A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [25]
Michael stood at the rear of the procession, his once jolly and engaging face entirely devoid of colour, of life, of anything recognizable. His luminous heart was doused. It was the most terrifying sight Rebecca had ever beheld, watching this unfold on the mist before her eyes, her hand to her mouth, tears in her eyes.
Constance spoke gently, but gravely. “In this delicate space between time and memory, any one of these phantom reflections could become reality. If you accept it, down you go into the cold, deadly kiss of the Thames. What say you?”
“No,” was all Rebecca could manage, in a desperate murmur.
In a panic she rejected those images. She did not want to see or to bring about this future. Yet her younger self still stood precarious.
Constance gestured behind her. “See here what you missed.”
From a dark alley, a figure broke from shadow. He wore a dark, modest coat, his hair was disheveled, and his cheeks glowed bright with a blush even in the dim lamplight. His beautiful blue eyes were wide with panic, and he was prepared to run forward and save her. But he was far enough away that, even if he ran full tilt, he might not cross the distance before she fell.
“Michael,” Rebecca gasped into her hand. “Oh, Michael, I did not want you to see this.”
“He was the Heart,” Constance murmured. “He felt it before he saw it. Before Frederic summoned him, he was already on his way.”
“He was there,” Rebecca choked.
“He always has been.”
It was a solid truth that turned Rebecca’s stomach.
“Now you must watch and accept,” Constance added.
As Michael ran forward, she saw that he held something large and black in his hands, something surprisingly docile for being a wild creature. It was Frederic. Michael held the raven in his palms, its blue breast feather aglow. He released the bird with a soft prayer, and it flew to the younger version of Rebecca on the bridge.
Rebecca watched herself pause. She remembered how she’d reflected in that instant, seeing the swarm of spirits wishing to block her. They did not want her to join them, she’d realized. Not yet. And when she’d felt Frederic alight on her shoulder, she’d reached a trembling hand up to his talons and her heart had grown less heavy upon contact.
The blue glow of the bird’s breast feather faded. Rebecca saw now that Michael had used Frederic as his gift’s conduit, to impart what his hands were too far away to bequeath. Her younger self’s foot shifted, slid back off the ledge.
“What am I doing . . . ?” she heard herself mutter. Tears were pouring down her younger cheeks. Frederic rubbed his head against her, and she stroked his feathers. “I’m so sorry, Frederic. I love you. Thank you.”
Michael had saved her. His talent for leavening the heart had bridged the gap until her gifts could regain control. Instinct now reassured her younger self, but Michael’s gift had pulled her back from the edge. The bleak alternate future dissipated like fog in a breeze.
Rebecca glanced over at him and absorbed the intense relief on his face. It was beautiful and poignant, his tears tiny glimmers in the gaslight. He stepped back into partial shadow but did not leave.
A spirit approached her younger, shaking self, and though silent, she’d understood as the ghost, a young woman in century-old clothes, perhaps who had thrown herself off that same bridge, carefully mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
The elder Rebecca heard the words this time, and she was moved to reply, “No. Thank you. Thank all of you.”
Constance, who had stood as still and as impassive as a statue, smiled.
“That simple exchange, that thank-you,” Rebecca murmured, “fed my lonely soul for years. I knew that while I wouldn’t receive the love I craved from Alexi, that crowd of spectres alone was evidence that I did have a purpose.”
Her focus shifted to Michael, still standing in the shadows. “Why didn’t he say anything?”
“You know him,” Constance replied. “You know why.”
“Because he knew the shame and horror I felt,” Rebecca said, watching those sentiments so evident on her younger incarnation’s face. “He