embroidered at the edges. The sleeves sit low on my shoulders, and the tight, corset-style bodice hugs my waist. I run my hand over the wide skirt, realizing my arms are encased in gold satin gloves. A black and gold fan hangs from my left wrist.
Smiling at his creation, Orane steps back and bows, his violet eyes never leaving mine.
I wish I had a mirror. From what I can see, this dress is the most beautiful he’s ever created for me. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight.”
“It does not compare to you.” He takes my hand and lightly kisses the tips of my satin-covered fingers. “Will you sing, sweet nightingale?”
I snap the fan open and peer at him over the black lace. “I suppose. Opera, do you think? I think this dress demands an aria.”
Before Orane reaches his seat, the first strains of “Habanera” from Carmen fill the air.
My set doesn’t last long tonight, but it’s stronger, the songs I pick more powerful than usual. It’s not simply a performance; it’s a celebration of hope.
Orane might have found a way to let me stay forever. I was content to live in silence in my world so long as I could keep visiting his, but now? Now I might be able to stay.
For the first time, when the portal opens, I barely resist the pull. Sooner rather than later, I will walk into Paradise and never leave again.
Five
Hudson
Thursday, August 28 – 11:11 AM
“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks.
We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC.
“It has good bones?” I suggest.
“It’s got old bones,” he mutters.
I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.”
He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.”
We go inside to make lunch, but since the fridge doesn’t work, we’re limited to food we can keep in the pantry. Which means PB&J. J.R.’s favorite, right after pizza. I have to force myself to chew the damn thing.
The dream hits me again in the middle of clearing away our lunch plates. I barely manage to set the plates down and back away from the counter before I collapse.
I come out of the dream gasping for breath. My hands sting, my entire body is flushed with heat, and each movement sends waves of nausea through my stomach. Damn it I hate this feeling.
Shuddering, I try to regain control of my body. This is the third time in twenty-four hours I’ve had the dream with K.T. and the burning blonde. Three times, and I’ve only been able to pick out three new details:
One: Even after she tears the ribbon from her skin, the burning blonde can’t make a sound.
Two: The flames aren’t coming from the ground; they’re coming from under her skin.
And three: After I drag her out of the fire a third time, she grabs my arms, her eyes boring into mine. As soon as she touches me, her flames engulf me, too.
I can’t get the images from that dream out of my head. Focusing on the blonde before the fire starts crackling at her feet helps. A little.
The determination in her eyes is compelling. She stood so calm at first, but then fought tooth and nail. Reaching up, I grab my sketchbook off the counter. It tumbles into my lap, my pencil following it down. No matter how I adjust the portrait I started yesterday, I can’t capture that determined look. It doesn’t feel right. I’m forgetting some crucial detail that brings her face together and makes her… her.
No matter how much I try to focus on her face, watching her scream silently as she burns alive is…Well,
Smiling at his creation, Orane steps back and bows, his violet eyes never leaving mine.
I wish I had a mirror. From what I can see, this dress is the most beautiful he’s ever created for me. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight.”
“It does not compare to you.” He takes my hand and lightly kisses the tips of my satin-covered fingers. “Will you sing, sweet nightingale?”
I snap the fan open and peer at him over the black lace. “I suppose. Opera, do you think? I think this dress demands an aria.”
Before Orane reaches his seat, the first strains of “Habanera” from Carmen fill the air.
My set doesn’t last long tonight, but it’s stronger, the songs I pick more powerful than usual. It’s not simply a performance; it’s a celebration of hope.
Orane might have found a way to let me stay forever. I was content to live in silence in my world so long as I could keep visiting his, but now? Now I might be able to stay.
For the first time, when the portal opens, I barely resist the pull. Sooner rather than later, I will walk into Paradise and never leave again.
Five
Hudson
Thursday, August 28 – 11:11 AM
“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks.
We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC.
“It has good bones?” I suggest.
“It’s got old bones,” he mutters.
I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.”
He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.”
We go inside to make lunch, but since the fridge doesn’t work, we’re limited to food we can keep in the pantry. Which means PB&J. J.R.’s favorite, right after pizza. I have to force myself to chew the damn thing.
The dream hits me again in the middle of clearing away our lunch plates. I barely manage to set the plates down and back away from the counter before I collapse.
I come out of the dream gasping for breath. My hands sting, my entire body is flushed with heat, and each movement sends waves of nausea through my stomach. Damn it I hate this feeling.
Shuddering, I try to regain control of my body. This is the third time in twenty-four hours I’ve had the dream with K.T. and the burning blonde. Three times, and I’ve only been able to pick out three new details:
One: Even after she tears the ribbon from her skin, the burning blonde can’t make a sound.
Two: The flames aren’t coming from the ground; they’re coming from under her skin.
And three: After I drag her out of the fire a third time, she grabs my arms, her eyes boring into mine. As soon as she touches me, her flames engulf me, too.
I can’t get the images from that dream out of my head. Focusing on the blonde before the fire starts crackling at her feet helps. A little.
The determination in her eyes is compelling. She stood so calm at first, but then fought tooth and nail. Reaching up, I grab my sketchbook off the counter. It tumbles into my lap, my pencil following it down. No matter how I adjust the portrait I started yesterday, I can’t capture that determined look. It doesn’t feel right. I’m forgetting some crucial detail that brings her face together and makes her… her.
No matter how much I try to focus on her face, watching her scream silently as she burns alive is…Well,
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