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"No."
Before she could take a breath she was already running sideways and up, so fast that she was a pink blur against the gold wall, and then she had thrown herself upward so that she broke through the ceiling, sending a rain of crystal shards crashing down on the marble floor. It was all over in an instant.
He was wrong. She knew the spell that held it in place, and she knew the counterspell that had destroyed it. Contineo and Frango. Lawrence had been thorough in his tutorials. In this at least, she would not fail her grandfather.
I'm sorry, Jack. But I can't go back there.
Never.
Then she disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 13
Bliss
"Listen! I am not going away until I see Bliss! I insist! You will have to call the police if you want me to leave?"
The voice was so strong, so aggressive and braying, so full of itself, brimming with the complete and total assumption that it was one hundred percent in the right, filled with the kind of New York arrogance that only a jaded city dweller could muster. It was the kind of voice that yelled at bike messengers and barked orders at scurrying underlings for half-caf no-foam ventis, so loud and insistent that it pierced through the muffled gauze that kept Bliss from seeing and hearing the outside world.
The Visitor stirred. It was like watching a coiled snake get ready to spring. Bliss held her breath.
The voice continued its tirade. "Can you at least tell her who's here?" What is the meaning of this nonsense?
Bliss jumped. It was the first time the Visitor had spoken directly to her in a year.
With a start, the lights came on, and she found she could see and was looking out the window. There was a short bald man standing at the front door, looking furious and harassing the maid.
"It's Henri", she said.
"Who is he?"
"My modeling agent."
"Explain."
Bliss sent images and memories to the Visitor: waiting outside the office at the Farnsworth Agency, her portfolio balanced on her knees, breakfast meetings with Henri over cappuccinos at Balthazar before school, walking the runway during New York fashion week, the photo shoots in the Starret-Lehigh lofts, her ad campaigns for Stitched for Civilization, jetting off for shoots in the Caribbean, her photographs on billboards, magazine spreads, plastered on the sides of buses and on top of taxis.
"Um, I'm a model?" she reminded him.
The cobra relaxed, coils unfurling, forked tongue withdrawn. But a tense wariness remained. The Visitor was not amused.
A model. A living mannequin.
Quickly he reached a decision. "Get rid of him. I have been remiss to let this happen. We shall keep up appearances. No one must suspect you are not you. Do not fail me."
"What do you mean?, what do you want me to do?", Bliss asked, but before she could finish, she was SMACK, back in her body, completely in control. This was nothing like last week's pathetic attempt to brush her bangs away from her forehead. She had realized how much of herself he was keeping from her, a thought she tried to shelter from him.
It was like coming back to life after being trapped in a coffin. She wobbled like a newborn colt. It was as if the world was coming into focus after years of watching a grainy, fuzzy movie version. She could smell the hollyhocks outside her window, she could taste the salt in the sea air.
Her hands, her hands were her own. They felt light and strong, not weighed down and heavy. Her legs were moving; she was walking! She tripped over the rug. Ouch! She pushed herself up and walked more carefully. But her freedom came at a price, for she sensed him, a presence, in the space just behind (that rear passenger seat), waiting, watching. This is a test, she thought. He wants to see what I'm going to do. I need to pass.... Get rid of Henri. But Henri must not suspect anything odd has happened to me.
She opened her bedroom door, savoring the feel of the cold bronze doorknob in her hand, and ran down the stairs.
"Wait! Manuela! Let him in?" she called, running to the foyer. It was a joy to hear her voice out in the world again, her wonderful throaty voice carrying in the air. It sounded different inside her head. She felt like singing.
"Bliss! Bliss?" the bald man cried. Henri looked exactly the same: the same rimless eyeglasses, the same monochromatic wardrobe. He was dressed all in white, in his summer uniform: a linen shirt and matching pants.
"Henri?"
