Between sleeping and waking Anastasia lay, beneath a rumpled bed-spread of grayish white. Brightly shone the moon through bars of swaying tree branches, painting her other-wise un-colored coverlet in hues of silver-blue and deep, liquid black. As the trees swayed so swayed the pattern and as the wind danced so danced its leaves. A slender, pale hand loosed itself from beneath the heavy folds to gently trail one finger along the shadowy branches. Otherwise inanimate, Anastasia’s eyes flickered dimly and the ghost of a smile lifted the edges of her lips. It was a lovely pattern.

Through a crack in her window Anastasia could hear the wind sing as it soared through the tree-tops to play a lilting soprano and hummed between their trunks a stirring bass. Her eyes flicked upward and after dancing across the far wall (which, like her bed, was latticed by the shadows of the trees) gazed out the window. Faint and far-off behind the moon a blooming field of stars shone, adding keenness to the moon’s majestic luster by their intense gaze.

Over the wind Anastasia began to hear a different and far-less melodious sound. Like flapping cloth followed by a whispering slide as of sand-paper across a smooth beam, it broke into the harmony of the night. Anastasia frowned and averting her gaze from the deepening heavens, turned her head to listen towards the door. Shuffle, shuffle, scratch. The noises continued, growing closer every moment. Just as she was about to call out and alert the person or thing to its own nuisancery, the handle on her door turned. With a high-pitched squeak the door eased a slow foot open and Anastasia, her eyes narrowed in annoyance and disbelief, sat up in bed.

“I have come for you,” a low and grating voice growled from the shadows beyond. Anastasia only rolled her eyes.

“What do you want, Timothy?” she demanded in a low and irate voice.

“I have come for you!” the voice insisted again.

“Yeah, and I’m a hot-dog.” She retorted. A stifled snicker came from the shadows, followed by another slow, ominous comment.

“In that case I had better mustard up some ketchup!”

“Enough with the puns, Timothy,” Anastasia hissed and throwing her covers off, stalked over to the door. Laying hold the handle she jerked it roughly forward, stepping back at the same time to dodge the slight figure which came hurtling into the room.

In a jumble of knees, elbows and a long, eagle-hooked nose the ‘specter’, his hand still latched onto the door-handle, tumbled to the floor. Not a second later and he was on his feet again, grumbling something about ‘manners, warnings and all that’. Anastasia’s eyes widened as she took in his attire and upon making this observation her entire demeanor changed.

“You going somewhere, Sherlock?” she queried, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.

[here the manuscript ends]