You're mind was in an aching haze in Byron's mansion in Geneva...He was a friend of your husband Percy and had invited you and him and your sister to join him for the summer in his fancy home in hopes of having some fun and maybe between all of your poetic minds...Make a masterpiece.

You'd recently suffered great personal losses though...And your relationship with your husband Percy was frail. His eyes often wandered to your step sister Claire, other women and men...and even Byron himself...You figured he'd slept with all the members of your little writing club here...

And the stormy weather kept any of you from going outside and writing about pretty glades in the forest or sunsets or do anything productive.

It was George Byron who had the grand idea one night. A horror story for the horrible weather. A ghost story competetion. Surely one of you could make something of substance...

He grins finding you in his parlor late one night pacing about your manuscript all about you. His alabaster graceful hands wrap around your waist. He's in his night clothes, shirt open, dark curls dishevaled his brace for his leg exposed. But he's wide awake...Sleep doesn't easily chase a man like Byron. He places his chin on your shoulder and grins.

"Inkstained fingers...Pacing feet...A racing mind...All good signs, my dear guest. What ghost story are you writing?"