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But when I come upon Blaise, her form isn’t at all what I expect. Around Blaise’s body is a silvery orb that reflects the light of the sun.
And within the orb, Blaise changes.
The first image is that of a child, the Blaise I remember from when she was barely twelve. That Blaise is crying, scrubbing her long black hair full of tangles in a crusty sink, clumps of debris staining the water gray.
Within the image is a man. His gaze snakes over Blaise’s childish form as if she were the prominent lady in a renowned brothel, for whom he’d just paid good money.
My gut turns over, but then there’s Blaise again. Except this time she’s older, the Blaise I knew before she Turned. Her shadow overcomes that of the man’s, and she steps between him and the child. Then she produces a comb from her pocket, allowing her childhood self to sit in her lap as she brushes the tangles out of her hair, all the while holding the crying girl.
As quickly as it appeared, the image shifts, revealing this time a girl curled up in the shadows. Sacks of flour and sugar are stacked on the pantry shelves behind her. This time, the girl isn’t crying. Instead, she lies there, a stunned expression on her youthful face. Her eyes blink rapidly, as if she thinks maybe she should be producing tears, but for some reason can’t.
My stomach turns over again as young Blaise fiddles with the string at her waistband.
But then the older Blaise appears, again scooping the girl into her lap. She brushes her hair from her face and holds her younger self close. Faint whispers from the older Blaise to her younger self echo, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
Only that the stunned little girl is now sobbing, shaking and trembling in her older self’s arms.
There’s a shift, then younger Blaise is in a small cot in a dingy attic, passed out as Clarissa and the midwife exchange frantic whispers. There’s a bundle in the midwife’s hand, one she refuses to hand to Clarissa no matter how much the woman insists.
But this image isn’t true, because the younger Blaise wakes up, the haze over her eyes clearing as she asks the midwife if she can hold her child.
The midwife responds, but the words are too muffled to hear.
Blaise’s already blood-drained face turns pale.
And then she screams, thrashing and writhing in bed. The sight makes me want to be sick. Older Blaise appears, shooing Clarissa from the room as she peers down with somber eyes at the swaddled baby in the midwife’s arms.
Then she crawls into bed with the younger girl and holds her tightly as she screams.
The image swirls again, warping into the facade of the main strip in Othian. A bell rings over Madame LeFleur’s shop, and into it shuffles Blaise, looking less confident than I’ve ever seen her, now that there’s no one around for her to convince otherwise. Madame LeFleur hunches over a piece of parchment. She doesn’t bother to look up as she opens her mouth to call to the girl, but she’s interrupted by a newcomer who slips into the shop.
The image changes.
Blaise coated in Ellie’s blood. Blaise helping herself clean it.
Blaise murdering Clarissa. Blaise wiping the hair from her younger self’s neck and holding her.
The next to appear is the image I’ve been dreading the most. Because it’s me in the image, my expression wrought with agony as I scream at Blaise. As I tell her she’s worthless. That I’m done with her.
The blood leeches from my face as I hear my words. How they sounded to her ears.
Blaise backs away, her entire body trembling, and I search the image for the slightly older version of herself. It takes me a moment, but I find her hiding and watching from beyond the trees.
I wait for her to reveal herself, to comfort the trembling girl, who it’s so easy to see now is crushed, broken, but the older Blaise’s face is set on Ellie.
My stomach turns over as I watch the scene play out, except it’s not real, not a memory or a reflection of the past, but a conjuring of Blaise’s mind, of what she assumes happened that night.
The labor happens faster than it should, and something instinctual warns me to avert my eyes as Amity pulls Cecilia from the womb.
Amity’s voice warbles, her throat caught because she’s just a child, a child who doesn’t know how to tell parents their child is dead.
My heart breaks in half as the realization washes over me.
“No,” I tell Blaise, though I’m not certain she can hear me. “No, Blaise, that’s not what happened. Our baby lived. Her name is Cecilia, and she’s beautiful and healthy and…”
My voice catches in my throat, because although I can’t bring myself to watch the scene playing out between me and Ellie, my attention swerves to the older Blaise, observing her younger self from the trees.
“Go to her,” I whisper. “Like you did all the other times.”
