White Space

“I’m not listening to you!” She charged. Get me out, she thought to the cynosure, get me out, take me anywhere but here; just get me out! Behind, she heard Kramer still shouting, the thud of boots as the others closed, but she had a head start, was nearly there; so close now she saw her reflection rushing to meet her—

But something was wrong. There was no bloom, no heat, no swoon, no purple maw chewing holes through the back of the world. On the beaded chain, the heavy glass orb and Eric’s tags only clattered against her chest.

There is no Sign of Sure. Spider, in her web, in the dark heart of her brain, and what was left of this body’s rightful owner. Yet what and who that girl had been in this Now, Emma couldn’t tell. It’s only glass, Spider rasped. Those are strips of ordinary tin, only so much rubbish picked from a dustbin. You’re a mad girl in a ruined world. Look in the mirror, Little Alice, loooook.

Dead ahead, there was a girl rushing through the mirror, ready to break free and—

Wait. Heart pounding, she realized what else was wrong, what was different, as her face filled the glass and became the world—this Now—blotting out all else.

She saw eyes. They were cobalt, with that golden birthmark, but they were all she truly recognized. Oh, there was a girl, a wild thing with hair bright as corn and violent as a gorgon’s serpents, but she did not have Emma’s face.

The girl hurtling headlong to meet her—twin to her twin, image to her reflection, this Now’s version of all that she was—was little Lizzie, all grown up.

“NO, NO, NO!” she shrieked, and rocketed for the mirror with all she had left.

5

MAYBE A PIECE of her knew the truth or had listened to the seeds of doubt Spider planted, because, at the very last second, she’d thrown up her arms to shield her face.

It was an explosion. The impact was as much sound as it was something physical, a bright detonation of shock and pain that wiped away all thought in a stunning, violent burst. There came a glissando splash as the mirror shattered and rained razor-edged daggers. A second later, there was a heavier crash as the now-empty frame—and it was only blank, unblemished wood—toppled.

The world stuttered. Someone began to wail, the sound wordless and horrible and black. From the coppery taste at the back of her throat, she realized that this wailing someone was she. Staggering, she felt her knees wobble, then buckle, and then she was sinking into a warm, wet tangle of bloodied nightclothes and torn flesh as a Babel of voices swelled: She’s bleeding, she’s bleeding; quick, fetch bandages; I’ll need my bag … someone fetch the surgeon; hold her, hold her; she’s a spitfire, sir, an alley cat; hold her fast, don’t let her …

“Easy, Miss Elizabeth, easy.” There were rough, hard, strong hands on her now, wrapping her up, bracing her shoulders. But the voice was young, that of a boy not quite yet a man, and reached through the fog of her pain to stir memory. “I’ve got you, Miss … Here, here, what’s your name—Doyle? Take her hands; soon as we’ve got her into the strong dress, we’ll slip on those gloves.”

“No, no!” Gasping, she looked up and then let out a small cry that was half a scream, half a sob. If her mind had been glass, it would have ruptured as the mirror just had. My God, it’s … “Bode,” she rasped. “Bode, help me, please, let me go, please don’t do this, don’t!”

“Shhh, shhh, I’ve got you, you’re safe now.” His hair was longer but the same muddy brown, and looking into Bode’s eyes was like staring into a cloudless sky. “I knew you’d recognize me, Miss, yeah? Your old pal?” This Now’s Bode turned a grin that twitched a thin thread of scar stitching its way from the corner of his jaw down his neck and under his ear. “I won’t let them hurt you, Miss Elizabeth, but you got to stay still now.”

“Bode. Listen to me,” she moaned as Doyle, his face flushed and a splash of her blood on his jaw, wrapped his huge hands around her wrists. “Please, I don’t need the dress. I’ll be quiet, I won’t make trouble, but please …”