The remote field Olterian chose as best suited to holding the EREGS concert lie some one hundred kilometres north and west of the capitol city, an easy trip for all who were inclined to attend.

Not that there would advertisements for this concert; attendees would be notified through private channels, news of the event spread by word of mouth, from individual to individual. There was nothing secretive about the site or the show, there was nothing to hide, only a desire to have those of like interest in attendance and in communion with one another. If others found out and showed, both Olterian and the group leaders were comfortable with such circumstance and consequence.

Olterian well knew all of the plans to this point remained tentative; although he had sent a private message through very reliable and well-connected channels, Llhaesa T’yaeli had yet to respond. In fact, no one seemed to know exactly where the young music sensation might be. Without getting confirmation of her interest, no date for the show could be set, nor could Olterian make arrangements for use of the desired property.

Turning his attention back to other non-related and pressing matters, Olterian worked uninterrupted for most of the morning. His momentum came to an abrupt halt with a heralding snippet of sound from his mobile. Answering was almost a matter of rote, such that no thought was given to the semi-automatic act of grabbing and speaking into what he often referred to as an ‘infernal, hand-held machine’.

“Olterian here,” he dutifully followed the rote right through his greeting.

“Oh, hi there… what have you got for me?” was his second sentence, getting right to the point.

The news was not good. The caller was tasked to searching and finding Llhaesa, and as he spoke, detailed all of the places and contacts checked, including various travelogues scrutinised, to see if Llhaesa were on holiday. And though Olterian already knew this would be so, there was no sign of her coming or going from her parent’s home.

Olterian ended the brief call by thanking the caller for their efforts to date, and offered up encouragement to keep up pursuit, and to do so by thinking outside of the usual boxes. A positive result would mean extra compensation, Olterian assured the caller.

Olterian was well aware of one safe haven where llhaesa might be in refuge. Even if he knew for certain, calling E’sphara Artist Colony was unthinkable. He had not spoken with E’sphara in almost two decades, ever since she asked him to leave her hospital room. “I was a real jerk’ his mind reiterated for what was now an endless amount of times. Olterian had long since conceded and come to a truce with his abhorrent conduct on that occasion, now understanding and appreciating how E’sphara was right. At least he had come to terms within. Calling or calling on E’sphara was a wholly different matter.

In order to be in residence at E’sphara, an artist not only needed recommendations from several former artists-in-residence, there was also a requirement for evaluation of their artistic talent by the Colony’s Board of Directors, as well a staff evaluation on whether the Colony would be conducive to encouraging the artist’s creative energy. The waiting list was long – there were only 27 bungalows available – and most who applied for temporary residence were never selected. People would be quite surprised to see the prominent names who had been rejected by the Artist Colony in the past.

E’sphara Artist Colony was not for everyone. A successful application meant spending up to a quarter of a year in relative exclusion, either holed up in a bungalow, in communing with nature, or in some combination of the two. It also meant the artist would be free of outside influences, free of interruptions, potentially at one with the natural environment in which the colony was embedded, and as a result, inspired to new creative heights.

Once in residence, the proprietor zealously guarded the identity and the seclusion of all artists currently occupying one of the simple, one room bungalows. And E’sphara had the full weight of N’rellia Conservatory behind her should someone push too hard against her rules.

The bungalows were reputed to be sparingly and rustically furnished, with a single bed, desk, table, refrigerator, and then the technical items unique to the demands of the artist’s professional field of endeavour.

If Llhaesa was at E’sphara’s, and he suspected she might well be, it would be a long wait to receive a response to his back-channel request.