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The hooded boy nods. “No, you didn’t do it on purpose, but Fate is Fate, Calla. It must be paid. But you can change it.”
I stop, and the rain runs down my face, soaking my shirt and I shiver in the cold.
“How?” and my voice comes out like a whimper.
“You just can,” the boy says, and for one minute, I see his cheek and it is silver in the moonlight. “By night you are free.”
“By night I am free.” The words the words the words seem familiar and I don’t know why. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Yes, you have,” the boy nods. “Think about it, dream about it, because your dreams are real.”
My dreams are real.
I’m dreaming now.
I thrash in my bed and Finn wakes me up and his pale blue eyes are so worried.
“Cal, are you ok?”
His skinny hands grip my arms, and I’m shaking in the sheets. Finn curls up with me and holds me, his cheek against my hair. “I’ve got you. It’s fine, Cal. It’s fine.”
His breath is warm and familiar, and his heart beats against mine, in perfect rhythm, because we are the same, he is mine and I am his, and we’re twins. We’re closer than closer than close.
“I had a bad dream,” I whisper, and my face sinks into the pillow. I can’t stop thinking about it, and the words swirl in my mind.
By night I am free.
By night I am free.
Finn eventually falls asleep in my bed, holding on to me for dear life, so afraid that I’ll slip away into something bad, into something panicky or manic. I won’t. Because I’m restless and I feel I feel I feel like the answer is here, it’s here somewhere, it’s close.
I cautiously crawl from the bed, careful not to wake my brother. I drift through the house, moving from room to room, and I feel like I’m pulled to something to something to something .
I float through the visitation rooms, past the caskets and the corpses and the flowers. I drift through the chapel by the piano past the altar. I stroll into the Salon, and I stop in front of the window seat and Finn’s journal is there, on the cushions.
The Journal of Finn Price. It’s embossed on the leather and it was a gift from my parents. He hasn’t had time to write much yet, but it’s his and it pulls me and I open it.
It’s blank, the pages are white, but something something something makes me run my fingers over the linen pages, and there are indentions, like someone pressed hard into the paper.
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I turn on the lamp and I hold the paper under the light and there are words there, words scratched into the pages, like someone pressed hard on a pen and the pressure bled through.
Nocte Liber Sum.
Nocte Liber Sum.
By night I am free.
I am stunned, and I drop the journal because the words the words the words are the same. I curl up on the seat and I soak in the moonlight and I’m overwhelmed.
What is happening to me?
What is real?
I don’t know anymore.
I don’t know.
