“Better than you?” Moira tilted her head as if to think. “Not at the moment. I’ll tell you what. You figure out who you are, and you can lose your mind elsewhere in Shadow.”
Moira inclined her head, and around the circle gilded mirrors appeared, glittering and sparkling enough to make Layla wince. Within their long ovals different people stood as if trapped within the frames. Old and young, all of them female, looked out at Layla, their gazes imploring, Pick me, pick me. Some were strangers, faces that seemed only faintly recognizable. An old lady; a young woman; a round, middle-aged housewife. As Layla surveyed the faces, she found several that struck home. Within one frame stood Layla the child, her hair in a ragged bowl cut, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The child was wounded—the pain was right there in her eyes. Then there was a serene woman who had to be Kathleen, long reddish blond hair waving over her shoulders. And across the circle stood Layla as she was today, freezing with the cold, dirty tear streaks down her cheeks. Red nose to match. And still no name.
But at least it was something to work with. A puzzle to sort. A trick to turn to her own advantage.
“Pick one.” Moira twirled, arms out, gesturing to all of them at once.
Yes, but whom? Layla’s gaze darted from face to face. Was she Kathleen, the one who started it all? Layla took a step toward her, then paused. There was no going back. Kathleen was gone. Well then, what about the adult version of herself in the glass? It seemed a straightforward solution. But hadn’t she just said she wanted a new life? Should she then choose a stranger?
She was all of them, and none of them. Who was she? She didn’t know. Again.
Temet Nosce. It still made no sense to her. Too bad she hadn’t figured it out.
With each cold draw of breath, the people in the mirrors grew less and less recognizable, the madness of Twilight tweaking Layla’s mind. In her head was the thick, sluggish feeling that preceded sleep. She bit her tongue to wake herself.
The problem was that Fate had posed the question; therefore, Moira controlled the answer. It was biased, slanted, weighted in her favor.
The faces were blurring; Layla was losing her mind. Or maybe the faces were blurring because they didn’t matter.
“It’s warm and safe here under my skirt,” Moira promised.
Talk about twisted. Layla dismissed her. Maybe the question wasn’t so much, Who was she? as, Who did she want to be?
Layla’s gaze darted from person to person. Lonely child, the housewife, beautiful Kathleen, the old lady, the young woman, the present-day Layla. And in a circle before them, the three Fates walked. Maid, mother, . . . crone.
She stopped, gazing at herself—Yes, that one—and inhaled the surety of her answer.
In the end it was too easy. So easy she had to laugh, yeah, a little like a crazy person.
Shadowman, honey, here I come.
Moira did a little cancan flourish with the material of her skirt. “I thought you’d last longer. Really, I did. With the store Shadowman set by you, I thought we’d play for a while.”
What Layla needed was something to bash in the mirror. Bash it in and get back home.
Her fists would have to do. She tightened both with all the feeling she had left: The fullness of her first meeting with Talia. The tuning-fork strike of her connection to Shadowman. The unlikely fit in the madhouse of Segue. She had a place, a family to call her own, and God damn it, she was going to have them if it killed her.
Moira shook her head. “You can’t harm me.”
She actually hoped the glass would cut a little, too, and bring some color to this place. “I’ve chosen.”
“Oh . . . ?” But Moira’s attention snapped to the circle. The big-breasted sister with the spindle had held out her hand, palm up. Her gaze had gone distant as the spindle stood on its own spinning thread of shining gold, the good stuff. Lots and lots of thread for a long life.
“How?” Moira demanded, settling her fae eyes, now gone malevolent black, again on Layla.
Layla pointed at the mirror image of the old lady. “I want her.”
Faces didn’t matter. This second life had taught her that. What mattered was soul.
“What, so you can be on the brink of death again?”
Layla grinned like a maniac. “Someday. But to earn all those wrinkles”—her gaze fastened on the crumpled skin, the branches winging the eyes—“all those gorgeous laugh lines, I figure I’ll need at least fifty years of laughing in your face.”
The mirror was across the circle, but Layla was crazy enough by now to know distance didn’t matter. She brought her right fist up, as tight as a stone, and struck with everything she was. She caught the swift flush of color into Twilight, the shrill scream, “No!” just before she leapt through the frame.
Segue.