Madam Longwenier stood, still as the corpse that lay at her feet, staring over the edge of the castle tower into the murky waters of the moat below.

The cold night wind whipped through her hair and the many layers of her masquerade gown. The crescendo of melancholy violins cried through the darkness.

Her third husband was dead. Murdered. Blood seeped from the wound in his neck, staining the satin of her shoes. His murder had been her doing. As had the murders of his two predecessors.

Thirty-two years young, and a widow thrice.

Longwenier had no regrets.

She knew the macabre doctor with whom she often partnered would find the loss of a fresh cadaver wasteful, but Longwenier knew in that moment that her only option was to dispose of the body. Rid this world of the evidence of yet another committed sin. The swell of the violins playing Bach's "Chaconne" in the ballroom far below seemed to heighten her need for hasty action.

Yet, how long could she continue thusly? How long before her prestigious name was as soiled as her hands? How long before the crack in her mask . . .

• • •

My pen came off the paper mid-sentence.

"This is shit," I announced to my empty office.

I tore the page from my notebook and wadded it into a ball. I tossed the ball into the wire waste paper basket beside my desk.

The waste paper basket was nearly full. Discarded ideas, half-developed scenes, incomplete characters...all thrown away like so much rubbish. Beautiful dreams of fiction, downgraded to scrap paper.

I loosed a despondent sigh. Dramatic, sure, but warranted. Writing in a notebook, rather than typing, usually cured the bouts of writer's block.

Tonight, it wasn't working.

Everything I wrote was bland and cliché. Madam Longwenier, my flawed protagonist, lacked complexity and inspiration in her motives, instead coming across as petty and vengeful. Her masquerade gown and waist-length black hair were old hat. Her marriage-to-murder plot for offing her gaslighting socialite husbands was beyond predictable.

I tapped my pen against my chin in a series of rapid thuds.

The pressure for the next grand literary creation by Cristina Castillo was stifling, yet I had nothing of substance to show my publisher.

I prodded the side of the waste paper basket with the toe of my shoe. The wadded up paper seemed to jump within its confines. Maybe I should give up on the gothic Victorian tale of Madam Longwenier for the time being. Shelve the whole project. Work on something else. I could return to my unfinished zombie novel. Or my discontinued masked vigilante novel. Or my abandoned time-traveling archeologist novel.

I cringed as I gazed at the bookshelf opposite my desk. Notebook after notebook of unfinished stories. Lists of plot points. Incomplete character descriptions. Failures made infinitely more acute by my photographic memory.

The door to my office burst open, and I startled.

"Cristina, I swear, if you are still writing, I'm gonna throat-punch you!" exclaimed a voice. "Is Madam Lon-gwen-nor still giving you grief?"

I glanced over my shoulder at the owner of the voice. Gigi Hamilton approached me from the doorway in a fitted golden gown that hugged her enviable hips and accentuated the glowing brown of her skin. Gigi had the face, body, and trendy pixie cut of a fashion model, but by some cosmic mistake, I had managed to snag her as my agent. In her off time, she moonlighted as my PR person, dating advice expert, and (by default) best friend.

I expelled a dry chuckle. "It's Lon-Gwen-nier," I corrected her. "The last syllable is pronounced 'near,' as in the opposite of 'far.' Don't let her hear you screwing up her name. She has a thirsty dagger and a lot of pent up aggression."

"I'm not scared of that bitch," Gigi declared. "I'm scared of being late. We're due to arrive at the release party in fifteen minutes! Need I remind you that it's an open bar on a Manhattan rooftop? Let's go!"

"I'm ready, I swear," I said. I stood up and smoothed the fabric of my cocktail dress. "Look: I'm not wearing sweatpants."

"Well, thank god for that," Gigi sniffed. She twirled her finger in the air so that I would spin around. "This party is in honor of your book. It's all about you, girl. And why you like to cover up that gorgeous physique with cheap, loose-fitting clothing is beyond me. Your abs are to die for!"

"I only exercise because it helps with the writer's block," I reminded her.

"You must get writer's block a lot," Gigi stated.

"You have no idea," I muttered. I capped my pen and closed my notebook. The cover pushed against my hand like it wanted to spring open again.

"Well, then this party came just in time," Gigi said. "You need some recreation! A break. It's not good for you to spend all your time in the company of fictitious characters. There are real people in the world, and some of the most fabulous will be at this party. You could meet your perfect guy tonight!" She wiggled her eyebrows at me.

I scoffed as I collected my purse and the notes for my thank-you speech. "I'm afraid my 'perfect guy' only exists in fiction," I said.

I swore I could hear the rustling of notebook pages. My unfinished stories were scolding me.

"Oooh, speaking of, are you ever gonna finish your reimagined novel about Hamlet?" Gigi asked. She ushered me through the office door and toward the elevator. "Your version where he outs his uncle's plot and actually becomes King? You made him sound soooo yummy! First time in my life I was excited for Shakespeare, I swear."

I shook my head, guilt and embarrassment causing my cheeks to heat up. The passion project that had started out so strong had fizzled to a wayward halt when I couldn't decide whether or not to have Ophelia, Hamlet's damaged love interest, live. Truth be told, I was inclined to let her drown just to satisfy my own selfish desire for a single King Hamlet. I could be such an asshole sometimes.

"Unfortunately, Hamlet and his traitorous uncle will have to remain in Danish limbo for the time being. I'm just not sure how to proceed," I confessed.

Gigi pulled me into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. "Well, tonight is about your latest success, not your next one," she said. "Time for your grand entrance!"

~ * ~

"I began writing short fiction at the age of fourteen," I continued, halfway through my speech. My voice sounded odd in the microphone. Too loud. Hollow. But the party guests smiled and nodded, so I went on. "If someone had told me then that I would have four published novels by my thirty-third birthday, I would have laughed and claimed impossibility. I feel so honored to have had these opportunities. Thank you for reading my works. It means more to me than you know. An unread novel is like an unrequited love — it exists, but never lives. I'd like to end with a few lines from my novel's conclusion."

I opened the copy of the hardcover book in front of me, turning to the page I desired. I knew the words by heart, but I thought my nerves would appreciate a reading rather than a recital.

"My words fly up," I read. "Though my voice is soft, my story will be heard. My reach may be modest, but it is enough. I am only one — a tiny sapling of a tree in a limitless forest. But what is a forest if not a multitude of trees?"

There was a round of polite applause, and I dipped my head in gratitude before making a speedy exit from the stage.

"You were great!" Gigi said, catching my arm. She handed me a tall glass of champagne. "Appreciative and humble."

"Really? Good. My objective was to refrain from vomiting," I told her. I took a long pull from my glass. The bubbles hit my nose and I almost giggled at the tickle.

Gigi let out a hoot. "Girl, you are too much," she said, chuckling. "But maybe you can keep the regurgitative reflexes at bay a little while longer? There are people who want to talk to you."

"People? Gross," I scoffed. I chuckled into my champagne. "I just need a beat, okay?"

"That," Gigi said, "I can give you."

She maneuvered me across the elegantly decorated rooftop to the very edge. We perched our stemmed glasses on the barrier's ledge and gazed out at the expanse of illuminated skyscrapers. Nighttime Manhattan twenty-five stories above the ground was nothing short of magical.

"I'll never get tired of this view," I murmured.

"Mmm," Gigi hummed in agreement.

"A thousand humble apologies for the intrusion, good ladies," came a smooth masculine voice from behind us. "But I would be remiss if not to take advantage of this fortuitous opportunity."

I turned and looked up. And...up. Towering over me was a man so hot his appearance borderlined on indecency. He had an angular face, broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, and a jawline straight out of a period film. There was a charming, old-fashioned swoop to his dark hair, giving him the appearance of a young, clean-shaven Clark Gable. When authors wrote the words "tall, dark, and handsome," they were literally describing this guy.

My stomach attempted a lopsided somersault. I stammered something unintelligible.

"Are you not the author for whom we celebrate this night?" the man asked, his smile turning amused.

He had a very odd and antiquated way of phrasing his sentences. Which I liked. A lot. His accent, which I couldn't quite place, I liked even more.

Gigi grabbed my arm and gave it a swift shake. "She's the author," she told the man. "You bet. More of a writer than a speaker sometimes."

They both laughed. I tried to join in, but all I managed to expel was a sputtering cough. This guy's laugh was as sexy as his face. Could a laugh be sexy? Yep. His was.

His gaze met mine and my throat went dry. He gently took my hand and ghosted a kiss across my knuckles.

"Dear lady, it is my profound pleasure to have thine ear," he said to me. "Though I be crude and forward in my request, may I entreat upon you a turn about the rooftop?"

I stared up at him, dumbfounded. Foreign and mysterious though he was, there was something undeniably familiar about this man.

My witty reply came in the form of: "Uhh..."

"Yes!" Gigi interjected. "Yes, you may. She would love to be 'entreated upon'."

"I would?" I asked, dazed.

"Can you give us a tiny second?" Gigi asked the handsome stranger.

At his nod of amusement, she pulled me aside.

"Yes, you would," she informed me. "He's here, he's gorgeous, and he's clearly a fan. What have you got to lose?"

"Plenty," I rationalized. "He could also be a psycho."

"Oh, please, that excuse is lame," Gigi said with a dismissive wave. "Anyone could be a psycho. You could be a psycho. Look at all the lives you've ruined!"

"Fictional lives," I amended.

"Um, yeah, zero shits are given," Gigi stated. "My point is, he has manners and charm in spades, he actually wants to spend time with you, and your body count is undoubtedly higher than his. You haven't been on a date in two years, Cristina. Walk around the rooftop with him. Talk. Have a drink. Flirt, if you can remember how. There are cameras and witnesses everywhere if he turns out to be an axe murderer."

"Ugh, fine," I huffed. I crossed my arms and scowled at her.

"Keep making that expression and you're going to break your face," she informed me. "Smile and be nice!"

With that, she spun me around and shoved me unceremoniously into the stranger's arms.

"Have fun, kids!" she cried in a sing-song voice before disappearing into the crowd.

I felt my cheeks heat up, and I quickly stepped away. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about that," I said, craning my neck to meet his eye. He smelled like old parchment and snow on a northern shoreline.

"Ne'er seek to make amends with me," the man said. "For in thy company is the eternal part of myself remembered." He held out his arm, and I slipped mine through the crook of his elbow. We fit well together.

I retrieved my near-forgotten glass from the ledge. "Would you like some champagne?" I asked. I motioned to one of the many servers milling around.

"Thank you, but no, my good lady," he replied. "I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I have drunk one glass tonight already and dare not task my weakness with any more."

"Fair enough," I said. I downed my own glass and discarded it on the edge of a table.

"For my part, I mean to tell you how very deeply your words have moved me," the man said. He smiled down at me.

"Really?" I asked. I felt a rambunctious leap within my chest.

"Aye, 'tis most true," he confirmed. "Were I the tide, you would pull me to shore an hour ere with the beauty of your words. Far stronger and more vibrant they be than any light from yonder moon. Though brevity be the soul of wit, your manner of grandiose turn of phrase is truly inspired. I would sooner doubt the stars are fire than doubt the magic that is Cristina Castillo's pen."

I stared up at him in awe, my eyes wide and my jaw slackened, like a drawer loose on its hinge. Never in my life had I received such a loaded and eloquent compliment. And there had been at least three Shakespearean references in that little speech.

Just who was this guy? And why were his appearance, his odd manner of speech, and his scent so familiar?

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," I said. I pushed my unspoken questions aside and smiled up at him. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

He let out an embarrassed chuckle and smoothed the crisp collar of his stylish suit jacket. "My apologies," he said. He dipped his head. "My name is Hamlet."

Well. That was different.

I suppressed a chuckle. "Hamlet?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"The Hamlet?"

"Named for my father before me."

"As in...Hamlet, the tragic prince of Denmark?"

"The same."

"Your uncle killed your father, then married your mother, and took the throne which was rightfully yours? That Hamlet?"

"You know my story well."

He wasn't breaking. No laughter. No flicker. Not so much as a head bob to avoid a moment of eye contact. He was good.

"You're an actor, right?" I asked, putting together the only logical explanation. "You work for the Shakespeare theater downtown and Gigi hired you to come...keep me company tonight. She knows Hamlet is my favorite character of Shakespeare's."

"Hamlet" let out a lilting chuckle. He was so hot when he smiled that I was almost willing to play along. Almost.

"Flattered though I am, I find myself poor in thanks," he said. "No actor am I, dear lady. Nor any character of Master Shakespeare's imagining neither. I am your character. Your creation. The lead of your unfinished literary work. And I have ventured here tonight to most humbly beseech you for the ending to my story."

~ * ~