Free Star Woman in Love by Piera Sarasini

Australia just a few months previously. His existence on three levels as medium, artist and angel was far from balanced. More often than not, he would actually become connected to the wrong dimension at the most unfortunate of times. And to make things even worse, there was a wounded child, the child he had been who was still unhealed and held captive in the darkest recesses of his mind. But that day, so far, he’d excelled himself. It was he, and not Cassandra, who seemed to be the most enlightened.
    We kept close watch on them until they reached Cassandra’s hotel. We didn’t trust them yet, especially given the way how she had vanished from our focus – and the Plan - only an hour earlier.
    * * * *
    Polly was shocked when she saw me arrive with you in tow. Her initial shyness turned to genuine fondness of your down-to-earth ways as the hours went by. In the evening, we took a taxi together and went to the opening of the art exhibition that had brought you to Glasgow. The guest speaker was late. You ran to the microphone and launched into your introductory speech. It did not make much sense but people expected you to be esoteric. The crowd responded with a standing ovation. You were the art messiah of the world, and despite your idiosyncrasies no other artist could dethrone you. Even when you were making no sense whatsoever, even to yourself. On top of your normal quirkiness, you had fallen in love only hours beforehand, and love made an endearing fool of you. I had eyes only for you, and that gave you power.
    You left the podium and grabbed me by the hand. In turn, I took Polly’s hand. We walked together around the gallery to admire the work of emerging Scottish artists. There were some interesting installations and unusual sound-and-visual productions. The oddest piece on display was a cage in a large glass-case where beautiful butterflies had been left to die. The darkest cloud hung over and around the piece. At this junction in our story, past and present would soon exchange the baton, and the latter would wipe the former into oblivion.
    Polly couldn’t bite her tongue. “That’s horrible!  And I don’t say it just because I know who its author is.”
    The piece played with the idea of death: the death of beauty for that matter. A lot of cruelty had been poured into that atrocity. Large colourful butterflies lay dead at the bottom of the glass-case, their wings dried up in their afterlife like scrunched up paper. Meanwhile smaller ones were stuck on the walls, exhaling their final agonising breaths. You looked offended and put your hand on your heart. I tried to send positive energy to the poor creatures that were passing on before our eyes. When they’d all be dead, another one-hundred and forty-four living butterflies would be fed into the cage to meet their gloomy fate.
    “I know how they feel,” you said. “I almost died twice when I was very young...” 
    I didn’t want to probe into your past yet. I kept my eyes on the poor butterflies. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to cause so much pain and sorrow, and place it under the banner of art. Then strong dark energy crept in, followed by a squeaky voice from behind us.
    “It’s got you thinking, hasn’t it? You must admit it’s a powerful piece, Oscar, whether people like it or not.”
    A blonde woman in her thirties was shaking her champagne flute almost in your face. She had long hair and was wearing a tacky flowery dress which was far too short for her chunky figure. I knew who she was straight away. You looked puzzled.
    “I’m Linda Fobbes, we met yesterday at the artists’ dinner. And this is my famous, or should I say infamous, piece, butterflies in a cage.” 
    Polly’s face turned to stone. “Every piece of art is the window to its maker’s soul,” she said.
    Tension was building up like a volcano before eruption. I decided to cut the crap and offered my hand.
    “Cassandra Morgante. I believe we have a common friend