A liar once declared that time heals all wounds. No doubt that was his best attempt at wooing some recently bereaved widow, and perhaps he even believed it himself. But I know better.

Today is Sophie's tenth birthday. It's the fourth time a year has come and gone without her, and the fourth time her mother and I have irresistibly, inexorably, inevitably returned to this place of tainted beauty where we saw her last.

The Château must have seen its share of loss throughout its history as a fort on France's Mediterranean coast. Perhaps the old ghosts were disquieted by its rebirth as a resort. Perhaps a place built for violent purposes will always remember its heritage - a ploughshare will always, perhaps, remember that it tilled blood before it tilled earth. Then again, I have spent four years trying to convince myself that it was, perhaps, just one of those things.

Four years ago I found my wife alone in the gardens on the cliff top. The gardeners of Babylon would have wept at the workmanship on display, but all I saw was one flower where there should have been two.

"Where's Sophie?"

"She's not with you?"

I promise you, the edge of the dagger that twisted in my gut at that moment has not dulled in four years.

The weeks that followed were a blur of search parties, police reports, television cameras and well-wishers, but through it all a cold, dark certainty in the depths of my soul whispered that no matter how well I played the part of the distraught father, I would never see Sophie again.

And so I did not. One by one the search parties halted, the reports were filed, the cameras were turned off and the well-wishers' tears dried up. We returned home to a silent house and attempted to put our lives back together.

Four years later the cracks are clearly visible, but here we are, silently agreeing to be civil while we torture ourselves again with the view of the glittering azure sea.

I remember how she used to be: the bright, happy center of my universe. Now she is completely withdrawn inside a hard, brittle shell, snapping and snarling like a wounded dog at any attempt to get inside her defenses. That she has lost her daughter is enough. If she knew of my part in it ...

Yes. I alone know that Sophie fell. I was the one who threw the ball she was chasing. I was the inattentive fool who didn't realize how close his beautiful daughter was running to the edge of the cliff top until it was too late. And I am the selfish coward who after four years still can't find the courage to come clean with his wife.

We turn away from what I know to be Sophie's resting place, and walk back through the gardens in our customary silence. She plays with her wedding band, sliding it from finger to finger to thumb and back again.

"Happy Birthday, Sophie," she says. And she kisses me tenderly and uncertainly, as if we were kissing for the first time. For a moment, my thoughts dance back to happier times, to our wedding day, to garters and silk, to love. Then she is gone, walking away from me, running back the way we had just come, running faster, running, jumping, falling. Gone. My tardy scream hangs in the air behind her, calling her back, telling her everything, but four years too late.

Michael knocked on the door three times. A panel slid aside and two eyes peered out at him.

“Babylon, the city of sin has risen again.” He stated hesitantly.

“Do you wish to enter this city of sin?”

“Yes, please.” Michael stammered.

The panel slid back with a bang. Michael remembered what David had told him of the place, “You have to demand entrance or they will turn you away.” He swallowed several times and gathering his courage he raised his hand and knocked again, hoping it wasn‘t too late.

The panel slid forcefully open and two stern eyes stared out at him. “Go away; you have knocked on the wrong door.”

“I demand to be let in!”

“You demand?”

“Yes. I demand that you open this door immediately and let me in.”

“Why should I?”

Quickly, before he lost his nerve, Michael reached through the slot and with his middle finger he poked the person with the stern eyes. “Now, let me in.”

The panel slid quietly shut and he heard a lock disengaged. The door eased open. Michael didn’t hesitate to step through the widening gap between the jam and the door.

The door clicked shut and he heard the lock being turned. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the interior of the room he now stood in.

“So you are here, now what?” Said the one who must surely have the stern eyes.

“I want to see Azure!”

“Azure you say?”

“Yes, I was told they have names given to them of their most prominent feature, and I want to see the one with the eyes the color of a clear sky.”

“Very well, you are lucky, she is free tonight. Her usual didn’t show up tonight.”

“Why?”

“I don‘t know, and I don’t care. He wasn‘t much of a tipper anyway.”

Glaring at her through the darkness, Michael bit his tongue. “Where is she?”

“Room 7, down the hall to your left and fourth door on your right.”

Michael stood at the door and took a calming breath; he reached down and turned the knob. The door opened silently and he entered. Candles shed a soft glow throughout the room.

Sitting in a chair by a fireplace sat a woman, she turned her head toward him as he entered and he closed the door.

“Are you Azure?”

“Yes, I am.” She seemed to purr her response. He found a light switch to his left, just inside the door and flicked the switch. Bright light filled the room and he saw her clearly. Her eyes the color of the sky on a clear day. It was definitely her.

He turned the lights off and stood a moment to allow himself to once again see in the candle light. He heard her breathing as he neared, each indrawn breath a reminder of what he had lost. He growled low in his throat.

“Oh a tiger is it? Let’s hope you have the stamina of one as well.” Azure rose from the chair and met him as he crossed the room. He lifted her and carried her back toward the fireplace. He kicked the chair she had been sitting in aside and dropped her on the rug that lay in front of the hearth.

“What‘s your name?”

“Michael.”

“What’s your pleasure….” His hand clamped across her mouth. Her eyes widened at his use of force but then twinkled with mischief. Yeah, David said she liked it rough and that she could give it just as good as she could take it.

He let his free hand snake down her side and over her hip, it slid across the satin like garment that she wore until it came to rest on her knee. Slowly he moved his hand back up underneath the gown and found the lacy fabric that circled her thigh. Using his thumb he tested it for strength, the garter made a sharp slapping noise as he released it and it sprung back to the soft delicate flesh beneath it.

Wrapping his hand around it he yanked it down her leg and over the high heeled shoe that she wore. It tangled around the heel for a second before he pulled it free. She wiggled seductively against his body. He pushed her from him and using both hands he pulled the garter open as far as it would go, and then pulling her by the hair he pushed it over her head and down around her neck.

“Huh?” Was all she could manage as his hands tightened the fabric around her neck.

The twinkled of mischief now gone, her eyes took on a look of confusion.

Michael spit at her, “David; my only friend in this world, is in a coma because you wanted to play rough.”