An Artificial Night

“Can you get there by candlelight?” What was she talking about? Words and the mist were the only things I had.

“Snap out of it!” she whispered and slapped me. I froze. Sometimes He hit me when I sang songs He didn’t like. I never knew what songs would make Him hit me until they were already sung and it was too late to take them back. Once, when I sang a song about a woman named Janet and the white horse her lover rode, He started hitting me and almost didn’t stop. I bled into the mists for hours after that, bright blood like rubies on my fingers.

I didn’t like it when He hit me. It hurt. And it confused me, because as much as I hated it, I didn’t want Him to stop. When He hit me, the mists cleared enough that I could start grasping concepts beyond the world I knew, things more complex than mist and half-remembered songs. So I cringed at the blows and remembered what caused them, so that I could make Him do it again whenever I wanted Him to. Whenever I was willing to gamble pain for sanity. When He hit me, I hated Him. When He stopped I hated myself for hating Him.

But I always made Him hit me again.

There was no more pain. I opened my eyes. The mist was empty, eddying in slow swirls. “Hello?” The mist caught my voice and threw it back, drowning out the songs. “Hello?”

No one answered. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering harder. This wasn’t right: I was never alone. There was always someone in the mist, ready to chastise or soothe. They never left me alone. Something might hurt me. Something might frighten me. Something might . . .

Might . . .

Something might wake me up.

“How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten . . .” I whispered. I remembered someone else saying the same words; a woman with dark hair and eyes like the mist. She put a candle in my hand, she told me the route to follow for my there-and-back-again; she promised the candle would protect me. There was danger, yes, always danger, but there was a road I could follow. I remembered the oily sheen of her skin, the tapered nails that crooked so naturally into claws . . .

The Luidaeg.

I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. The Luidaeg. She gave me my candle and set me on the road to Blind Michael. I was safe as long as I held the candle and stayed on the path. I was safe until . . . oh, root and branch, what had I done? More important, what was I doing? I tried to stand and fell, catching myself on the chair.

A voice behind me said, amused, “Well, that worked better than I expected.”

I froze, sorting through the possible speakers and discarding them. Finally, I asked, “Acacia?”

“It’s me; now hush. I need you to get up.” Her hands were firm on my shoulders. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Where am I?” I could hear her, but I couldn’t see her; the mists blocked everything.

“My husband’s private hall.” She guided me to my feet. “It’ll be all right, but you need to move.”

“I can’t see.”

“You’re enchanted—he has plans for you, and they don’t include escaping.” There was a dark amusement in her tone. “Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told, and she dragged a soft, damp cloth across my eyelids. I opened my eyes when the pressure faded, squinting against the sudden brightness. The mist was gone. We were in a small room cluttered with broken furniture and heaps of discarded tapestries. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, and footprints led to the chair where I’d been sitting. There were no windows; the door was ajar, and had no locks. They’d held me prisoner, and they hadn’t even needed iron bars to do it, because I gave myself to them. I was an idiot.

Acacia was kneeling in front of me, a frown pulling the scar on her cheek taunt. She watched me look around, concern evident in her expression. “Can you see me?”