My mother moves to the boarded window above the head of her bed, the one I was told never to touch.
It’s condemned like all the others, but an eerie, silvery gleam slips through the gaps. The light coming from it feels too pale, too clean, and in stark contrast to the deep red glow of the forest I’m accustomed to.
My mother wedges her fingers beneath one of the planks covering the peculiar window and pries it off. The wood gives a low, groaning creak. Then, she reaches to remove another.
And another.
Each board comes loose too easily, like they were never meant to hold for long. By the look of it, they’ve been taken off and put back many, many times. The silver light growsstronger with every strip of wood she pulls away, washing over the walls and eclipsing the red-tainted moonlight.
When the last plank falls, I bite back a gasp.
It’s not a window, but a mirror.
The tall mirror catches my mother’s reflection, and she stands there for a couple of breaths, framed in cold light. Her long red braid cascades over her shoulder, the loose neckline of her nightgown slipping just enough to reveal the constellation of freckles on her chest. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and her brows are knitted together, as if she’s deeply conflicted.
The surface ripples before he comes through.
He doesn’t climb or step inside, no.
He flies in.
His platinum blonde hair, pale as frost, shines in the night, and white wings unfurl behind him, brushing the low ceiling. An otherworldly glow adorns his skin and grants him an air of religious fantasy.
I can’t see his face, not clearly.
He doesn’t look in my direction. Not once. All of him is fixed on her.
“My sweet Sierra,” he says.
“You shouldn’t have come,” my mother murmurs, but the words are worn smooth, as if they’ve been said in vain before. “It’s not safe.”
“And yet,” he answers, smiling, “you were waiting for me.”
His wings blink out of existence, scattering light across her face as they vanish, and his hand lifts, hovering just shy of her cheek. “Kneel for me, Sierra.”
“What about Maxine?” she asks. “What if she hears?”
“My time is precious.” His voice comes out rough, shaped not only by urgency, but greed. “And you waste it with hesitation.”
My mother shudders. “You know I exist only for your pleasure.”
She falls to her knees in front of him, and he laughs a delighted laugh. The light flickers. His shadow stretches across the wall behind him as my mother slides open his breeches and takes him in her mouth.
I try to move, to call out, but I’m pinned behind my own eyes, forced to watch.
Outside, a wolf howls.
The vision fractures, and I’m standing on the cliffs, naked. The wind plays with my hair as a molten, solid frame walks behind me. Hands—large, certain—slide over my waist.
“Where have you been?” my dream-husband growls in a scolding manner.
The same platinum blonde hair. The same wings.
“I don’t know. The past, I think,” I answer quickly.
Long, expert fingers trace the seam between my thighs.“What good is the past, when I’m your future?”
A warmth pools low in my belly, and my body arches into his touch without shame. Without doubt. He’s my master, and I’m his instrument, and nothing else matters here, among the clouds.
