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I loved technology. New design, discoveries, the New Age. Anything that made life easier and more interesting. Like my powerful, perfect camera, which I never let go of when I'm shooting. I've always been interested in the art of photography, but even fifty years ago, so negligible, I couldn't find a single decent camera, which disappointed me and discouraged me from wanting to pursue photography. Back then, I preferred to just have fun. But when the first digital camera came along, I took up my dream and started a career as a photographer. But becoming a famous person, a famous photographer was not easy, because even the simplest of people have a talent for photography. Mortals. So I started out as an assistant to the mortal but famous photographer David Moyes, one of the most talented photographers of the last thirty years. What can I say, I was an errand girl, but then this old fool fell in love with me and I became his muse. He wanted to shoot me as a model, but I firmly refused: I hate the thought of it. Posing. Smiling for the camera. Being someone I'm not. So I left David, with whom I had nothing but work to do, and opened a small photography studio where I shot young models who wanted a cheap but high quality portfolio. This is how I started my journey from a photographer's assistant to a renowned fashion photographer who has clients booked months in advance. I don't have any assistants. I work alone – only I know what needs to be done for this or that photo, how to realise ideas, how to process, how to put light. I don't have a team that gets mixed up under my feet. And that's my speciality. I even do my own make-up and dress the models. Unless, of course, it's an order from another rich man who wants to "make a present" to his protegee – in which case, they dress and paint as they wish. Like monkeys. I don't care.

But the Morgan Castle would be a great place for a photo shoot. I can see it: a frail model in an almost transparent dress looking like a ghost against that gloomy gothic backdrop. Should I ask Markus' permission? But who would be the model?

Misha. Yes, it's worth a try. She's so beautiful and delicate… No. It might compromise her in the future… Maybe that Japanese albino model I shot a year ago? She'll fit in perfectly with this one.

– Maria!

This loud exclamation made me distracted from what I had already seen in my imagination, and I don't like to be interrupted while creating an imaginary picture.

But it was my little sister Misha. I let her do everything. She ran towards me down the paved path, wearing white sneakers.

I smiled happily.

Misha. Frisky and energetic as usual. The skirt of her short white dress was billowing and her long golden hair, like mine, danced beautifully in the wind. She is beautiful, my little sister. She is so much better than I am. And I do not wish her to know of my sleeping with mortals. To fall in her eyes is the most unbearable thing that could happen to me.

Misha ran up to me and we squeezed each other in a long hug.

– Maria! I'm so glad! You're finally here! Why haven't you ever come? – Misha said happily, pulling away from me and grabbing my hands.

– The question is, why haven't you ever come to Toronto to see me? – I answered with a laugh, squeezing her palms in mine. – Oh, my friend, how I missed you!

– Missed you so much that you didn't even bother to come to my twenty-fifth birthday party? – Misha said in a resentful tone. – Everyone was there! Everyone but you! It's not fair of you!

– Well, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I repent. – I hugged her again, and she eagerly responded to my embrace. – You're so beautiful, Misha, I can't believe you're not nineteen anymore… You were nineteen when we last saw each other, weren't you?

– Yes, but I'll be twenty-seven soon! And you have to swear that you'll come to every birthday party.

– Okay, I swear, but don't take offence.

Misha laughed happily, grabbed my hand, and led me up the wide steps leading to the main entrance of the castle. She was almost running, and I tried to keep up with her in my high heels. I turned round to see what Martin was doing: he was taking my suitcase out of the boot of his car.

– No, Martin, put it back, I'm staying in a hotel," I told him.

– What?" Misha suddenly stopped abruptly and I bumped into her. – Why a hotel?

– Because my relationship with my parents and Mariszka is not as rosy as yours, – I explained. I lied. My parents and Mariszka had nothing to do with my desire for privacy at the hotel. They may have heard my lies now, but I just couldn't be here. I couldn't.

– But that's just…

– No, Misha, don't insist.

My harsh tone embarrassed her. And I immediately regretted it. Misha is a very easy target, fragile. She always takes things personally.

– I'm sorry. Please don't insist, okay? – I asked her in an affectionate tone of voice. – I have my reasons.

– I just thought… I haven't seen you in so long… You're going to leave so soon! – Misha mumbled, looking down at the driveway.

– Yes, I'm flying back tomorrow morning," I confirmed quietly. – But I'll definitely come to your birthday, I will!

– Right. In two and a half months! – Misha grumbled resentfully.

– Two months is nothing, you know that.

– Then you must promise to come for at least a week!

– I promise, you little extortionist.

Misha smiled broadly.

– But how are you doing? – I hurriedly turned the conversation to another topic.

– Everything is magical! We moved to Stockholm.

– I know that, Martin told me. What else?

– Nothing interesting yet. That's true.

– What about your husband?

– Oh! Fredrik got an invitation from the Royal Swedish Orchestra to play the nyckelharpa! – Misha 's eyes shone with pride.

I remember him playing that strange instrument. He's a virtuoso, you can't argue with that. But I knew Fredrik very well.

– And he refused," I said in an affirmative tone.

– Yes… But it would have been great… You know, we even had a little fight about it… – Misha grimaced.

I know how much she loves Fredrik, and that every disagreement is like a thunderclap for her.

– … but then they made up. I just want to make sure his talent isn't wasted!

– I don't think he sees it that way. – I said with a laugh.

– No, of course not… By the way, do you know who will celebrate with us? – suddenly asked Misha.

– Martin told me. Brandon? – I replied grimly.

– No… Brandon left literally five minutes ago…

– Yeah?" I interrupted my sister. – I'm sorry. Why?

– Mariszka said that Cedric and Brandon can't stand each other," Misha explained in a sad tone. – And when Cedric saw Brandon, he suddenly had something very urgent to do. Brandon ended up giving little Cedric presents and leaving. And Cedric suddenly said that his important business could be taken care of tomorrow. There.

The world was colourful again. He's gone. I won't see him. I won't be forced to smile at him and say false phrases. That's a relief. He's gone.

But I won't stay at the Morgans' all night. I'll leave the party at 12:00 and fly to Toronto at 8:06.

– And what was the reason for their mutual dislike? – I asked.

Cedric and Brandon can't stand each other. It's obvious. Since when? As I remembered, they'd had a few words at Mariszka's wedding, and they hadn't acted as detached as they did now.

– I don't know, but Markus said they've always been at odds… Come on, let's go! You've never seen Cedric, have you? Only in pictures? – Misha grabbed my hand again and we almost ran towards the front doors.