Like tonight. And she put her arm around my shoulders. They’re close.
From where I sit now by the window, I can see where I lay with her on the rocky shore. The morning after our night of water. Where we saved each other from the nightmare of our Most Magnificent Selves. Where I watched her turn from a tangle of red tentacles into the face I knew all my life, into sea-foam. Just sand and water and rocks now.
In my mind, I answer her questions again.
Yes. I love you too. Soon.
My face begins to appear in the window glass. No Glow. No Moonbright. Just my old self. My familiar skin with its shade and texture and age. Only my forehead scar seems to have gone for good. Not even a shadow of a shadow remains. My eyes seem open in a new way. Like a fist, long closed, finally opens. Or like a flower opens for the sun. I smile at what I see.
And then just beyond my reflection, there’s suddenly something else.
Someone else.
A man. Out there on the beach. Dark suit and hat. Walking barefoot along the lapping shore, his pant legs rolled. I stand up from my chair, looking closer. He seems to be dragging something behind him. Some sort of female figurine. Like a doll, but much bigger. Stiffer-looking.
I look at my sisters, who are watching him with interest. Who is that?
And then I’m running to the darkening beach.
* * *
When I get to the shore, he’s shin-deep in the water. No disguise tonight. He’s dancing with the third mannequin, my missing sister. Turning her around and around like they’re doing a waltz in the water. Her silver dress is drenched. His dark suit is also drenched. But he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Or even notice. He’s too busy dancing, just like he and I danced in the grand hall. Like the waves are the music. Like the setting sun and the rising moon are a chandelier of fire above their heads. He’s holding her like he held me. Close. Whispering tenderly into her ear. Words I can’t hear in the waves. She just stares into space with her painted eyes.
“Hi,” I call to him over the waves.
He looks at me. He knows me and doesn’t know me, I can tell by his eyes. Searching mine. There’s a Glow to his skin I recognize. A Brightening. But the scar is still there like a slash over one brow and down his cheek. Whatever they took from him, they didn’t take everything.
“Can I cut in?” I ask him. “Do you mind?”
He looks from me to the mannequin. He’s reluctant, I can tell. Doesn’t want to leave her. He’s gripping her hand so tightly in his fist. The fist is bloody, I see, speckled with small cuts, like he might have punched it through glass. He was the one who broke into Mother’s apartment. Took her with him. I’m saving you, he probably told her.
“She’ll be all right,” I tell him. “We’ll just put her right here on this chair,” I say, pointing to a rock behind me. I remember him trying to soothe me like this not so very long ago. “She’s been dancing for a while. I’m sure she’d love to rest.”
I take her from him and sit her down on the rock. When I turn to him, he’s still dancing with the shape of her, still dancing with air. He’s moved farther away from the shore, deeper into the water.
So I take off my shoes. So I walk deeper into the cold waves that take my breath away. I wade out to where he’s turning and turning with air, lost in the ocean’s music. Hip-deep in the water. He looks at me and I take his hand. I wade into the empty space between his arms. Slip his hand on my back, my arm on his cold wet shoulder. I become the shape of her. His body visibly relaxes. I feel it relax in my embrace. He smiles for a moment, then looks serious again.
“We have to get you out of here,” he whispers.
I stare at his moonbright face. Glowing, glowing in the light of the bloody sun and the high pale moon. The waves are gentle tonight, but they’re rising. “We do?”
“It’ll be dangerous. You’ll have to fall for me. Follow me. Like I fell for—followed you. Didn’t intend to love—to lose you there like that.”
I trace the scar’s curve along his cheek. “Me neither.”
“Just keep dancing with me. Don’t let anyone else cut in. Ever, okay?”
“I won’t,” I say. “Promise.”
He sighs with relief. Looks at me, his eyes clear and deep as the first mirror. Beautifully broken. “I’m saving you, you know,” he says as we turn in the waves.
“I know.”
Above us, the blue sky begins to blacken. Though the sun’s fading now, there’s still some light on the waves. It’s nearly the end of its story, the fairy tale of the setting sun. Time for the moon’s full rising. We’re still deep in the dark, shining water, but I’m dancing us slowly, surely, to shore.
Acknowledgments
To my parents, Nina Milosevic and James Awad, for everything.
To my uncle Michael O’Brien-Milosevic, who recently passed, but whose influence on me and my way of seeing the world lives on in my heart and in these pages.
To my grandmother Ruth O’Brien, who is (and isn’t at all) the grandmother in this book. Part of the joy of writing Rouge was getting to spend time with you again in this other world.
To the dear friends and family who read drafts and who supported me (endlessly) during the writing of this book: Ken Calhoun, Jess Riley, Alexandra Dimou, Rex Baker, Laura Sims, Laura Zigman, Teresa Carmody, Emily Culliton, Lauren Acampora, McCormick Templeman, and Lynn Crosbie.
To Ken Calhoun, who read more drafts than I can count, for the magical plot talks and the unwavering faith.
To Bill Clegg for being the best reader and champion I could hope for. To Simon Toop and to everyone at the Clegg Agency (Nikolas Slackman, Marion Duvert, and MC Connors) for everything you do and for the invaluable early reads and support. To Anna Webber at United Agents.
To my wonderful editors, Marysue Rucci, Nicole Winstanley, and Chris White, and to the publishing teams at Simon & Schuster, Penguin Canada, and Scribner in the UK: Andy Tang, Katie Freeman, Clare Maurer, Jessica Preeg, Ingrid Carabulea, Zach Polendo, Laura Jarrett, Erica Stahler, Georgia Brainard, Wendy Sheanin, Elizabeth Breeden, Stephen Myers, Dan French, Beth Cockeram, Kate Sinclair, and Meredith Pal. To the amazing sales and marketing teams who get books into the hands of readers.
To the brilliant Oliver Munday and Patrick Sullivan for their incredible work on the dreamy jacket design. If ever the soul of a book could be captured in a jacket, this is it.
To my amazing students and colleagues at Syracuse University for their support throughout the writing process.
To Margaret Atwood for the wise and eerily prescient advice.
To Tom Cruise, who is not in this book, despite appearances.
Music has always been important to my writing, but this book was especially helped along by certain songs and albums, many of which are mentioned or featured in the story. I’m grateful to all the musicians who made this story come alive for me, particularly Cavern of Anti-Matter and Tangerine Dream. And of course, Berlin.
Lastly, once more to my mother, Nina Milosevic, who was nothing like Noelle, but who undoubtedly informed the relationship between mother and daughter in this book, both its petals and its thorns. I still miss you dearly.