When the carved wooden doors of the "Chiaro di Luna" opened in unison, the sweet song of a stylish piano escaped clashing against the weak sounds of the night. She heard several notes, most weak and confused but nevertheless that music invited her to come in and enjoy.
The lovely voice of a man shacked her away from her reverie, The man asked very politely for her name to check the reservation. After a quick glance, and for her delight, the boy pronounced her surname with the purest Italian accent followed by several courtesies.
Although the restaurant inauguration was two weeks ago, it was still necessary to book several days in advance. Probably the famous chef and his molecular gastronomy were to blame.
The restaurant also had its charm. It was a work of art, in which every detail was shining with the warm lights of chandeliers. From the curtains to the carpet. Each piece of furniture was unique.

With each soundless step into the restaurant, her blue evening dress danced with the music accompanying the movements of her golden hair. She was not surprised in the least when most of the guests turned to devote false smiles of welcome at the very moment she walked inside. Then, they analyzed and judged as she expected. ¿Manfrella? They wondered. Trying to decide if they ears were deceiving them or not. Her family could be unknown, for some others even famous. But according to most of them... always infamous.

Once at her table, away from inquisitive eyes, she listened with horror as the promising music had become a torture to her sensitive ears. The notes that before were weak, now sounded entirely audible for the first time.
At irregular intervals, the low skilled pianist failed one or two notes producing a heartbreaking dissonance.
With the delicacy of a lady but the authority worthy of a queen, she demanded to the closest waiter to immediately fire the bastard who was murdering that poor piano. Quite frankly, the boy said it was the first thing they would do the next day. "Not enough." She thought. Displaying a mocking smile that did not mean anything good. The waiter added, with genuine concern that unfortunately their pianist had an accident of last minute. "Very touching..." Said the girl, without really feeling anything for the man she did not know.
Then she took the carte du jour and discussed its contents with much expertise. And after a silent deliberation, she made her request. The waiter disappeared quickly with her order. After that, the child was free to glare maliciously at the incompetent pianist. Was it her imagination or it was getting worse?

Reginald was proud to be a cold blot of darkness in this gilded paradise. It was all very pretty, of course. even the other patrons seemed to display the romantic elegance of a bygone age, most dressing and carrying themselves with a certain regal opulence. Reginald was not the only one wearing black, but where the others were decadent he was severe, more tyrant than monarch.

For most of the evening, though, the only subjects of his tyranny had been a rich red steak, a prodigious plate of pasta, and a rather lovely bottle of an Otago Peninsula Pinot Noir. However, fine food did have habit of disappearing when left in the good doctor's presence for any length of time, so eventually he had to resort to sipping at the last of his wine and listening to the little social games playing out around the dining hall.

He did not suffer such boredom long before a rather intriguing hush fell over the crowd, followed by obviously forced attempts at casual chatter and furtive whispers about the new arrival. The name "Manfrella" meant nothing to Reginald himself, but it was obvious that this was not the case for those around him. Perhaps he should have paid more attention when mother and father had been parading him about with their fellow aristocrats all those years ago. One could never tell how important such seemingly trivial things might have turned out to be.

And when would that idiot at the piano stop making a fool of himself? From the way the instrument was complaining one might think it was being butchered alive. Perhaps it was. Though Reginald had taken a few piano lessons in his youth, their psychology remained something of a mystery to him.

Although the music was not strong enough to cover the irrelevant conversations of the other diners, it was strong enough to cover her own thoughts.
She felt like her head would explode if she kept listening that music. It was very disturbing, to the point of they were like cries and lamentations of the beyond. These sounds ripped out of the very soul of the piece turning art into mere scribbles.
Desperate and with no escape from that hostile environment, she almost shouted with all her strength just to cover the noise of the piano, fortunately at the last minute she remembered that it was not ladylike and left that idea aside immediately. Then, changed to Plan B. Drum her fingers against the table.
To any casual observer it could be a mere protest. She was impatient, and that was her way of diverting the attention from the music that sounded worse at every minute. But, no.
With satisfaction, Celeste proved again and again her muscular memory created by hours and hours of practice. Her fingers were not moving erratic and uncontrolled as people thought, but following the music on a imaginary keyboard. She was ahead of the speed of music, remembering those beautiful melodies all by herself. When she was satisfied with her warming, she called the waiter with one hand while with the other she took her phone and called her bodyguard. To the first, she ordered to take out the pianist, to the second, she asked to find another piano player as soon as possible.
The tyranny of the murderer of pianos was over.

With superhuman grace, the young pianist moved to the elegant black piano resting on the side of the restaurant. The carpet at her feet cushioned her steps so it was possible to hear the voices full of expectation of the nearest tables. In her new throne, she could see every tables without missing a single detail. Besides the view, she was in a privileged place with excellent acoustics and beautiful lighting.
When the first notes of moonlight sonata interrupted the silence, the entire restaurant vibrated with joy at such a beautiful melody. Everyone, including employees, stopped what they were doing to see what was going on.
The dissonance from before had completely disappeared as if by magic, replaced by soft notes chained one after the other with the exact timing producing an excellent interpretation of the piece composed by Beethoven. The small concert went from being a torture to a feast for the ears, and from the background to become the star of the night.
Her fingers danced on the white keys with surgical precision, staying in each note just long enough. Some notes were held in a harmonic long sound, others were just a short sound used to quickly jump to the next key.
Almost finishing the first piece, like a modern DJ, the girl added a small fragment of her own to chain Traumerie from Robert Schumann to her previous interpretation. To her delight, there was no way to determine when she changed of piece. The change was so subtle and so well executed that the two songs seem to merge into a single master piece.
At the end of her performance, her waiter approached her to inform that her food was ready. She was sorry for having to leave the piano after only two songs but she was very hungry. So she moved back to her table, accompanied all the way back with congratulations from the nearest table.

Well, the girl had certainly put everyone in their place, and not only with her performance. Reginald suspected that those words with her waiter had not been idle conversation, and the former pianist's departure had been anything but coincidence. As she returned to the table beside his, Reginald also had that distinct impression that she was well aware of her commanding presence, and seemed to enjoy it.

"Quite magnificent, Miss Manfrella." The good doctor had decided to risk a few words on her. The worst she was likely to do was ignore him. That said, one could never be certain. "Apparently you're quite the celebrity tonight."

Reginald stood, not forgetting to take his last glass of wine with him, and moved to the lady's side. He was not, however, so presumptuous as to sit down there, at least not yet. "Sadly, I am not familiar with your name, but it seems quite well know to our fellow guests. I hope you will pardon my ignorance of your family, as I have been moving in the circles of the old world for some time, and have not been here long. I myself come from the house of Black, but likewise I doubt you would be familiar with us. We are a small family, and only left our home in England under duress. One world War was unfortunate, but two was simply more than we could put up with. At least in America the bombs never fall in our own garden."

Reginald would not normally have cared that he was rambling on about his own family, but on this occasion he stopped himself. It might actually matter if this particular girl became bored with the stranger imposing his company upon her. "As I said, though, your performance was lovely. Please, do tell me how you learned such grace with the instrument."

Every time the congratulations seemed to have finished, after a minimal silence, a new guest sang a new praise. And so, all the way back to her table she gave tons of small tilts of her head in acceptance for such deserved compliments. And despite this delighted her so much, she knew very well that at least half of those who raised their voices or their glasses in her honor, did not really understand the greatness of the piece performed. It was sad. Even pathetic... Fortunately it was not so hard to guess who had appreciated the music as the artwork it was. And who did not. It was something in the tone of their voice, perhaps the little t none grace in what they said... but it was there for her to analyze. Imitators. She thought furiously. People pretending to be better than others, when all they did, was buy an expensive suit.

Despite the adulation were many, only one achieved to draw her attention enough to get a verbal reply. To this gentleman, she decided to gave a timely curtsy in his honor. While verbalizing cordially her response. "It was a pleasure to rid your ears off of that aberration that was committed against the innocent piano." And although her joy was great she achieved to perfectly hide it under a mask of harder seriousness. Underneath her mask she was smiling foolishly, enraptured by the sweet words and his English charm. While physically she smiled and nodded at his words with cordiality. Only occasionally escaped from its prison, a mischievous smile caused by the beautiful idea that the infamous Manfrella family was a family as noble as the house of Black. It was not hard to imagine anyone of an ancient house of the old continent maintained a code of honor forbidding the dirty games of deceit and lies. So Celeste could trust her new companion to said nothing but the truth. Each praise was true. She was not morally bound to respond in a friendly and old way but she did anyway. Those old fashioned courtesies always had a supernatural charm in any lady. So she answered accordingly. Recalling all her education, manners and some film of knights and damsels. "I'll not accept an apology when I'm the one who is guilty of ignorance by not knowing your noble ascendancy. At the same time, I fear that I must inform you with great sorrow that in my family do not runs noble blood. And that's why you do not know us. "This last sentence was hard to accept for her, but she knew that there was no nobility in the family and many people do not know their name.
For a moment, she was about to tell him it was just the work of a very patient instructor, tenacity and a desire to outdo someone were sufficient to achieve such a degree of mastery. Instead she preferred to attribute her grace to an innate ability. "Unfortunately, the grace is not something to learn, as can be seen in many of the people around us. " Remembering her manners, hunger and solitude, she cordially invited the pleasant gentleman to sit down with her. "I would be honored if you accept to be my guess tonight my good sir."

“The honor is mine.” With a bow, Dr. Black proceeded to seat himself beside Miss Manfrella. He was not entirely surprised to hear that her facility with music was natural. Philosophy could be much the same on occasion. Teaching aside, some people were simply born to it, while others… weren’t. Reginald’s experience suggested even that to be putting it charitably. He had at times been afflicted with students not only incapable of philosophy, but actively detrimental to its progress.

“Please, do not trouble yourself too much about noble blood. There is more than one way for a family to become noble, and lineage is only valid after nobility has been established by some other means. Likewise, it is easy enough to forfeit one’s nobility. There was a time when becoming a pure academic like myself, forsaking politics and business and social posturing at large, would have been enough to be branded a traitor to one’s bloodline.” Reginald swirled his remaining drops of Pinot Noir in the light of the chandeliers for his host’s benefit. “The house of Black, for example, claimed it’s nobility through land. French land, to be precise. A few careful marriages saw us in control of a fine slice of Rhone valley wine country. A few more decades of consuming our neighboring families in England, and suddenly we were indispensable at court.”

Dr. Black produced his most wicked conspiratorial smile. There was a certain pleasure in recalling his family’s old social acumen. He liked to think the Machiavelli would have approved. The presence of an age old family copy of The Prince in his Arkham estate’s library seemed to agree. “It was only later that we became a family of intellectuals. We didn’t have much choice once the currency of the realm became technology instead of land. Even so, our title never changed. I think, Miss Manfrella, that nobility means different things in different times. I must admit that I’d be interested to hear how your family gained its particular form of acclaim, as it evidently has one, but on the other hand by no means do I wish to pry.”

While Mr. Black sang tales of his noble house and explained that the lineage was as important as the action taken to establish it, she cut a small bite of the delicious and exclusive Japanese beef that she had ordered. Just as the two piece performed on the piano were works of art, the meat cooked to the exact point and with modern methods was also piece of art. Perishable. Of an extremely short life. But art nonetheless. Every little bit was dipped in bittersweet sauce before reaching her mouth, where it melted between her teeth as if it were butter. So soft was the meat that even someone with no teeth could have successfully chewed it.

"Your family history is very interesting. You know the details perfectly. I'm afraid I can not give many details." " Because my father would end into a maximum security prison. " She smiled, shuffled her ideas, then continued. It was hard to tell a story she did not know, but it was even more difficult to disguise or hide parts of the story she did know well. She lied as she was accustomed to do every time someone asked about her father. "The power or the influence of my family, originated in Italy two generations ago. With my great grandfather. He worked for a man I can not remember but he managed to win his confidence, and at his death my great grandfather took his business. Making it our own business. When he died, my grandfather took his place, and then my father. " Her father was not so bad, he was not internationally wanted yet. Even when it was not probably, she paused on the physical plane to ask mentally. "Do you work for the DEA?" No answer. Two scenarios were possible. Or she could not read people's thoughts. Or Mr. Black was not part of this nefarious organization. Surely a gentleman so refined and educated as he was, could not be part of any organization against organized crime. "As you said, the nature of their business demands to evolve constantly. He adapts to the changes and demands of the people. " Read: kidnapping, selling guns and drugs, beating people. Exploding cars. "Outside of Italy, our name is not well known." She smiled mischievously. "Although sometimes rumors cross the ocean giving us some fame." The girl do not dare to think on the rumors about Nicola Manfrella. But she thanked God and all the saints that nobody had the courage to get evidence.

Determined to avoid future questions about the family business, she hastened to ask. "How do you find the new world?" She really wanted to know more of the old continent, the place she had never see and where her name was born. Along with much of the culture consumed in America. But she also was curious to know how a man like him from a spacious and quiet land, stuck in a crowded city with limited space, let alone peace. Would he feel alone? She wondered in silence, remembering her own loneliness.

"I would describe this continent as volatile, first and foremost. I left it for only four years, and look what I returned to. Chaos. Denial. Economic turmoil. The government afflicts its citizens with a bout of fascism, concentration camps and all, and a few years later both humans and mutants alike are desperate to pretend it never happened. In the meantime, Russia's political landscape has barely changed for a decade or more, and when was the last time you heard of anything happening in Scandinavia? Even financial crises are long, drawn out affairs in Europe."

Reginald made himself pause for a breath. He did tend to go a little overboard with his rants. Occasionally he felt that this was justified, but for the most part he admitted to enjoying raging against the world a little too much. In any case, he didn't want Miss Manfrella to get the idea that any place in the world was better than another. Reginald knew full well that no continent, country, or island actually knew what it was doing.

"Of course, the vast majority of people are just as foolish no matter where you go. It is only in the particular kind of foolery to which the residents ascribe that anywhere really differs from anywhere else. America can at least be commended on packing so many different kinds of foolery into so little space."

Though the doctor paused again, this time it was for a legitimate sigh, less performance and more personal than he was usually given to in public. "Even in the great cities of this world, perhaps there especially, one becomes used to being the only sane human being one actually knows."

She wanted to retort, but did not know much about economics. Only that she never was in a crisis. Her bank accounts received money constantly... But when he mentioned the concentration camps for mutants she could not avoid a disastrous attempt to give her opinion. Celeste opened her mouth to add her voice to the systematic attack of Mr. Black, but then closed it immediately. Doubting her judgment. What would she say? Perhaps that some mutants were dangerous enough to lock them in a concentration camp or worse, execute them for the good of society. Could it be that his guest was a mutant? Aside from the defenders of human rights and equality, no one care about the camps. Or mutants. They just looked the other way. As she did. That was a problem for others, a minority. A crooked little smile formed on her face as a little voice reminded her of her newly discovered power. Unfortunately, it was possible that she was part of that minority. Does that made her more special or less refined?

Mr. Black, as a giant wild bull of the same color as his name, unashamedly rammed over kings and fools alike. Leaving a bloody trail of dissent. It was not only accumulated anger, there was more there. It was a bohemian attitude. Disappointed from the world and all its contents, sadly knowing that no one would understand or would be at his level ever. From gentleman to gypsy. But it was not so easy to label him. In all its aspects he seemed to be an scholar. A wise old man, a brilliant mathematician or a Greek philosopher. She did not decide it yet. Perhaps all at once.

After asking for more wine for his guest, and an elaborate dessert for her, she asked. Somewhat annoyed with the vision of Mr. Black. "Your ideas are very interesting, but I do not entirely agree. Don't you see a certain beauty in the new cities? I mean, there is an impressive mix of cultures never seen before. It is a bazaar with amazing fusions. Antiques and modern gadgets in one place. Friends and enemies together. Don't you see certain charm? " She kept her eyes on him. Dreamy, dubiously. Imagining all continents compressed together in the city of New York. All the little things that globalization had brought from distant lands. Refined clothes from Paris, food and cars from Italy, it was Europe in America.
The words of his guest took her away from her reverie. A sigh. And a sad truth. "Mr. Black, Do you have children or friends who share your ideals? Your triumphs and failures... your daily life. " Celeste asked innocently. But driven by a strange fascination. She found herself reflected on him. In the many features of his personality and circumstances. Hopefully, she acute her ear waiting for his reply. It could be the revelation she needed. The knowledge of the secret that kept him sane and happy in a world that turned its back to him.

Dr. Black settled further back in his chair, folding his fingers together and tapping the delicate claws at their ends together absentmindedly. "I must admit that the cities themselves have a certain beauty. One must look more closely to see it in a skyscraper than a cathedral, but the same sense of grandeur is not lacking here. I can just imagine the ruins a thousand years from now, every bit as majestic as the old empire of Rome slowly decaying around the Mediterranean. It is the blessing and curse of such cities that one may find any sort of human you please here. With so much humanity around, I think it is far more likely that you will, one day or another, find someone genuinely interesting."

Yet more of the good doctor's attention went towards his hands. He stared as the claws on each of his first two fingers clicked together every second or so. "In chaos, too, there is much potential. In chaos, in destruction, in creation, that is where you find the individuals who will truly matter."

A few moments more and Dr. Black's attention snapped back to his companion. "I'm afraid that I have no children. A few of my students have come close, though, . My friends, such as they are, are back in my own town of Arkham. Most of them were my fellow professors at Miskatonic University." The good doctor still had fond memories of his closest friend and greatest nemesis, Professor Cartwright. That old Aristotelian was obsessed with discovering the end toward which all things strived. Both had occasionally been amazed by how much they had in common, or at other times how little. "Then there's my butler. It is difficult to tell just how much he knows, let alone what he thinks of me, but I like to consider him a friend. As things stand though, I'm quite on my own here, and quite prepared to wait a long time for that to change."

Hopefully, it would not take long to find new allies, new enemies, especially in this metropolis of all places. That said, Dr. Black had never known humanity to be especially reliable in such matters. "However, I'm sure you, my young hostess, have no shortage of people to keep you company, care for you, et cetera. What, then, does this city mean to you?"

During the clamor of their opinions, a timidly waiter approached with the bottle of wine she had ordered. As she was not sure what to order, Celeste had no choice but to trust on the judgment of the waiters. Hopefully the bottle would be the same wine that his guest was drinking in his previous table.
While Waiter A filled both glasses, Black´s with wine and water for her, Waiter B approached with a delicate dessert. It was hard to know what it was, or had been before passing through the hands of the chef. Now it had a strange form. Artistic. Using the classic resource of giving volume to the figures... She carefully observed her plate, looking at the best place to start eating. It was like a pyramid that was missing a face. Somehow it kept in equilibrium even though one side appeared larger and heavier than the rest. When she finally decided where, she took a big spoonful of one side. The least vulnerable. Chocolate. Cream. Fruits. An interesting mix.

Very quietly, the girl took a clean napkin to wipe some cream from her mouth. "You are a very complicated man, Mr. Black. But do not get me wrong please. Of course I partly understand why you crave for destruction. It is necessary for the creation of something new, but I am not sure about chaos... even the destruction can be highly planned and organized if desired." Or so she thought. Then smiled innocently as if her beautiful smile would hide her lack of knowledge. It was a very interesting debate, and despite all her outstanding grades on school, he was far ahead on many topics. Politics and economics were not her forte, so she avoided them as best as she could. To plunge into philosophy so hard was something she did not want too. Thus she continued the most appropriate way. Affirming her ideals. "What I wish, is to create. At that time I find peace. My dream is to achieve a work of art that endures despite the time and the ages. "

Now it came her turn to make a new confession. It was not necessary. But she wanted to. The similarity between them was visible in many aspects. And that pushed her to share more, even when it was only to compare herself with him and find if they have more similarities or not. Perhaps he would also admit feeling something similar. Perhaps even its vast knowledge would have a solution to her fear. She doubted for a moment, looking at her dessert, then took a sip of water. Not hearing the silent piano, then continued. Her voice between distress and sadness. "I fear death. Not because it is close in any way. But as something inevitable. I fear, above all, to leave this world without leaving a memento to make people remember me forever... and I do not believe you can live in the hearts of loved ones." Just, in love films. "So I try to create. I want to be a great artist some day... but my art is almost abstract at this time. I need to refine my skills more. " She concluded with a little crooked smile. Celeste wanted to tell him about the attempt to paint a giant rainbow around Central Park, or how she had painted pink a dozen cars, adding silky texture to them. Not knowing how he would react, she keep it a secret.

She was very surprised that both felt much more comfortable in the company of their employees. Why? There was no way to explain this strange bond of trust between employer and employee. But it was magical. Max, her dearest bodyguards had not been with them for more than a year but she felt it was like a distant uncle. Someone you trust and with whom to share problems. And despite that, she did not know him at all. She had to remedy that...
"Unfortunately, you could not be more wrong. I would be dining alone if not for our chance meeting. My father is in Italy, my mother with him. Right now, one of my bodyguards is like a father to me, but it is not the same as hi authority ends when I sign a check in his name... I also have a legal guardian. A wise old man, but I almost never see him. I do not want to, I feel like he want to replace my grandfather." There was sadness in her words, but something else. Disappointment and defeat. Conformity. She had grown accustomed to not having her father or her mother nearby. Not completely, of course. But the most mature fragment of her being, knew that she was on her own.She had her bodyguard, chauffeur and tutor. But still she was alone in a crowd.

"It seems we are more alike than I might have anticipated, Miss Manfrella. Those who know how to live alone are an uncommon breed." Dr. Black sipped his wine gently, knowing that this late in the night even he should take care not to outpace himself. It was a Burgundy, and a rather ostentatiously complex one at that. A fine Burgundy, though, could be permitted to get away with that sort of showmanship. He himself was no stranger to such dramatic displays, though in a rather different medium.

"I'm an artist of sorts myself, though humanity is my canvass. That is, after all, the teacher's prerogative. I suppose I ought to be most proud of those precious few students who retained their own precious ideals due not just to stolidity but genuine greatness of spirit. Even so, I have always loved to see the moment when a bright eyed youth snaps under the realization that their assumptions are groundless, their moral system flawed, their knowledge insignificant. That is when you can really begin to work on them, make them more themselves than they ever could have been on their own. I like to leave a little of myself in my work, of course, but for the most part I try to perfect what was already there. In that sense, creation and destruction are one and the same. Both are part of the process of imposing one's own vision upon reality. Likewise, chaos and order do not really matter except in a personal context. Ultimately it is a sort of order that I desire, but I find that chaos is a wonderful motivating force."

Another sip, a moment to consider. Dr. Black was not exactly a stranger to death, but he never spent much time contemplating his own. At his age, perhaps he should be taking the matter more seriously. "Thus far, my legacy has been in the minds I have shaped, my students deeds made possible by my kind instruction. Lately I have been considering leaving a more material mark on this world before leaving it. I really have more reason to be concerned about death then you do, but who knows? I still have some hope that instead of facing death I'll end up cheating it." Dr. Black's grin on this last comment was as much nervousness as genuine arrogance in the face of mortality. However, it did help to soothe the existential dread which had been one of his companions for as long as he had considered himself a philosopher.

The beautiful girl was so enthralled with the profound words of her interlocutor that she never noticed the arrival of the new pianist until the music started again.
His fascination with the chaos was contagious. Where she had said that the chaos was something to be avoided or transformed in order to create something, her "teacher" was showing her that chaos was much more than that. It was an equally important process of creation. Randomness. Unpredictable. A mutation. A change. Yes, she could see where his fascination originated. She nodded vigorously. "I understand, you are absolutely right." Said her face when moving in affirmation. She did not dare to interrupt.
The chaos could both destroy and build. And though she would not admit to like it, she was pretty sure that chaos was probably to blame for her genetic mutation. For her ability to steal colors. Chaos was the odious gray objects left when she stripped one object of her life. Yes, that was chaos. That was its name. And although these lifeless gray spots were frightening, very disturbing, gave her the chance to do something that she both liked and enjoyed: creating. In the process of destruction and creation she found that chaos intervened.
The idea that the lovely evening was becoming a kind of philosophy class, upset her but she could not avoid spending a nice smile as she nodded dumbly. She had become her student, the girl already could feel his ideas sticking to her indiscriminately. She knew it was not his intention to act like a teacher, so she let it go.

The fact that she was not having dinner alone was enough to say it was a lovely evening. As if that were not enough, music, food and the conversation were really excellent. Of those flavors that you never forget, those words that always accompany you and the music that delights even the most solitary souls. She did not remember when she had smiled so much. And this time, was the music that drew a new smile on her lips. These delicate chords of the piece composed by Bach were honey to the ears. A treat as sweet as dessert. She even allowed a little break, not because the conversation bored her, on the contrary. But she needed to look at the pianist performing his art. His hands caress the keys with delicacy and firmness at the same time, effectively extracting sweet sounds from each movement. Celeste took another spoon full of fruit with cream and chocolate. The pyramid swung dangerously threatening to collapse. But its silent complaint failed to stop her fierce hunger. With grace and style, she keep eating maximizing the time she was stealing from Mr. Black.

Cheating death. She was about to said that no one could cheat death, that we all die. Like her grandfather. He fought with all his might, but the illness was stronger. The death claimed him, and he could not do anything to avoid it. She felt a little sad and melancholy. Remembering her beloved grandfather always made her feel that way.
She felt a mixture of envy and pity for the man who denied his own mortality, how a man so learned and so wise could believe in immortality? Determined to not ruin the night with sentimentality she commented something sh he found very interesting. "There are many men out there saying that their souls are immortal..." A dramatic pause to catch his attention and accommodate her thoughts. "But there are rumors that a horned man is selling physical immortality, here in NY. I say that these are pure lies. Lies to steal money from people. But some say it's true. " She smiled mischievously, leaving aside her painful memories and focusing all her attention on the night that was almost perfect. "Tell me, Mr. Black. What would you do in an immortal body? " Slowly she savor her own thoughts. Knowing what she would respond. Longing for the absence of fear. That freedom of the tyrant called Death. "I would enjoy my freedom. No rules. I would do whatever I want whenever I wish. "

A chance at immortality? In this city. A city that Dr. Black had chosen almost on a whim, one more strange shore to set foot upon before giving in and retreating to his own beloved, isolated, empty corner of Arkham. Once again, the world proved its remarkable capacity for coincidence, favorable or otherwise.

"Your skepticism should serve you well. Likewise, I am not one to put faith in the miraculous when human malice is just as plausible. I can only wonder just what this horned man is getting from his congregation.” A hand rose to Dr. Black’s face, one of its fingers stroking his cheekbone in contemplation. “Mind you, if he isn’t feeding off of their faith, one also has to wonder what else he might be up to.”

However, the question of his own mortality, or lack thereof, was more pressing. Reginald leaned back, his girth filling the gilded chair in which he sat, and then some. A light, hollow laughter emerged from his throat as he imagined how most people might expect to spend eternity. To go on living as though nothing had changed would be to squander something so precious. Some form of passionate hedonism would be noble in its way, but even so its ultimate potential was... limited. His own designs on immortality were more far reaching. “Let us put it this way. If I were given just a few more centuries, perhaps millennia, this entire world would become my magnum opus, crafted one human life at a time.”

Dr. Black rose from his seat, leaning on his cane for support and giving his hostess a slight bow. “In the meantime, I must be content with the nights I have left here. Perhaps you will have some part in another of them. Perhaps not. Farewell regardless, Miss Manfrella.” With a deeper bow this time, he turned and headed for the doors, then paused, and called back over his shoulder. “Unless of course, you have any last questions?”

Mr. Black was certainly an interesting man, instead of thinking of immortality as a divine gift, he put that idea aside almost instantly. Attributing it down to a lie product of human evilness. As if only a human could devise a plan so audacious and elaborate as creating immortal on earth. It was probably all a scam to get money, but if it was true... if so, how could anyone recruited by this man prove their newly acquired immortality? Just trying to kill himself... which no one would. She could not avoid imagining a group of people admitting to have eternal life, admitting to be indestructible but too scared to risk losing their precious lives. But even more fascinating than the assumptions of a twelve years old girl on immortality, was what Mr. Black pointed out for her. Something she had not noticed. Busy as she was to catalog the rumor as a lie. "What this individual is planning simply escape my understanding, as well as my interest. Surely he is a charlatan. Although I wonder how many tried to prove their new found immortality in the arms of death. " The feigned disinterest could not hide the interest created in that last new revelation. It was elementary, but she had overlooked it. If there was a way to create immortal, why would he turn them? What would he do with so many immortals in charge? An army?

The idea of ​​an army of immortals gave her goose bumps. Fortunately her guest achieved to distract her from the horrible thought. Celeste was sure, her biggest dream was to train brilliant minds, and turn them into diamonds from mere stones. Even as a child with little empathy to guess the feelings of others, it was quite clear that her guest enjoyed shaping the human mind as clay. To help they improve to the point of almost reaching the very perfection. With so much knowledge and love for teaching, it was worth providing that priceless extra millennium to Mr. Black´s life spam. The idea made her smile. A new world shaped from the ideals of a noble man.

With a tinge of sadness at the inevitable departure of her guest the girl got up from her chair, to spend a final bow to honor her companion. While hurrying to speak. "Certainly I have one last question that would not steal more of your time. I do not want to left a future meeting in the capricious hands of fate. How can I find you if I need company for another philosophical evening? "