Not only did Mr Morghis live on Prince Avenue, but the apartment building Valerie had directed Esmera to was fit to house royalty. Modern, possibly futuristic royalty.

Esmera simply stared at it.

The rain had dwindled into a mere drizzle. It was easy enough for Esmera to ignore, even as it dotted her face and eyes with coldness and nestled among her curls.

The apartment building was so tall that the storm clouds swallowed its uppermost levels. Esmera wouldn't have believed there was a building embellished in silver if it wasn't for the lines that ran up to the top she couldn't see, glittering in the streetlights.

Soft warmth glowed from within the large windows that covered the apartment building's outside walls. Even that was more elegant than the single flickering bulb that illuminated Esmera's apartment, as was the whole building.

It was so sleek, so sophisticated, that it didn't seem like it could exist in the same world or time as Esmera's apartment. It definitely didn't belong in her neighbourhood, with the shoddy, cramped buildings and the litter embellishing the alleyways.

The residents of the unworldly skyscraper were too far up for Esmera to see them, but she imagined them sitting in front of their fireplaces with steaming mugs of tea in their hands. Maybe they were staring outside in contemplative silence, pitying all the unfortunate nobodies running through the rain. Maybe they were watching their favourite show. Esmera could almost hear them laughing and laughing at jokes that weren't even that funny.

Why wouldn't they when they had everything a person could ever want?

Esmera became conscious of the paper drooping against her hand as the rain soaked into it. Valerie's writing had smudged into itself, but Esmera could still make out the words if she squinted hard enough.

Mr Tauram Morghis, 22 Prince Avenue

With that, Esmera's mind was refreshed with purpose. She stuffed the sodden paper into her coat pocket. Though, of course, it wasn't her coat. Still, it was nice to pretend it was. Esmera might actually look like she belonged in such an upmarket apartment building when she stepped inside and requested to see Mr Tauram Morghis.

The mottled storm-grey tiles were an accident waiting to happen in the rain. Esmera clutched at the golden railing, but that wasn't any less slippery.

She gritted her teeth. She had made it this far, and a set of marble stairs wasn't going to stop her.

She somehow made it to the entrance to the apartment building. The doorman let her past with a nod and a polite, subdued smile.

It had to be the coat. If he could see Esmera's faded jeans and coffee-stained t-shirt, he would've called security to escort her out immediately.

For the umpteenth time that day, Esmera silently thanked the mysterious stranger for his generous gift.

She stepped into the foyer. It, like so many other sights that day, stuck her silent.

Silver vases stood on the black counters, overflowing with red roses. Strangely enough, these flowers didn't whisper a word to Esmera. Neither did the paintings on the walls, but it wasn't hard to believe that they, with their white, black and red smudges interrupted by smears of blue or green paint, had nothing to say. Nothing she could understand, at least.

The gleaming floors reflected the lights from the ceiling back up at them. Three elevators stood in a line on the wall to the left.

This place didn't have the striking vividness of the museum, but it did have a subtler beauty in its carefully curated shades and sophistication in its negative spaces. It was a piece of art in its own right. If this was what the lobby looked like, Esmera could only imagine the effortless elegance of each apartment it led to.

How could anyone afford to own a museum and an apartment in a building that looked as if it had travelled back in time just to house him? It must be family money, more than Esmera could imagine, which was why there was no point in thinking about it any longer.

A lush carpet had been set up in front of the door. Someone had known before Esmera did that she would track water into the otherwise spotless lobby if nobody stopped her. Her feet felt unworthy of such luxury, but she let them sink into the carpet. She rubbed them against it with such ferocity that they wouldn't dare to still be wet, then strode to the reception desk.

Eyes followed her along her path. Her wet hair and grubby sneakers weren't fooling everyone, even if the coat did. She pulled it tighter around her and kept her chin up.

She had gotten this far, and she wasn't about to stop now, not for the sake of her self-consciousness or strangers' judgemental stares.

She leaned over the counter in front of the receptionist. The man continued typing. Esmera followed his cursor on the computer screen reflected in his round, gold-rimmed glasses.

Esmera cleared her throat. "I'm here to see Mr Tauram Morghis."

Without interrupting the rhythm of his fingers on the keyboard, the man looked up at her. "You are, are you?" He scanned what he could see of her.

It wasn't much, but his eyes voiced a judgement his mouth wouldn't dare to speak.

Esmera clenched her fists until her knuckles turned pale. She wasn't leaving until she saw Mr Morghis, even when any gazes that grazed her could tell a girl like her didn't belong in a place like this.

Just when Esmera thought the receptionist would call security to have her tossed out, he reached for the phone beside him. It was a glossy red, like the roses in the vases, like the paint thrown on the canvases mounted along the walls.

Esmera looked on in disbelief as the receptionist dialled a number while still typing with his other hand. She had only ever seen pianists with this level of hand coordination.

The receptionist held the phone up to his ear. His eyes darted about his computer screen all the while. "Good day. I have a visitor here for Mr Morghis."

The voice on the other side was a hum that Esmera managed to make out. His voice was as clear as if he was standing right beside her. She couldn't help but wonder which apartment he was speaking down from. She'd find out soon enough.

"In connection with what?" The cool voice was unfamiliar.

The receptionist covered the phone's mouthpiece and flicked his eyes up to Esmera. Before he could ask the speaker's question, Esmera answered it.

"I wanted information about a painting in the Himalayan exhibit of Mr Morghis's art museum." Her words came out in a hurried string.

Esmera took a breath. She couldn't be anything but nervous in a place she didn't belong, among people who had more money than numbers she could count, but that feeling wouldn't help her. It would only be a hindrance.

The receptionist blinked. He repeated Esmera's reply to the speaker.

For a tense moment, the speaker said nothing. Esmera crossed her fingers in desperate hope for this one wish to come true.

The cool voice spoke again. "I'll be right down to escort her up."

With a click, the line went silent.

"You'll be escorted up in a moment," said the receptionist, unnecessarily, though he couldn't know that, of course.

Warmth coursed through Esmera, spreading into her smile. She couldn't believe her luck. The answers that had seemed so far away this morning were slowly drifting within her reach.

"Thank you very much."

With a polite nod, the receptionist turned back to his work, and Esmera was forgotten.

Now that part one of her mission was accomplished, she stepped away from the counter.

Every sound was amplified against the sparkling marble tiles: the squeaks of maids' shoes, the wheels of the porters' carts, the clicks of heels as their wearers hurried along, late for appointments. Esmera studied each passing face.

Which, if any of them, belonged to the cool voice on the other end of the phone line? None of them answered her, not with a nod in greeting or a warm smile. Instead, they went about their jobs.

In a place with silver handrails and coffee tables carved from crystal, Esmera shouldn't be at all surprised that she was invisible.

A woman wearing red lipstick and carrying a crocodile-skin handbag entered the lobby. Esmera turned away from the unpleasant memory that arose at the sight of her in time to see the number above the elevator on the far right light up.

The doors slid open to reveal a man. He stepped out, scanning the lobby.

It was when their purposeful gazes collided that Esmera knew he was who she had been waiting for.

Esmera's eyes caught a flash of brown like a bushy tail diving into his breast pocket. In the time it took her to blink, it disappeared. She blinked again. She must be imagining things. No man carried squirrels in his pockets, no matter how unconventional his outfit was.

The man wore a navy three-piece suit that wouldn't have looked out of place at an office if it wasn't for the bright scarf looped casually around his neck. It was embroidered with mandala patterns that reminded Esmera of the east. India, maybe? The intersecting lines of blue and green thread mesmerised her.

The scarf's bright colour complemented the man's brown skin. He wore his straight black hair in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He must know he had cheekbones that should be shown off, not hidden being a curtain of hair.

His unique look was made of elements Esmera would've never imagined fitted together, but he somehow made them work.

"Hello." He extended a hand to her. "You must be Mr Morghis's visitor." There wasn't a question in his voice, only cool certainty.

Like the man Esmera had met in the museum, he had an interesting accent that she couldn't quite place.

She banished the thought of the kind stranger from her mind. It seemed like he had taken up residence there since she met him just this afternoon, but she couldn't allow that. She needed to focus.

Esmera nodded as she took the man's warm hand. She mimicked the firmness of his grip.

He grinned, putting Esmera at ease with the small gesture. At least there was someone who didn't treat her like she had no business being here, even though she technically didn't.

"My name is Belaren. I'm Mr Morghis's assistant. Come." He released Esmera's hand. "I'll take you to him."

She smiled back. "That would be great."

Belaren gestured for Esmera to follow him to the elevator.

Inside, it smelt like an expensive carpet, which was strange because there was no carpet to be seen anywhere. Yet it wasn't the strangest thing Esmera had seen today.

No, that honour went to the single red-rimmed silver button on the wall of the elevator. Belaren touched his thumb to a small black pad on the wall.

"Access granted," said a robotic female voice.

"Why, thank you." Belaren pressed the silver button. The elevator doors closed, sealing him and Esmera off from the rest of the world.

Now it was just Esmera and a strange man in the fanciest elevator she had ever seen as it began its ascent to who knows where—a place only one button away.

At the back of the elevator was a mirror stretching between the floor and the ceiling. A singular bright light shone down on Esmera and Belaren, illuminating the two remaining walls. They were silver and too bright for Esmera's eyes, just as the silence was too loud.

She looked over at Belaren, only to see that he was already studying her.

At a sudden attack of self-consciousness, Esmera studied the end of one of her wet curls as she tugged at it. "I'm sorry to bother Mr Morghis so late in the afternoon."

It seemed too good to be true that she had found her way here despite the rain and that Mr Morghis was willing to see her. Not many people would entertain a stranger at this hour.

Belaren waved a careless hand. "Tauram is always available to answer questions about the Himalayan exhibit."

The tour guide had said Mr Morghis's had a soft spot for that particular exhibit. Esmera had made the right choice by coming here. There was no doubt about it.

Interest gleamed in Belaren's dark eyes. "What's your interest in the Himalayan exhibit?"

Belaren's open manner and kind understanding made Esmera want to confide everything in him, but she couldn't.

What if he thought she was crazy for hearing petals whisper? What if he kicked her out of the building instead of escorting her to Mr Morghis? One wrong word and his welcoming smile would turn to one of wariness.

Esmera had best be careful if she wanted answers. She had come too far to mess up now.

She mustered up her most innocent smile. "I really admired one of the paintings in the exhibit, and I wanted to know who the artist was."

Belaren raised his eyebrows, whether in curiosity or disbelief, Esmera couldn't be sure.
"Could no one at the museum answer that?"

Esmera shook her head, keeping the panic at the edge of her voice out of her face. "A tour guide tried to help me, but we couldn't discern the artist's signature."

A small smile took over Belaren's mouth. "Then you've come to the right place. Tauram will be only too happy to help you."

The sickening feeling creeping through Esmera's chest retracted its tendrils, and she found she could breathe easily again.

Intrigue replaced Esmera's unease, but before she could ask what Belaren meant, the elevator doors parted with an electronic ding.

Esmera blinked as she looked around.

She had expected to be greeted by a passage lined by doors marked with different numbers and leading to different apartments. Instead, she found herself in the middle of the biggest living room she had ever been in. The floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the skyline made it even more so.

This wasn't just any apartment in the building. It was the penthouse.

"Follow me." Belaren was on the move before Esmera could let the realisation sink in.

His glossy black shoes tapped against the floor. Their hasty rhythm told Esmera she didn't have time to admire the half-moon-shaped midnight blue couches with their grey black-blotched cushions, or the glass vase housing a little plant on the coffee table.

She stared around her as Belaren led her through the living room. They entered a dark passage. There were no windows to let the storm's gloom in. Still, there was enough light for Esmera to make out the paintings lining the walls.

They weren't abstract like the paintings in the lobby but finely rendered scenes of mountains, valleys and small, colourful villages, just like the paintings at the museum.

Valerie and Belaren hadn't been exaggerating. Mr Morghis really did love the Himalayan paintings.

Esmera stopped with Belaren outside a black wooden door edged in silver. He knocked on it three times.

"Come in!"

The voice that answered sent goosebumps through Esmera. She knew it from somewhere. It teased at her memory, but her mind gave her no answer.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait long.

Belaren opened the door. After it swung forward into the room, he stood in front of it.

"Your visitor, Tauram."

"Thank you."

Belaren closed the door silently as he exited, leaving Esmera in an elegant room as grey as the storm outside. A bookshelf took up the wall to her right, stacked not only with books but ornate bowls and small, fine statues, yet that wasn't where her eyes wandered first.

Esmera looked past that, past the chairs gathered around a round table piled with magazines, past the desk scattered with pages.

She'd had a picture in her mind of the sort of man who would own a museum. She had pictured him as old enough to be her father, greying at his temples, smoking one of those old-fashioned pipes Sherlock Holmes favoured.

Esmera hadn't pictured him with ink-black hair or dressed in pleated plaid pants. She hadn't imagined he was the type to roll his white shirt sleeves up to his elbows or stand in front of windows cradling a teacup.

She definitely hadn't pictured him as the man she met earlier at the museum—the one who had given her his coat—yet when he turned away from the window, she saw she wasn't mistaken.

It was him, down to the youthful glimmer in his eyes as he caught sight of Esmera and the graceful hands that set his teacup down on his desk.

"I'm starting to think you like getting caught in the rain." The man's mouth quirked.

Just like that, the snappy comeback that had been on the tip of Esmera's tongue evaporated.