I half-laugh, half-sigh.I’ve neverdone what I feelin a prayer.
“You can’t give me a script, or something? A…spell?”
Morgan huffs. “God, you Catholics. Always with the formulas.” But she softens. “Keep it basic, I guess. Get on your knees, close your eyes, and say something like…likeI wish to speak with the Lady of the Lake. See if it stirs her.”
I make a face, the edges of the flower crown brushing my ears. “That’s it? Just saying it out loud?”
“Yes.” A hint of her earlier irritation creeps back into Morgan’s voice. “Abra-ca-fucking-dabra, Gwenna.” But instantly, she softens. “I mean, that is what thatliterallymeans, you know. I create as I speak. Literal magic words.” She putsa hand on my shoulder and looks up into the dark vault of sky. “You’re burning moonlight,” she whispers, and gives me a squeeze. “Good luck.”
Then Morgan withdraws, standing a few feet distant, and I’m alone.
Okay, I think. Here goes. I get on my knees, a little awkwardly in the cold plush of sand that is the lakeshore, close my eyes, and fold my hands—not fully in my lap, but not quite raised in supplication, either.
I wish to speak with the Lady of the Lake.
I see the words in my mind. Think them over, once, twice, and before I realize it, my lips are moving, too.
“I wish to speak with the Lady of the Lake,” I whisper. “I wish to speak with the Lady of the Lake.”
I repeat it over and over, like a mantra, as if stopping it will break something—a spell, a link, a tether. The wind stirs my hair, raises goosebumps on my skin, and yet I keep speaking, softly but fervently, keepstating what I want, feeling more and more desperate, more and more ridiculous the more time passes.
“I wish…”
My heart plunges.It’s not working, I think.It’s not working, it’s not working, she’s not coming?—
A little wet tear rolls out of the corner of my eye, and I clamp it more tightly shut.
“I wish to speak with the Lady of the Lake.”
Hum.
I feel it as much as hear it. A light, rolling rumble through the ground beneath me, like a truck passing or the faintest, flickering earthquake.
My eyes open.
A faint glow, at first, like the submerged lights at the bottom of a pool. But all too quickly, it brightens, grows, widens into a massive shimmering white abyss in the middle of lapping blackwater. The beam fans upward, out of the water, dancing with motes of dust or the spray of mist.
And in the middle: her.
Vivian. The Lady of the Lake.
Her figure blooms into the night air, columnar and tall, glowing like starlight. The gown she wears is flowing quicksilver, her loose hair a slow-drifting vapor. Blank-eyed, pearl-skinned, she is…resplendent.
Before I even realize I’m moving, I’ve gotten to my feet, sand clinging to my shins and skirts whipping around my knees, and I stare, stare like I am being physically pulled toward her—and maybe I am. I think, for some reason, of theTe Deum,the Latin prayer calling upon themartyrum exercitus—the company of apostles—and how it calls themcandidatus:white, but not simply the color white; thequalityof brightness, of glory.
That’s what she looks like.
And, with a graceful hand, she beckons for me.
Immediately, instinctively, I whip my gaze over my shoulder. To four black-clad figures and one in white. All watching, none moving.
Go,they seem to say, without speaking.
I go.
I take a step. The water is numbingly cold, the sand beneath it like ice. Another step, and another, until I am up to my ankles, the surface of the lake catching the edge of the dress and seeping into the fabric.
I look ahead, to the Lady.
