Page 186 of Flirting with Darkness

The crack in her voice broke my heart. I picked my way through the rocks littering the riverbank, moving slowly, keeping my arms wide so she’d see I wasn’t a threat. I only wanted to help. “Hello?”

She didn’t look up, didn’t pause in her washing, just kept at her rocking and muttering. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

“Are you all right?”

Still no response.

Now I was closer, something in the square set of her shoulders felt oddly familiar. Her voice, too—it picked at the back of my mind, a scorched version of a voice I knew. It tightened my chest and stung my eyes, tugging, tugging, tugging on recognition. “Do I know you?”

Nothing.

“Can I help?” Even though she’d been working the whole time I’d been here, the washing still overflowed from her basket. Maybe if I did some for her, it would allow her to rest and mourn as she was so clearly trying to do.

“She’s dead.”

I reached her basket and eyed it. Would it be rude to just take an item and start cleaning? It might help her understand that I wanted to help.

Next to the rock she sat upon, the stream swirled into a wide pool. The moonlight barely gleamed on its surface, leaving only a dark reflection that gave no hint of how deep it might be.

“She’s dead.” Her hair rippled as she shook her head and wept.

“I’m so sorry.” I took another step closer, fingers itching to touch her shoulder in comfort. “Who do you mourn?”

She went still, head still bowed, then muttered something that wasn’t “she’s dead” over and over.

I edged closer and leant in. “What’s—?”

When she looked up, I knew why she seemed so familiar.

That face, so much like my own. Large eyes, a proud jaw, nose a little too broad to be considered pretty.

My mother.

But… beneath those large eyes pooled purple shadows. Her skin sagged on hollow cheeks and crinkled around her too-skinny throat. My mother wasn’t this old, had never looked so haggard.

She stared at me, eyes milky, and pulled her hands from the water. Face crumpling, she grabbed handfuls of her hair and tugged. The skin on her knuckles cracked, dark blood seeping out, dripping in the stream, staining her pale hair. Her fingers had been wet so long, they’d gone beyond wrinkled.

Gods, how long had she been here? “Ma?” I hurried forward, vision blurring as I reached for her poor hands. I knew it wasn’t her, but I couldn’t help calling her that. Not when she looked so similar.

“My girl.”

“That’s right, Ma, your girl is here. I’ll look after you.” I gasped at how cold her flesh was when I tried to disentangle her fingers from her hair.

She shook her head, grip tightening, resisting my efforts. “My girl is dead and gone,” she wailed.

I sucked in another breath. Oh no, not Peony. Please don’t say something had happened to—

“Rose is dead and gone.”

I froze.

“Rose is dead.” She said it over and over, louder each time.

It was as though the cold in her had seeped into me, stilling the blood in my veins, the breath in my chest. I opened my mouth to tell her that I wasn’t dead, that I was right here, but my tongue wouldn’t work.

“My girl is dead and gone. My Rose. She’s dead.”

Then the pool erupted.

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