Maestro Bastione Montcorbier sits on a tavern stool in the Black Pistol Inn just before sunrise. On the bar before him is a ledger accounting for the tavern’s expenditures. He looks over the blocks of numbers, rubs his eyes and begins to draw musical notes in the margins.

“Good morning, Maestro,” a Gothic boy says. A broom over his shoulder.

“Bonjour, petit homme. How are you, Lev?”

“I am well. I had a strange dream as I slept.”

“Had you? I have strange dreams when I’m awake.”

“In the dream, I was your age, and everywhere I went people threw flowers at my feet.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“They were red. I played a guitar like yours and my feet were buried in red flowers.”

“How did they smell?”

“Like lemon, and cloves.”

“That sounds very nice. And the petals?”

“Thick, like velvet. I laid in them, pet them. It was an odd dream.”

“It sounds wonderful. I’m proud of you.”

“What did I do?”

“You described the scent, the way the petals felt, even their color.”

“So?”

“From your mind you created beautiful things.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Will you make me some coffee?”

“Wait, was that a lesson?””

“With cream. Thank you, Lev.”