“A good evenin’ to ya, Miss Laura.” The older man looked down from the seat of his carriage at the young woman. “I’ve been waitin’ fer ya. ‘Tis the twelfth, after all. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year already.” The driver stepped lightly down from his seat to the pavement below. It was late enough in the evening that the normal motor traffic on the street had dissipated to be replaced by the slower traffic of pedestrians, the occasional bicycle, and the small but dedicated number of carriages treating lovers, young and old, to an escape into history. The driver opened the polished door to his carriage and helped the young woman inside. “You are looking as beautiful as ever, Miss Laura. With that dress of yours you look as though you belong in this carriage.”

The young woman gently brushed the stiff, white fabric of the corseted dress into place as she sat. “Why, thank you, Mr. Reiley.”

“After all these years now, and I’m still “Mr. Reiley”? You could be callin’ me Michael, now. ‘Tis my name.”

“Mr. Reiley.”

“Ever the proper lady, eh, Miss Laura?” Reiley stepped back to his seat with the grace of long practice and gently urged the dark mare into motion. “I’ll be quiet now an’ let you enjoy this lovely night.” The carriage rolled slowly along the road, the quiet clopping of the horse’s hooves somehow covering the myriad noises of the city. The driver took the young lady off of the normal routes, passing instead along the river banks and through the neighborhoods of large Victorian houses. Laura sat quietly, looking at the fine old houses and smiling. They slowly progressed through the residential areas into streets of small shops and cafes. Reiley stopped in front of an ornate brick building.

“Here we are, Miss Laura. The Jamieson House.” The warm breeze brought hints of flavors from within the restaurant. Laura closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the scents. She turned at the sound of the door opening to see Reiley, already down from his seat. She took his hand and stepped lightly from the carriage. Once on the pavement, she opened her small purse and reached gently inside.

“Now, now, Miss Laura. You know better than that. You keep your money right there where it belongs.”

“But, Mr. Reiley...”

“But nothin’. I’ll not take it.”

“Perhaps a sweet for your horse?”

“I probably spoil her too much, but ok.”

She drew a small cube of sugar from her purse and let the mare take it from her palm as she stroked its neck. “Good night, Mr. Reiley. And thank you for the lovely ride.”

“Good night, Miss Laura. And God bless.”

Laura stepped through the frosted glass doors and into the small entry way of the restaurant. A tuxedoed young man looked at her from behind a narrow podium. “May I help you?”

“Miss Laura Liegh Parkinson.”

He ran his finger along the list of names in front of him. “I don’t seem to have it....” His finger stopped at a scribbled note at the bottom of the page. Table seven--hold all night--LL Parkinson. “Ah. Here we are. If you’ll follow me.” He guided her to a small table in one of the bay windows overlooking the street. The table was set with only a single setting. Small droplets of moisture glistened on the goblet to the right of the plate; small remnants of ice cubes floated in the water. “Jeffery will be with you momentarily to explain tonight’s menu.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She briefly watched the man depart, then turned her attention to the scene outside the window. The view from that window had remained essentially the same from the time the building had been built over a hundred years before. The road had widened a bit and been paved, the trees had grown larger, and the samples in the dress shop window across the street become smaller and smaller, but those were only details. The picture was still the same. Staring out of the window, Laura saw the reflection of an older dignified man standing to her left. She looked at the reflection for several seconds then smiled brightly and spoke to the reflection as if it were the reality.

“Good evening, Jeffery.”

“Good evening, Miss Parkinson. It’s a pleasure to see you here again. I’ve already ordered your glass of sherry, and told Marco to begin cooking your order.”

She turned to look at the man himself. “Thank you, Jeffery. You are wonderful.”

“Will there be anything extra tonight?”

“No, thank you.”

“Enjoy your meal.”

Laura returned her gaze to the window, pausing occasionally as her drink, and shortly after, the beginnings of her meal arrived. She ate slowly and delicately, looking only at the contents of her table or the scene outside the windows.

After the final dishes had been removed, and the last sip of sherry slid warmly over her tongue, she again opened the small purse she carried, and withdrew a single gold coin which she laid upon the table. She then rose and exited the restaurant to walk slowly down the street, the rich white fabric of her dress brushing quietly along the sidewalk.

Morning crawls slowly into being as Jack unlocks the gate and walks past the trees and stones to his ancient workshed along the back wall. As he reaches the last row of stones he notices the flower: A single white rose laying at the foot of one stone. “Where have you been up to old girl, that you’ve had mid-night visitors?” He glances briefly at the stone, but already knows what it says:

Laura Leigh Parkinson
March 9, 1878
August 12, 1896
“To Sleep, Perchance to Dream”