He smiles a little, his scarred face incandescent under the moon.
“Her voice, Raoul,” he says quietly. “If this works, do you think it will be the same, after…”
“After my sister tore apart her larynx?” My tone is dull, dead. “I don’t know.”
“It won’t matter to me,” he murmurs. “I will love her the same. How fortunate are we, to have heard that beautiful voice in our lifetimes?”
33Christine
Mirrors. I’m in a maze of mirrors, broken pieces of my own reflection staring at me for miles. Beyond the mirrors, there is darkness, and behind me…something. A powerful connection, drawing me back into a body stricken with pain.
Something flickers in the dark, a misty shape. A ghost. I’ve seen one before. It’s approaching me, sailing out of the sea of nothing. Its image isn’t repeated in the mirrors.
“Dad?” I whisper.
The ghost halts before me, close enough to touch yet so blurred I can’t discern its features. Then it splits into two forms, and my mind goes blank with shock.
Thomas. And Edith. My little brother and sister.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Oh my god. You’re here.”
“Just for a minute,” says Thomas. “We can only stay for a minute.”
“I love you,” I choke out. “I love you so much, and I’ve missed you…and I’m so sorry.”
Edith reaches for my face. I feel her touch like a cool mist.
“You didn’t do this to us,” she says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I lived,” I sob. “I should have died, too.”
“Oh, no,” says Thomas. “The Lady spared you because she knew one day he would need you, and you would need him.”
“What does that even mean? Where are we? Am I dead?”
“No.”
“But I’m here with you.”
“Only for a minute,” repeats Thomas. “We have to go.”
“It’s peaceful where we go,” says Edith. “But you can’t come with us. Not yet. She’s sending you back.”
“She?”
“The Lady,” they say in unison. “The Morrigan.”
“We love you,” whispers Edith, and Thomas echoes, “We’ve always loved you.”
They’re drifting, and I reach out my hand…but I don’t scream or sob for them to return. This moment is consolation, not desperation. I won’t ruin it for myself or for them.
I saw them once, and once will do.
A sound like a plucked string echoes through the mirrored space, and my reflections shiver, like reflections on rippling water. Everything blurs, and I blink, trying to clear my vision.
My eyes open to two faces hovering above me. One is pale, scarred, and anxious, framed by wavy black hair. The other is flushed, ice-green eyes shining, a riot of coppery curls tumbling over his forehead.
“Christine,” says Erik. As if my name is the one word essential to his happiness.
