I had only as long as the fuel lasted, though. Magic could start the fire, even generate it all on its own for a while, but to go on any longer you had to have something to burn.
“Come on,” I said. “Show yourself. I’m right here. Come get me.”
Having incinerated the pillowcase, Patty Melt dashed in circles. The smoke and flames began to turn, then spin. The firelight dazzled my eyes till all I could see in my mind’s eye was Prospero himself, dapper and sinister.
The flames were so powerful they hummed like the beehives on the roof of the Whitney museum. The fire mouse wasn’t even visible, just a circular blur of furious light.
I closed my eyes. Afterimages blazed, red and orange light across the darkness.
Unbidden, unasked for, diamond-colored magic poured over me. Fire, ice, magic, and music swept away control like a fast-moving river. I was shaking uncontrollably, my hand gripping the mantel as the magic did what it wanted, transforming me against my own will.
The fire crackled like bitter laughter.
When I finally looked in the mirror above the fireplace, Prospero looked back.
Not Prospero’s ghost, but his illusion—me, as Prospero.
I held my own red-eyed gaze. Yes, I was afraid. Yes, I wanted him gone. But as much as I wanted all of that, I needed him to hear what I had to say. And if I had only myself to say it to, that was better than nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Not even you. Even if you deserved it—I wish there’d been another way.”
Over my shoulder, in the mirror’s reflection, a blue haze wavered.
He was behind me, a ghost of moonlit electricity.
Zelda…
My disguise faded, simply, silently, leaving the two of us reflected together in the mirror, closer and more intimate than we had ever been. “Prospero,” I said, my voice barely audible.
I hardly dared move. Or breathe. Whatever I’d planned on saying before, my great plans for banishing him, turned to ashes like the pillowcase.
The fire, which had roared and buzzed only a second before, dwindled down to a lazy pop or two just to remind me it was still there.
Prospero’s outline wavered. He raised his hands, and I had to stop myself from seizing the sword cane, turning, and ripping his ghost into pieces.
“Don’t move,” I said, trying to sound brave. The waver in my voice ruined it.
His ghostly hands rested on my shoulders. The heat fled my skin where he touched, so cold it burned.Zelda. His voice was firmer, as if touching me had summoned some kind of strength.She is coming. His eyes, so red and vivid in life, burned cold blue fire in death.
“Who is coming?” I said, already knowing, in the pit of my stomach, the answer.
You must stop her, he said, as if he couldn’t even nameher.
His form wavered, lost focus. He was falling apart.
“How?” I cried. “Tell me how!”
But it was as if his strength only stretched to a few words.Protect them, he said.
Then—far off—
Bells.
Prospero’s head tilted back as if he was in great pain. Each pinpoint of light that outlined him pulled apart as if by a great riptide, his essence torn in silent slow motion, light devoured by darkness.
Gone.
I whirled around as if he would still be there behind me, but there was only the empty bed with its curtains blowing in the draft from the window.
