Page 165 of Death of the Glass Angel
Eros hopped up the stairs, tripping and teetering on a slight bump in the ancient tower’s floor. Laughing, he continued the climb, more mindful of his footsteps.
“Stairs are hard.” He muttered to himself, exactly as he had eight years ago.
Janus trailed after her little brother, eyeing the spot beside him where she had stood as a child. Why had her memories manifested to haunt her? She could not look away, could not stop chasing him. If she reached out to touch him, would he turn around?
Evoking did not work this way. It should not work this way.
Choking back a sob, Janus flew up the steps, closing the gap between them. She grabbed Eros by the shoulder. Her hand met a soft tunic, slightly too big for the skinny boy. Warmth radiated from the living body beneath it. Tangible. Real.
But despite her efforts, Eros did not budge or glance behind. He instead looked right, intently listening to a description of the tower’s history that a young Janus would have been sharing.
Just a memory.
Janus’ fingers dug into his shoulder. If she held on, if she didn’t let go, would he. . .
Could she bring him back?
“Janus!” Felsin’s voice echoed behind her.
Startled, she whipped around to see Felsin ascending the stairs behind her.
“Where are we?” he asked, panicked.
Eros slipped out of Janus’ grip as he resumed his climb. Hands knit behind his back, he bounced eagerly by the second-story window, gazing out across the desert.
“You’re an evoker.” Felsin insisted. “Get us out of here!”
What had happened before this? Janus could not recall. Had she not always been standing here, in this tower?
No, she had been watching a play. The scene had changed; the soldiers had dragged Burgundy into a burning building. From the stage, fire had spread, consuming the opera.
“Get us out?” Janus repeated. “Why would I want to leave?”
“Janus, this isn’t real. Spirits know what’s happening back at the opera.”
“Isn’t real?” Janus gestured to Eros. “Evoking cannot create life, Felsin. What is this, if not real?”
Felsin reached her and grabbed her arm. “Everything’s the same as it was, no? We can’t change anything—it’s already passed.”
Pulling from his hold, Janus returned to Eros and placed her hands on his shoulders. She ran a hand through his hair, but he did not react to her presence. He laughed at something she’d said, eight years ago.
Wrapping her arms around him, Janus felt hot tears run down her cheeks. Was this a blessing or cruelty, to be allowed this moment?
“I think I understand.” She said shakily. “What Alfaris meant. That I cannot let go. That I can’t see ahead.”
Felsin circled Eros, studying her brother. He looked up at her with soft eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Do you not remember what I said? Someone must remember the dead, lest they be lost. Memories keep them alive.”
“It’s my fault. I’m the one who. . .”
“I was a little brother, once,” Felsin said quietly. “I wouldn’t have wanted my sibling to wallow in guilt. I would have wanted them to make it up to me.”
Make it up to Eros? Janus felt him laugh, shoulders shaking. The kid had been a brat. Felsin was right.
Janus owed Eros. From the unfinished threads of his life, she’d pick up his lost dreams and fulfill them in his stead. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. But this way, she could face him in the afterlife and greet his smile with hers.
Felsin laid his hand on her arm. “Memories aren’t supposed to be like this. You have to let him go. We’re not safe here.”
This had happened before. In the Forebear’s monolith, the tomb had disappeared, and Janus had been transported to a flowering fieldunder a brilliant night sky—the same Alfaris had gazed upon long ago. He had been real, too. A mere few paces away.
