—Do you know what I was doing, Evelyn, at the height of my stardom? Can you even imagine? I was starving! Over the years, I convinced myself that I had built worthy defenses—a fortress against my weakness. But on the Ides of March, 1935, left alone by Lucifer in a lavished hall where the press had yet to arrive, my fortitude failed me. On that day, I gorged. I gorged on honey baked ham and linzer torte and strawberries dipped in cream. It was my crossing of the Rubicon, Evelyn. In the days that followed, I tumbled down the vertiginous trail of my frailty. Head over heels I fell; and as I passed the olive trees jutting from the jagged hills, not once did I reach for a branch.

In hearing this, Evelyn’s eyes grew brighter with every word. She did not look disgusted or shocked. She looked defiant!

—I want you to listen to me, Prentice, she said, as one who has slayed a dragon of her own. I want you to listen very carefully. Are you listening, Prentice?

—Yes, Evelyn.

—Since that day, since that day with the ham and the torte, have you been surly, impatient, or abrupt?

Prentice raised his head.

—Not for a minute.

She patted him on the back of the hand.

—Exactly.

Her expression relaxed. They sat holding hands. And as the sky turned indigo, a waxing moon rose over the hotel, giving the entire setting the look of the desert oasis it was.

—Evelyn . . .

—Yes, Prentice.

—I must admit to something else.

He shifted on the seat so that he could face her.

—I have lied to you.

She did not look offended or surprised.

—In what way? she asked.

—About the lobby.

She offered a bemused smile.

—No. I am serious, Evelyn. Deadly serious. I have encouraged you to take up residence beside me in the lobby, calling it the world. But it isn’t the world. It isn’t a continent, or a country, or a town. It isn’t even a room! It is a prison cell. It is my Bastille.

For the first time in years, Prentice felt the force of his own convictions.

—Providence has sent you to Los Angeles, Evelyn. And you must visit with It. Young William, one of the hotel’s drivers, has been put at my disposal; I put him at yours. You must go out into the scent of the orange blossoms, out into the temperate nights of Hollywood where all its most elusive delicacies hide in plain sight. Go tonight. Start by dining on the Sunset Strip at Antonio’s on osso buco with risotto Milanese!

—We can go together.

(So suggested Evelyn, sweet Evelyn.)

—No, said Prentice, rising to his feet. You must go without me, mon ami. For tonight upon the platform, before the crow of the cock, I have an appointment with an apparition.

Olivia