But I can’t see that road before me anymore. I can’t see how my story ends. I only know three things, the fairy tale three: I don’t want Abby to die. I don’t want Christine to die. This power I wear on my head has to be good for something.
I close my eyes and see the hospital room. I hear Christine, wishing in her mind, Take me instead.
Granting a wish takes a piece of me, that was what the wishing well said. What do I have to give to grant a wish that saves a life? I look in the mirror again, see myself in the room, and think, with all the power of my life, No, take me.
Abby opens her eyes, and her gaze meets mine, sees me, just before I fall, and the world spins away.
Swing Time
He emerged suddenly from behind a potted shrub. Taking Madeline’s hand, he shouldered her bewildered former partner out of the way and turned her toward the hall where couples gathered for the next figure.
“Ned, fancy meeting you here.” Madeline deftly shifted so that her voluminous skirts were not trod upon.
“Fancy? You’re pleased to see me then?” he said, smiling his insufferably ironic smile.
“Amused is more accurate. You always amuse me.”
“How long has it been? Two, three hundred years? That volta in Florence, wasn’t it?”
“Si, signor. But only two weeks subjective.”
“Ah, yes.” He leaned close, to converse without being overheard. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: have you noticed anything strange on your last few expeditions?”
“Strange?”
“Any doorways you expected to be there not opening. Anyone following you and the like?”
“Just you, Ned.”
He chuckled flatly.
The orchestra’s strings played the opening strains of a Mozart piece. She curtseyed—low enough to allure, but not so low as to unnecessarily expose décolletage. Give a hint, not the secret. Lower the gaze for a demure moment only. Smile, tempt. Ned bowed, a gesture as practiced as hers. Clothed in white silk stockings and velvet breeches, one leg straightened as the other leg stepped back. He made a precise turn of his hand and never broke eye contact.
They raised their arms—their hands never quite touched—and began to dance. Elegant steps made graceful turns, a leisurely pace allowed her to study him. He wore dark green velvet trimmed with white and gold, sea spray of lace at the cuffs and collar. He wore a young man’s short wig powdered to perfection.
“I know why you’re here,” he said, when they stepped close enough for conversation. “You’re after Lady Petulant’s diamond brooch.”
“That would be telling.”
“I’ll bet you I take it first.”
“I’ll make that bet.”
“And whoever wins—”
Opening her fan with a jerk of her wrist, she looked over her shoulder. “Gets the diamond brooch.”
The figure of the dance wheeled her away and gave her to another partner, an old man whose wig was slipping over one ear. She curtseyed, kept one eye on Lady Petulant, holding court over a tray of bonbons and a rat-like lap dog, and the other on Ned.
With a few measures of dancing, a charge of power crept into Madeline’s bones, enough energy to take her anywhere: London 1590. New York 1950. There was power in dancing.
The song drew to a close. Madeline begged off the next, fanning herself and complaining of the heat. Drifting off in a rustle of satin, she moved to the empty chair near Lady Petulant.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Not at all,” the lady said. The diamond, large as a walnut, glittered against the peach-colored satin of her bodice.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”