Songs of Love & Death

A flash… was someone staring at me from behind one of the third-floor windows? I squinted, looking closer, but the image vanished. If it had ever been there in the first place.

I made my way around back, wading through the knee-high grass and ferns that blanketed the ground. Another glance at the upper stories told me that there had to be a roof up there somewhere beneath the thick layers of moss and lichen, but the vegetation was so thick, it was hard to see. Ivy wound around the chimney, tendrils waving down at me. I completed the circuit and returned to the porch, staring up at the door, the key clenched in my hand.

It all came down to this. Could I go through with it? Unlock the door, and go in? I glanced back at the driveway where my Pathfinder sat, crammed with everything I possessed. No, there was no going back—but how could I go forward?

I held the house key up to the sky. When the lawyer had given it to me, it had rested in a black velvet box. Large and old-fashioned, an engraved R curled down the shaft, surrounded by delicate roses, and it hung on a black satin ribbon. R for rose… R for Jason Rose… the man who had almost ended my life.

A WOMAN WAS on the porch.

With difficulty, he pulled himself out of his foggy cocoon, and, by sheer habit, dusted off his jeans. His shirt was a cardigan—too warm for the summer, but he felt neither warmth nor cold. A glance in the mirror told him that he was probably out of style, but with his straight back, slightly gaunt but not unappealing face, wheat-colored shoulder-length hair, he cleaned up pretty good. The pallor in his cheeks would be a giveaway, but only in the brilliant light. If he kept to the shadows, she need not notice at first. And she would be his ticket out. His ticket to freedom.

He had reached the point of no return, and like the others, had been trapped in the house. The mirror had kept his spirit here, chained to the walls in which he’d once lived. The others walking in his world didn’t like him, they stayed away, finding him strange and unnatural in their dark and endless night. But he… he was just who he’d always been. Except, he was alone. Or had been… until his dark twin had returned. Now he had hope, something he’d never thought he’d have again.

He’d spent a lot of time watching the seasons pass as the years went by. When his mother came to clean each week, he’d pray she’d see him. And yet, when it came time to make himself known, he’d hide. She’d try to free him. And to free him, she’d risk her own life. So he watched from a distance and listened. Now and then she’d talk to him like she had before the accident, before he’d unleashed the djinn. Once it was unleashed, you could never recork the bottle. That much he’d learned, the hard way.

After a quick calculation, he headed for the mirror. He hated the thing, and yet, from here he could travel to any room with mirrors or windows. He could look out on the world and watch the world pass by, but the living couldn’t look in, unless they were gifted with the Sight. They could see only the shallow surface, the image reflected in them.

As the tumblers of the lock began to turn, he slipped into the antique mirror that stood against one wall in the bedroom. After all, what better place to first lay eyes on your new bride?

“EXCUSE ME.”

Startled, I turned, almost twisting my ankle. I found myself facing an elderly woman who might have been fifty, might have been eighty. Her hair shimmered white under the early streaks of sun, and she wore it in a tight chignon, held by a butterfly barrette. Her dress was a tidy periwinkle, with an apron tied at her waist. She smiled and I caught a glimpse of myself in her brilliant blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her gaze flickering over me again. “But are you Laurel Rose?” She held out her hand, a smile creasing the ancient topography of her face.

Wary, I nodded and glanced around, wondering where she’d come from. I hadn’t heard her approach.

As if reading my mind, she said, “Out of the woods. Where else?”

For a moment, I stood disconcerted, uncertain what to say next. I had the feeling that she could see right through me, as if I were made of light, fractured by a prism. I gathered my wits enough to say hello.

“I’m May. May O’Conner.” With a gentle bob of her head, she added, “Jason’s aunt.”

I leaned against the newel post, a stab of pain knifing through my forehead. The headache that had been looming all morning suddenly hit full-force. Jason’s aunt was not who I needed right now. The man who almost murdered me had never been complimentary when he spoke of his family. But then again, he’d never said a good word about anybody but himself. I searched May’s face, scanning for a resemblance, but to my relief found nothing.

“How do you do?” I stammered.