What was his name? What was her baby’s name? Panicked, she clutched him close, then whirled as she heard Flynn come to the door.
“You look so beautiful, Malory. I love you.”
“Flynn.” Something was wrong with her eyes. It was as if she could see through him, as if he were fading away. “Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s exactly right. Everything’s just the way you wanted it to be.”
“It’s not real, is it?” Tears began to sting her eyes. “It’s not real.”
“It could be.”
A light flashed, and she was standing in a studio awash with light. Canvases were stacked against the walls or rested on easels. She faced another, brilliant with color and shape. A brush was in her hand, and she was already daubing it on her palette.
“I’ve done this,” she whispered as she stared at the canvas. It was a forest, misty with green light. The figure walking on the path was alone. Not lonely, she thought, but solitary. There was home at the end of the path, and a bit of time yet to enjoy the quiet and the magic of the woods.
Her hand had done that. Her mind, her heart. She could feel it, just as she could feel and remember every brushstroke on every canvas in the room.
The power of that, the glory of it with all its pain and pleasure.
“I can do this.” With a kind of frantic glee, she continued to paint. “I have to do this.”
The joy was like a drug, and she was greedy for it. She knew how to mix just the right tone of color, when to sweep it on, when to switch for the fine, fine details.
How to create that light, that shadow so one might feel as if he or she could slip inside, walk that path, and find home at the end of it.
But even as she painted, tears began to run down her cheeks. “It’s not real.”
“It could be.”
The brush clattered to the floor, splattering paint, as she whirled.
He stood beside her, with the sun’s rays flooding over him. And still he was dark. His hair, black and glossy, spread like wings to his shoulders. His eyes were a strong stone gray. Sharp, high cheekbones hollowed his cheeks, and his mouth was full, appealingly wicked.
Beautiful, she thought. How could he be beautiful?
“Did you think I’d look like a demon? Like something out of a nightmare?” His amusement only added charm. “Why should I? They’ve made you think poorly of me, haven’t they?”
“You’re Kane.” Fear was alive in her, with its cold hands closing around her throat. “You stole the souls from the Daughters of Glass.”
“It needn’t concern you.” His voice was beautiful as well. Melodic, soothing. “You’re an ordinary woman in an ordinary world. You know nothing of me or mine. I wish you no harm. The opposite, in fact.” With a dancer’s grace, he wandered the room, his soft boots silent on the paint-splattered floor. “This is your work.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, you know it.” He lifted a canvas, studied the sinuous lines of a mermaid lounging on a rock. “You remember painting this, and the others. You know now how it feels to have that power. Art makes gods out of men.” He set the canvas down again. “Or women. What are we, in my world, but artists and bards, magicians and warriors? You want to keep the power, Malory?”
She swiped at the tears, saw her work through them. “Yes.”
“You can have it, all of it, and more. The man you want, the life, the family. I’ll give them to you. The child you held in your arms? It can all be real, it can all belong to you.”
“At what price?”
“So little.” He slid a finger over her damp cheek, and the tear he stole flamed on its tip. “So very little. You’ve only to stay within this dream. To wake and sleep within it, to walk, to speak, to eat, to love. All you can wish for will be here for you. Perfection—without pain, without death.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “There are no keys in this dream.”
“You’re a clever woman. Why care about keys, about bastard goddesses who have nothing to do with you? Why risk yourself and those you love for foolish girls who should never have been born? Would you give up your own dream for strangers?”
“I don’t want a dream. I want my life. I won’t trade my life for your illusions.”