An Artificial Night

One day I’m going to learn not to listen when she says that.

I stepped forward. She reached out, grabbing my chin and forcing my head up until our eyes met. Her pupils and irises dwindled, filling her eyes from top to bottom with white. I froze, unable to move or look away. She’s older than I am, much, much older, and catching me doesn’t even challenge her.

She smiled again. The expression wasn’t getting any nicer—practice doesn’t always make perfect. “How many miles to Babylon?”

I swallowed. “Threescore miles and ten.” The air felt thick and cold. I was losing myself in the white of her eyes, and I didn’t know whether I’d ever be found.

“Can you get there by candlelight?” She forced the candle into my hand. I clutched it, feeling the blood it was made from singing to me, even though I was barely feeling my own skin. This wasn’t good at all, but the further I fell, the less I cared. “Can you, October Daye, daughter of Amandine?”

“Yes, and back again.”

“If your feet are nimble and light, you’ll get there and back by the candle’s light.” She leaned down, placing a kiss on each of my cheeks. I blinked at her, puzzled. She was too tall or maybe I was too small, and the world was falling away. “You have a day. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded thin and far away, and a pale mist was blurring my vision, leaving only the whiteness of the Luidaeg’s eyes. I could still hear Spike howling, but I couldn’t see it.

“I hope you do.” She tapped the wick with one finger, and it burst into dark blue flame. The light pulled the color out of the world, leaving me alone in a sea of mist. The Luidaeg had vanished with everything else, and the sky above me—sky? When did I go outside?—was endless and infinitely black.

“Luidaeg?” I called.

Her voice chanted from the middle distance, light and faded as a memory or ghost. “How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Aye, and back again. If your feet are nimble and your steps are light, you can get there and back by the candle’s light.” She paused, voice changing cadences. “Children’s games are stronger than you remember once you’ve grown up and left them behind. They’re always fair, and never kind. Remember.” Then she was silent, leaving me alone in the seemingly endless mist.

“Luidaeg?” I shouted. I didn’t want to be there; more, I didn’t want to be there alone.

The candle’s flame jumped and surged in time with my panic, a tiny light beating against the darkness. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I staggered, dropping the candle. It hit the ground and rolled several feet, blue flame burning away the mists as it touched them. At least the blood that it contained kept singing to me, keeping me from losing track of its location. I scrambled after it, realizing dimly that I wasn’t wearing the dress anymore. Then I reached the candle and curled myself around the light, and wept until the dizziness passed.





NINE



THE WORLD SEEMED TO KEEP SPINNING for the better part of forever. I stayed huddled on the ground, sobs fading into dry coughs. Disorientation actually rates somewhere below all-day court cases and shopping for shoes on my personal scale. You won’t catch me on many roller coasters.

I didn’t move until I was sure I could stand, and even then, it took a surprisingly long time for my equilibrium to return—I normally bounce back pretty fast, but my body was still reeling from whatever the Luidaeg had done to me. The taste of the Luidaeg’s potion coated the inside of my mouth, making it feel like something had died in there. One thing was sure; she wasn’t going to be giving Alton Brown a run for his money anytime soon.