“You did it, not me.”
“Yes, of course I did. But not until you thought it.”
Easing to one side, her back pressed to the wall, Isobel peeked through the hole again. In the chair, Varen sat nearly folded over, his face buried in his hands, while Pinfeathers’s tall form paced in a wide circle around him. His thin shadow, cast from the yellow glow, fell long over Varen.
Isobel looked up to find an added source of the light. It shone brightly from behind the orb-eyed bust of an ancient Greek warrior, which stared sightlessly down from its place above a set of ornately carved double doors.
Isobel’s attention zoned in on those doors. From what she could tell, besides the open window, they looked to be the only way into or out of the room. They probably connected to another colored chamber, she thought. She wondered if she would be able to find some way to get to them from where she was now if she continued down the same passage. If she found her way to those doors, would they be unlocked? After all, even if she could knock out all the glass from the stained-glass window, it would still be too narrow for a person to fit through.
“Funny as it sounds,” Pinfeathers said, “you, of all people, confuse me the most in this. I thought this was exactly what you wanted.”
“It was.”
“But now you’ve changed your mind.”
Varen did not answer.
“Or rather, I should say, she changed your mind. The cheerleader. Well, anyway, that’s why you’re in so much trouble, I’ll tell you that. Too many admirers and not enough that’s admirable.” There was a long beat of silence in which Pinfeathers strode to stand between the curtains. Arms folded, he stared out. “She is lovely, though, isn’t she?” he continued.
“Especially when she gets angry. But you already knew that. Of course, they’re both lovely. And in such different ways. You know, though, I should probably warn you right now that you and I—seeing as what we are—well, we’re bound to have similar tastes. Then again, that’s an odd thing for me to say, because the cheerleader isn’t much in your tastes at all, is she?”
“Shut up.”
“And I think that’s part of it. You know—together we seem to have a real problem with wanting things we just can’t have. Only now you’ve got it all. Apparently, it’s more than you can handle.”
“I said, shut up.”
“Though it might cheer you up to know that she is strong. Or at least she’s got it strong for you. And I mean you. I have to admit, it makes me more than a little jealous. But you have to wonder if—are you listening to me?”
“No.”
Pinfeathers sighed. “Your dismal moods bore me.”
“Then go away,” Varen said.
“I think I might. Perhaps I’ll go check on our friend again. Tap, tap, tap on his chamber door once more before we carry him out to finish the job. Heh. Though a word to the wise for you. The Mistress returns soon, and between then and now, I think I would change my mind about doing what she asks. At least, I would if I were you. Ha-ha! If I were you—get it?”
Isobel watched as Pinfeathers transformed again. He shrank, contorting, his wiry frame turning murky through wisps of violet until he emerged once more as a large black bird. His dry laugh morphed into a croaking cackle. Then he flapped his wings and, circling the room once, shot through the curtained window.
When he was gone, Isobel moved the tripod torch aside and positioned herself in front of the stained glass. “Varen,” she whispered.
His gaze turned slowly toward her. Through the diamond-shaped chink, his black eyes met with hers. His face, so white, so drawn, seemed like that of a ghost.
“Varen?” she called again, this time louder. “Varen, it’s me. It’s Isobel.”
“Isobel,” he said simply, his voice a monotone.
“Yes. It’s me.”
“Isobel is gone,” he said, turning to stare into the fireplace. The fading embers within cast a low orange glow across his face. “I told her to take the door in the woodlands.”
“No. I didn’t leave. I wouldn’t. Not without you. Please. How do I get inside?”
“You can’t,” he mumbled, “even if you were real.”
“Varen. Look at me. I am real. I came to find you. It’s me—I can prove it.”
All at once, the screams started again. Muffled, long howls of anguish grew louder, accompanied this time by a barrage of brutal banging. Her heartbeat tripling, Isobel looked in the direction of the hellish racket. It was coming from the next chamber over. For a moment, despite its rawness, she thought she recognized the voice, and it spread a sick dread through her.
Brad.
But that was impossible. How could he be here?
Isobel looked back to the window and started, her heart leaping almost painfully in her chest. Varen was there, standing before the mottled stained-glass pane that separated them.
Through the open chink, his black eyes rested on her. His bruised face, wan and void of emotion, seemed almost alien in the dim light.
“You’re a dream,” he said, “like everything else.”
Isobel frowned. She remembered how Reynolds had told her once that Varen dreamed of her. With that thought in mind, she lifted a fist to knock away more of the glass, not caring if she cut herself. The little pieces fell onto the carpet inside the purple chamber, sprinkling around his feet, and Isobel pushed her hand through the widened hole. “Touch me,” she said.
“I’m real. Even if this is a dream, I’m not.”
She felt his fingers, light as dust, trace her palm. They left in their wake a prickling sensation that made her skin seem almost to vibrate. Seconds passed.
Another scream, louder but still muffled, poured like scalding liquid through the passageway. Isobel withdrew her hand, scanning the stone-walled corridor behind her, trying to determine from which direction the yelling had come. She was sure it had echoed to them from the right, opposite the way she had entered. Her eyes returned to Varen, tracing the split above his lip, and she dreaded having to say the words she needed to now.
“Varen.” She kept her voice measured. “Do you hear that? I have to go help Brad.”
He lifted his eyes to hers, and, despite their blackness, she could not mistake the hatred that burned within their centers. She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “They—they’re hurting him,” she said. “He may deserve a lot, but he doesn’t deserve to die. I know you understand that. I’ll come back to get you, too, okay?”
“Why?” he snapped.
“Because,” she said with a gasp, unable to fathom the source of his question, or his tone. “Because I love you, that’s why.”
He turned his head and looked away from her, back into the chamber.
“Listen.” She gripped the window frame. “We’ll fix it, okay? We’ll find a way.”
“It’s too late.” It was scarcely a whisper.
“Don’t say that! There is a way. If it’s us together, me and you, then there’s a way. Okay? We got through the project, didn’t we? Even though everything went wrong. Even though everyone stood in our way. Varen?”
His eyes regarded her once more, and this time she searched them for her reflection, for any evidence of light. But they returned only a blackness so pure, so frighteningly bottomless, that it took all of her willpower not to turn away.
“Say okay. Please?” she pleaded.
He stared at her.
Another scream split the stillness. The shrill sound of it ratcheted up her spine and, reaching through her like a clawed hand, seized her heart with a clutching grip. She winced. “Varen, they’re killing him. I have to go try to stop it. But you have to say okay first. Please. Say that you know I’m coming back. Just say okay. For me?”