secret kingdom. Ten foot banana plants stirred under tentative breezes and giant fern palmettos and pomegranate trees provided a lining of restful green to Cathrine's gaze.

It seemed all the ingredients were here for what she wanted to do; write. But no words came to her, no illumination of that inner eye she trained on everything around her.   The typewriter on a table in her garden mocked Cathrine. Well? What's the problem? It seemed to say. She hadn't the answer.

The walks didn't help. She would stroll along St. Charles, hunting images, inspiration, SOMETHING! But her imagination seemed to have deserted her when she needed it most.  No matter how deeply she breathed the air of this place nothing came to her. The typewriter sat idle.

Now she stood leaning against the doorframe of her garden doors, lips pursed.

"Bon!" she said resolutely, "Je vais ecrir...quelque chose!" With that she stepped onto the flagstones of the garden. As soon as her foot came down on the hard surface her field of vision was bleached white as if she looked into the flash of a camera.

"Mon Dieu!" Her scream was lost in the howl of the arctic wind that tore around her. From every direction snow splashed at her, propelled by the wind.  Needles of ice cut her and the cold invaded her flesh like a weighted thing.

Somehow Cathrine knew this was real, that death waited close by if she didn't do something to save herself.   Shielding her face with her arms she took a lurching step forward. The wind was so loud it was as if someone screamed her name.

"I'm going to die." The thought surrounded her, like the cold that siphoned her life. The brutal cold laughed at her thin cotton blouse and pants.

Suddenly there was movement beneath her and she realized she stood on a piece of ice that was breaking away from the main floe. She lost her balance, slipped to her knees.

Cathrine's patch of ice moved, as if propelled, into an expanse of slate blue water. She sank to her belly and lay there, wondering how many seconds she had left. Her head felt like lead and her extremities no longer answered her desperate summons.

Finally all her strength left her and she was only vaguely aware of her head slamming down onto the ice.  The winds cruel voice rang through her bones till it filled her fleeting consciousness. Slowly her eyes closed.

The phone is ringing! Cathrine's eyes snapped open and she was instantly aware of the sun-heated flagstones burning her skin as she lay on them.

"Oh God, God!" Cathrine babbled her heart pounding. She shivered so violently she could barely get to her feet. She stared, horrified, at her hands. They were stiff with cold and covered with ice crystals that began to melt in the sunlight of her garden.  She instinctively reached for the phone, not thinking of what she was doing.

"Help!" It was no more than a whisper. All her strength was absorbed in the fits of shivering that racked her.

"Well good evenin' " A bright cheery voice said. "Y'all like to receive the Sunday edition of the Times-Picayune?"

A surge of adrenalin stilled Cathrines shivering and she slammed the receiver down, snatched it back up and dialed 911.

She didn't remember the ride to the hospital. As she lay in an examination room Cathrine couldn't stop shivering. The doctor was silent when he finished examining her and she sensed unmistakable tension from him.

"Ms. Bouin, how long have you been in the U.S.?" He asked.

"Er...three weeks." She answered, totally surprised at the question.

"It was plain stupid your waiting this long to get medical attention."

"What are you talking about?" Cathrine asked hotly.

"I'm talking about frostbite, Ms Bouin." The doctor returned with equal heat. "You can't get frostbite in New Orleans, so don't tell me it happened since you've been here. You're a very lucky young woman."

The doctor barked instructions at her as to the care she should take but Cathrine didn't hear him. A part of her was actually relieved. I'm not crazy, she told herself, it did happen.

Two months passed and July dragged itself to a stifling, exhausted close. Cathrine spoke to Gabrielle about her experience because she had no choice. She had to get it out, to talk about the physical effects of  'the dream', as Gabrielle called it.

"No, Gabri, it was real." Cathrine insisted.

"An hallucination,” Gabrielle said, "There's no other explanation."

"Does hallucination explain frostbite?" 

That had stopped her, had put an end to that and any subsequent discussion about the incident.

Cathrine's return to the garden had been a reluctant but uneventful one. The day was gray and overcast, threatening rain. She sat at her typewriter and again no words came. She daydreamed about the Cote d'Azur but they were only daydreams. Nothing like the terrifying totality of her previous experience.

Though she would have admitted it to no one Cathrine found the memory of the vision seductive. Something about the way one reality pushed aside another kept calling to her. It was frightening.

Cathrine wasn't used to being frightened. She owed her parents for that. But now she wondered if any of the tools they'd given her could help her cope with the aftermath of what happened. It was as if she swam in water that swirled down a drain, dragging her with it.

The next day Cathrine sent Gabrielle a key to her house. She realized this was no casual gesture. She wanted help if she cried out for it. Gabri would understand.

The sun was warm today; its rays slanting under the palmettos to touch along the length of the garden wall. Cathrine surveyed the lushness of her garden, amazed that it did not inspire her.   It was just after 8 A.M. and she sat at the table on the flagstones some clever workman had set in the pattern of her favorite constellation, Orion.

Cathrine tilted her head to stare up the height of a banana plant. The evening light was mauve and thick with the last of the day's soupy heat. She shivered, despite the sultry air, remembering her terror on this very  spot.

Cathrine shook her head, closed her eyes and willed the memory away. When she opened her eyes the garden was gone. A cooler breeze tugged at the length of her brocaded gown. Cathrine (only not Cathrine) stood just inside the massive doors of Suleymaniye. She gazed upward into the symmetrical perfection of the dome that crowned this splendid mosque. The delicate script  reminded her of the Dervish's dance.

Cathrine gasped as she realized where, and when, she must be. Late 16th century Istanbul, during the reign of Suleiman The Magnificent. She opened her eyes wide, as if trying to drink it all in through them.

"Gül!" A heavy male voice cracked the silence and she whirled toward it. A tall, richly dressed Eunuch wearing a gargantuan turban stalked angrily toward her.

"Stupid girl!" He grated as he gripped her wrist.

"P-Please, Emin." She gasped. "I only wanted to..."

"To what?" He roared. "You are not to leave the Seraglio, you were warned. Why did you come here?"

Cathrine blinked. How did she know his name? How was she able to understand his language? Who was Gül ?

"Don't bother to open your mouth." Emin said, his black eyes accusing her. "I followed you," he seethed, “I saw!"

"Saw?" Cathrine's voice was very small.

"You and your lover!"Emin hissed. Something in those eyes made Cathrine flush with shame. She tried to pull away from him but his grip was like steel.

"You have betrayed the Sultan," Emin went on. "The shadow of Allah on earth. Ooh Gül!" Cathrine couldn't look at him such was her shame.

"Come" He jerked her out of the mosque and through the gardens spread out around it.  The moon was full and bright, heavens eye adding its condemnation. She didn't have the will to resist.   Cathrine began to weep. But in the middle of a deep heartfelt sob she stopped short. Emin turned a sallow glare on her.

"Wait a minute!" She said, her indignation talking now.  "I don't have a lover! And as for 'the shadow of Allah on earth' I wouldn't know him if …!"

"You're making this worse, Gül!" Emin snapped.” You are Gözde, in the eye of the Sultan. How you can be so stupid in spite of such honor I will never know. I have protected you since the day you came into the Harem. I love you as I would my own daughter."  He stopped, overcome with emotion. Cathrine saw the moonlight sparkle in his tears.

"Emin..." Cathrine began, edging toward desperation now.  "Look at me...I-I don't belong here. Can't you..?"

"Enough!" The Eunuch rasped. "I can no longer protect you, my daughter. Allah knows I have done all I can. Come." He grabbed her arm and hauled her through a shadowed doorway. They went up a flight of stone stairs and onto a vast rooftop courtyard.

Cathrine's breath caught in her throat. It seemed the strength of the entire Ottoman court was arrayed against her.

A heavy brocaded chair had been placed on a thick layer of carpets and Suleiman   himself sat staring at Cathrine.

"Highness!” Cathrine rushed forward, meaning to prostrate herself before Suleiman. But the guards lowered their weapons in her direction.  Emin came up threateningly behind her.

"No, let her speak." The Sultan said. His eyes glittered maliciously. Cathrine clutched her robes about her, feeling her absolute vulnerability.

"Milord", she said breathlessly, "I swear by all the Imams that I have never betrayed thee. That my heart has never cried out for another."

"It is not your heart that concerns me, Gül." The sultan leaned forward, his voice a gentle whisper.  "Your body has been the instrument of betrayal."

"No milord!" Cathrine was actually wringing her hands. This is insane, she thought. How do I stop this?

"I have made my judgement." Suleiman said. Cathrine stared at him and felt as she were encased in ice.

"Let it be as tradition demands. Emin!" 

"Noooo!" Cathrine's scream tore the night's velvet as the Eunuch grabbed her wrists.

"Please, child." He said. Then, for Cathrine's ears only;   “Stay alert, I will help if I can." Her wrists and ankles were bound with silk cord. A black silk bag went over her head. Before the dark fabric covered her eyes she glimpsed the Sultan's face. He was enjoying this. And he knew she was innocent, she saw it in his eyes.

Emin unfurled a diaphanous sack and drew it down over her head. As it came past her hands he slipped something flat and round into her clutching fingers. She whimpered with fear.

"Be brave, child." He whispered. She was lifted by strong arms and carried to the roof's edge.   Although she was blinded by the bag Cathrine heard the waters of the Bosporus far beneath her.

"Allah Büyüktür." Cathrine heard herself whisper. God is great. They heaved her over the edge and Cathrine felt herself spiraling down through cool night air heavy with the damp breath of the sea.  She heard the almost comical sound of her own panting as she anticipated the impact.

When it came the cold dark water was like a wall of stone. Her breath rushed from her but the cold shock sent her into action. She sawed at the chords with the sharpened onyx disk Emin had given her. When her hands and feet were free she was out of the smaller then the larger sack and kicking toward the surface. She identified the pale brightness above as the moon.

Something dark moved sinuously off to her left but Cathrine kicked steadily toward the surface. Her world was filled with that bright wavering moon-image and the burning in her lungs.

Suddenly the powerful current swept her sideways and she floundered in the turbulence.

Where's the moon? She asked herself, fighting panic, trying to orient herself. Why couldn't she see it?

Help me, she prayed, sighting that blessed disk and surging toward it. She was aware of that dark shape moving past her again, the impression of great mass. But the burning in her lungs demanded she keep kicking, that she keep her eyes locked on the beautiful roundness of that moon.

No! Cathrine screamed silently as the massive shape moved across her precious disk of life-giving moon, blocking its light. Her mind a fog, Cathrine called out silently, Allah I'm dying! 

As the massive shape loomed above her it turned, resolving itself into a silhouette Cathrine recognized instantly. Shark! On the heels of recognition came terror. Adrenaline shot through her like lightening and Cathrine gained a few feet against the current. Not nearly enough.

The great jaws opened, Cathrine looked into them and screamed. Her last conscious moment was filled with the image of bubbles rising to the surface.

The sound of a key turning in a lock is like no other. It speaks of finality, of options lost or rejected, and friends coming home. The sound of a key opening her front door reminded Cathrine she had to change the locks of her house on Valmont Street.

She lay semi-conscious on the warm flagstone of her garden. It was dark and she wasn't sure if she was dreaming of the sound of a key in a lock, of high heels on hardwood floors.

"Cati!" Gabrielle's scream brought Cathrine to full consciousness and she began to cough convulsively, vomiting sea water. Gabrielle dropped her bag and rushed to her friend, talking and crying all at once. Cathrine stank of the sea and there were ugly gashes on her torso.

"Oh my God, Cati!" Gabrielle kept saying as she helped her friend up. "It'll be O.K., come on, I'll help you. Careful.

At 3 A.M. Gabrielle gently disengaged her hand from Cathrine's and rose from her chair beside the bed. She glanced back at Cathrine as she closed the door behind her and descended the stairs. She dialed Paris and waited, forbidding herself to cry.    

"Alo?" A man's voice finally responded.

"Jean-Paul?"

"Gabrielle, How good to hear from you. How is Montreal?"

"I'm...I'm in New Orleans, Jean-Paul." Gabrielle said deliberately.

"What's wrong?" The fear in his voice was obvious, even through the scratchy trans-Atlantic connection. "Tell me.” He demanded.

"She's fine. No! No, she's not fine. Jean-Paul you've got to come. Hurry!"

"Gabri, just tell..."

"I don't know what to do!" He could tell she was clenching her jaws, the way she always did when she was on the edge of tears.

"Yes, Gabri, I'm coming. As soon as I can get a flight."

"Soon!" She hissed. "Oh, please come soon, Jean-Paul."

"Tell me what happened. Has she been hurt?" She hesitated."Gabri?"

"You remember I told you about...the dream."

"Yes." Jean-Paul said slowly. A new caution had come over him.

"Before she went to sleep...she...she told me about another one." He gasped and for some reason she couldn't explain this terrified Gabrielle. They were silent for a long moment. Jean-Paul opened his mouth several times to speak but was unable. He and Gabrielle hadn't told the rest of the family about 'the dream.'

"Gabri..." He said finally.

"Just hurry." She said, desperately." Hurry."

When Cathrine came into her kitchen the next morning she found Gabrielle sitting in her breakfast nook. Gabrielle didn't notice Cathrine and continued to stare along St. Charles Avenue, at the streetcars heaving themselves along their ancient tracks. Cathrine admired that beloved profile a moment longer before she realized there were tears in Gabrielle's eyes. What's happening to me? She asked herself, just as Gabrielle felt her presence and looked up.

"Cati!" she said, wiping her tears away, "Bonjour, Cherie. Ça va?" Cathrine sat across from her dearest friend but didn't look at her. She poured a cup of coffee from the Braun.

"I'm...alright, I guess." She answered, convincing no one this was the case. "I...didn't dream."

Her own words sounded odd to her and Cathrine realized she wished she had dreamt. No. The truth was she wanted to go back to Istanbul, to Suleymaniye Mosque and the waters of the Bosporus.

Cathrine looked up, startled by Gabrielle's weeping openly. Gabrielle never wept. Never. Since the time they were little girls she'd known Gabrielle as someone who felt everything so deeply, yet hid this part of her like some dirty secret.

"Gabri...don't cry, please." Cathrine whispered, frightened by the suffering obvious in the other woman. Suffering she had caused.

"I...I love you, Cati."Gabrielle struggled to speak. "You know..."

"Of course, of course Gabri."Cathrine said soothingly."Nothing has changed."

"No." Gabrielle sobbed louder." Nothing is the same, you are not the same. You're... slipping away...from me, from Jean-Paul...everyone who loves you."

Cathrine could only stare open mouthed at Gabrielle, not knowing what to do, how to calm her. So she listened.

"I knew s-something was wrong...from the first time." Gabrielle paused, determined to control her crying, to make sense. Somehow she must reach Cathrine, make her see.

In a gesture that seemed almost violent to Cathrine Gabrielle wiped her streaming face. Cathrine waited, realizing Gabrielle was saying something she felt had to be said.

When Gabrielle began again her voice was almost steady, her words deliberate. 

"From the first...vision..."

"It was real!" Cathrine said nastily, her composure suddenly gone.

"From the first vision," Gabrielle repeated, closing her eyes firmly.  “You spoke like someone I didn't know anymore, as if you actually felt the..."

"I was there!" Cathrine shouted. "I felt the cold stealing my life as surely as I feel this table!" Gabrielle jumped when Cathrine pounded her fist on the table for emphasis.

"Cati."

"No!" Cathrine bit out, rising from her seat. "I was there, Gabri."

Now Cathrine closed her eyes, hugged her shoulders. Gabrielle's jaw was set, her tears dry now. I can't lose her to this, she thought.

"Cati."

"I felt it, Gabri."Cathrine said, breathing hard. "I did. I felt it, saw it."

"Cati." Gabrielle got to her feet, took a step toward the other woman.

"A blue and white so intense it blinded me."Cathrine wailed.

"Cati, listen." Gabrielle said, gripping Cathrines shoulders.

"The wind," Cathrine keened, "so loud. Voices!"

"Stop it!" Gabrielle yelled, shaking Cathrine now.

"So loud." Cathrine twisted away from Gabrielle's grip, clamped her hands over her ears. “A thousand voices calling my name. Oh God, the shark!"

It was as if Cathrine's scream, so full of purest terror, breached some barrier in Gabrielle. She slapped Cathrine across the face, sent her spinning against the table behind her.   Somehow the blow shook Cathrine out of the funnel cloud and back into her kitchen on Valmont Street.  She and Gabrielle stood staring at each other, unable to believe what had just happened.

The ferry at the foot of Canal Street came and went, seeming to visit upon Gabrielle the weight of a foreboding that drained her strength. She'd had to get out of the house at Valmont Street. Cathrine was sitting in the garden when she left. Gabrielle half remembered the jostling ride downtown on a crowded streetcar.   She'd stared dully at the passing Garden District, her world crowded by despair and confusion.

Now she stood in the Spanish Plaza looking across the width of the Mississippi. The water was turbulent, whipped by the same wind that tugged at Gabrielle's clothes and wrapped her in summer’s humid breath.

When the Riverwalk began to disgorge tourists into the Plaza Gabrielle turned on her heel and resolutely walked the five blocks to Hotel La Maison Bretagne. In the business office she waited for her call to go through. On the fifth ring Jean-Paul Bouin snatched up the receiver and barked out an irritable "Oui?"

Without so much as a ‘hello’ Gabrielle tore into him so viciously that he could only marvel at the caustic stream that poured through the receiver.

"Come on, Gabri, you're not being fair!" He said, trying to defend himself. This only provoked new levels of Gallic fury. When they finally hung up their respective phones Jean-Paul, his tail tucked firmly between his legs, had sworn he would be on the 'next available flight' to New Orleans.

Did I go too far? Gabrielle asked herself, ignoring the receptionists shocked expression. She realized her tongue had been sharpened by the tension and worry born of all that was happening. What exactly is happening? What? That this question went unanswered bothered Gabrielle more than anything. She was not a woman used to feeling frightened or helpless. There are always options, contingencies, she told herself. But not this time. Cathrine, her friend and sister, the strongest person she knew, was falling apart.

 "Taxi, maam?" Gabrielle looked at the Bell Captain, a tall boyish looking man. She stood in the hotel lobby, a soaring marble vault with huge potted plants in odd inconvenient places.

"Taxi?" The Bell Captain repeated.

"Yes, please." Gabrielle answered, recognizing the smouldering, tip driven greed cultivated in the world's finest hotels. She gave him the address and got into the cab. She was so preoccupied that she didn't hear the driver's compulsive small talk or notice that the car was filthy.

Dinner was a pleasant surprise. The familiar flow of absorbing conversation was there, nothing like the tense vigil they both expected.  They sat in the flag stoned courtyard of Il Grieco's facing the river.

Through the open floodgate they had a sweeping view of the river's curve. Every now and then a ship meandered upstream. They appeared to glide through the gathering dusk as if in slow motion.

Cathrine and Gabrielle ignored the crowds of tired tourists too stupid to go back to their hotels after a day of tramping through the heat. An insistent jazz band filled the thick evening air with the violence of Dixieland.

The two friends talked, laughed and ate like old times. These were the things they enjoyed most and each was grateful for the company of her favorite person. Behind the smiles they were both trying hard to forget the last 24 hours.

Gabrielle watched her friend closely as they talked. Cathrine's hair, abundant and insistently kinky, was anchored against the humidity in a chignon. Strands of silver at the temples surprised Gabrielle and she leaned forward to hear the punch line of Cathrine's joke. They both laughed louder than the joke deserved and Gabrielle noticed Cathrine's skin, usually rich sienna, was ashen. She lifted her glass to cover her surprise and they toasted their friendship.

Cathrine savored the full bite of the wine as a breeze came softly off the river. It carried the sound of tugboats calling to each other, snatches of conversation from nearby tables and a foreboding that wiped her smile away. The weight of Gabrielle's steel grey stare didn't help any. Cathrine tried to ignore her irritation at Gabrielle's watching her. She's wondering what's happening to me, she thought, I wish I knew.

"It's so beautiful here,” Gabrielle was saying. "Why does your mother hate it so?"

Cathrine laughed.

"You know how mothers are. Remember how your mother took it when you left France?" Now Gabrielle threw her head back and laughed, partly at the memory, partly out of gratitude that it lightened her mood.

"Badly, to say the least!"

"If I lived at Versailles, it wouldn't be good enough." Cathrine said, draining her glass.

"Remember that time we took your mother's plane to the Cote d'Azur?" Gabrielle said, laughing harder now. They talked and laughed through the next three hours and two more bottles of wine. For those precious hours they forgot the blinding snowstorm and the waters of the Bosporus.

They were silent during the ride home to Valmont Street. A feeling of nestling contentment, and the surfeit of wine, comforted them both. Times like these were what they had planned for and dreamed about so many years ago: A life away from family, obligation and duty.

Gabrielle understood the allude New Orleans held for Cathrine. There was a feeling here much like what made Montreal so perfect for her. It captured the imagination.

"It really is a beautiful place.” She murmured, staring out at the shadowed hulks of passing ships. Cathrine looked at her, realizing her friend spoke aloud unconsciously. She smiled. Gabrielle understood why she needed to be here. She sighed, happy because she was where she wanted to be, because her dearest friend was sharing this with her and because she'd drank more tonight than within recent memory.

They laughed as they entered Cathrine's house, recounting stories that kept their luster through a hundred tellings.

"What a night," Cathrine was saying.” Put some coffee on, Gabri."

Gabrielle reached for the Braun with one hand, plucking her earrings off with the other.

Cathrine headed toward the back of the house and Gabrielle sighed contentedly.  Maybe a night like this, full of food, wine and good memories, was what Cathrine needed to pull her back to reality.

Cathrine stopped as she passed her garden, stared at the typewriter sitting on its table. For the first time in a long time she felt no frustration when she looked at it. It'll come, she told herself. In its own good time it will come. 

On an impulse Cathrine decided she didn't want to leave the thing out and reached to put it away. As she stepped onto the cool flagstones she noticed the barest shimmering off to her left. The garden was suddenly more lush than she remembered. Moonlight frosted the plantings around her which seemed suddenly taller. She shook her head and reached for the typewriter but it was gone.

"No!" she gasped. She stood at a low railing overlooking a courtyard much grander than her own secret garden. There were soaring kentia palms and the floor was a terrazzoed mosaic of swans and peacocks. She bent to admire them and saw they were worked in ivory, onyx and lapis lazuli.

Several low chairs had been placed around a fountain in the center of the space. Columns of ruddy Sicilian marble soared up into sculpted heights that were lost in shadow. Thick beams of carnelian light entered from a picture window to Cathrine's left. It seemed to infuse the birds worked into the floor with a life of their own.

Cathrine remembered the evening with Gabrielle as if it were some abstract dream. Could she really have been happy away from here? Listening to the music of the fountain's splashing she thought that other life very much inferior to this.   Her own gown of caramel damask seemed out of place here and she pulled it off over her head. Then she was in the fountain, splashing and giggling as if she had come just for this. The water was only hip deep and Cathrine noticed the bottom of the fountain was littered with coins. She knelt to examine one but couldn't place it. Jean-Paul would know, she thought. Then she noticed the robe.

It was draped across the chairs and Cathrine thought it odd she hadn't noticed it before. Climbing out of the fountain she reached for the robe but stopped short. Danger! The feeling boiled all around her. But what could be dangerous in a place of such peace? She asked silently.

Again she reached for the robe. Stopped. She turned not at all self conscious because of her nakedness. She was sure there had been a rustling among the plants ...no, she must have imagined it.

Cathrine picked up the robe and held it high. Though she held the shoulders above her head the hem still brushed the floor. It was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen. She admired its weight, guessing it was heavy silk. The color sang to her; deep oxblood worked with dark green wisteria blossoms.

She held it to her and whirled. What a wonderful sight it was, arcing in and out of the light from the window. Cathrine had never been a selfish or materialistic person. But right now she would have paid any price to own such a robe. With a sigh of pleasure she slipped it on and tied the belt. Then she burst into flames.

Gabrielle had forgotten her earrings beside the Braun. She was turning back toward the kitchen when she saw the light. At first she thought there had been an explosion. The blast of heat and light forced her to look away but she was running toward the garden before she knew what she was doing.

As her momentum carried her across the garden threshold Gabrielle felt the wall of heat singe her clothes, crisp her hair at the temples. Instinctively her arms went up to shield her face. Cathrine! Her thoughts whirled, what has happened to Cathrine?!

But she knew. Cathrine's death scream and the sound of sizzling flesh filled the garden. No! Gabrielle's mind screamed as her throat closed. No! She pleaded silently as her hands fumbled with a half melted plastic bucket. It was still half full of rain water and she flung it at Cathrine.

As the water made contact with the fireball the sizzling sound grew louder, the flames brighter, angrier. The heat exploded outward again, as if in retaliation and Gabrielle was forced to cower against the far garden wall.

Then there were voices outside the wall. Voices full of fear. The voices of people who knew that if this house went, theirs were next. They were climbing over the wall now. There were sirens, yelling.

Gabrielle could only watch, overcome with horror, as Cathrine gave up her life in a wailing, angry lament that said she just wasn't ready. She stared unable to move at the place where Cathrine had lost her battle with fire and death and insanity. People came, went, spoke to her. But she didn’t answer them. She couldn't take her eyes from the voluptuous pillar of smoke rising from Cathrines’ funeral pyre.

"Gabrielle!" She turned to see Jean-Paul rushing in. He stopped short when he saw her face. He stood there framed in the ruined doorway.

"Hold on, you said.” Her words were labored. The smoke stung her eyes.” Just a little longer, you said." She walked past him and up the stairs without looking back.

After two months back in Montreal Gabrielle still barely slept. When she slept she dreamt. So she barely slept. When the funeral was finally behind her she had left New Orleans knowing she would never return.

The death of Cathrine Marie Solonge de Bouin had been ruled an accident. But Gabrielle knew better. She and Jean-Paul had heard the coroners use the term 'Spontaneous Human Combustion'.

When the house was sold Gabrielle consented to a walk through with Jean-Paul. In the garden she wouldn't look at the spot where her friend had died. It had taken all she had to enter the garden at all.  As she and Jean-Paul were about to leave they noticed the smoke rising along the garden wall. Jean-Paul noticed the fear in Gabrielle’s' eyes.

"No, it's O.K." he said. "Look." He pushed back the foliage to reveal row upon row of mushrooms. His movements disturbed them and the smoke slowly rose again.

"Spores." He said, thoughtfully. "It's spores. Probably give you all kinds of crazy hallucenations."