“You haven’t told anyone about your secret, right?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Not even your parents?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “They wouldn’t understand. Not really.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I have a secret too.”
She’d led me to the back of her house, past the neat little flower beds and the spotless facade, into the backyard, where things felt different. Less polished. Wildflowers had crept in, dandelions and chamomile everywhere. And the shed sagged against the fence like it didn’t want to be seen.
Licia’s hand shook when she unlocked the door. I still remember the smell that hit me. Moldy wood and dried paint. She lit a small gas lamp, and the room came alive in flickers. That’s when I saw them. Paintings. Dozens of them, leaning against the walls.
“This is where I keep them,” she said.
But it wasn’t just the paintings. There was a blanket folded in the corner, a pillow next to it, and a candle burned to the base. She’d been living there. Or hiding. Or both.
I didn’t know what to say. And then I saw one of the paintings near the back. It was astonishing. A girl with glowing skin and golden hair, levitating above the ground. A chill crept up my arms.
“I paint my dreams,” Licia said softly. “Ever since I found you that night.”
“At the Barrow?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She nodded.
“I saw you in a dream. Ithinkit was a dream. You were bleeding. Floating. But then… it was real. You were there and I’d found you,” she said. “How do I explain that? I tried to tell my parents, but they just. They don’t get it. I started painting because I don’t want to forget. What if I dream something important, something I should remember? And what if—”
I stared at the painting. It almost felt like a faint memory.
“They’re more than dreams.” I cut in. “What if they’re visions?”
She stepped closer to one of the canvases, brushing her fingers over streaks of pale blue and white.
“I saw your hands glow,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Before it happened,” she said. “Before the day at the lake. I saw it—your hands, glowing. Not like fire. Softer, and brighter. Like sunlight.”
I looked down at my hands.
“And then that day,” she continued, “when Will fell through the ice and you—”
She paused.
“Your hands glowed. Just like in my dream. And then he was fine. I didn’t believe it, at first. I don’t understand it, but it happened, right? How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened since then.”
Then I noticed what was probably her most recent work, leaning against the wall, the paint still drying. It was fire. Red. Orange. Violent. Flames licked the sky, as black smoke curled at the edges like it was trying to devour the entire world.
“This is freaking me out,” I whimpered.
She touched the canvas, slowly tracing the smoke with her fingers.
