– Luckily," I repeated quietly.

***

The sky was covered with thick, wavy clouds. We drove up to the huge castle of the Morgans, and I wondered once again why they still lived in that stone crypt. I agree, this ancient castle is beautiful and majestic, and it envelops the mind of the beholder in some inexplicable dark mystery. Although, mortals have a right to think so: this gloomy castle is haunted by murderers. Vampires.

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 protégée – 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.