Page 105 of Florescentia

“I promise.”

“Is she angry with me?” She sobbed, “God, I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“Allison”—his tone was scolding but playful—“you know she passed in peace.”

“But I have waited too long . . .”

“A child’s patience for their mother is endless,” he said. “Be with her.”

Never had I witnessed such a long silence. It may have been short, but I was at the edge. I wanted to know. I so desperately wanted to see if she would go.

A squeak, like a door hinge. The tapping of soft feet on hardwood.

“How will we know she’s passed?” I whispered.

He waved his hand and held a finger to his lips. Then his finger lowered to point to the grimoire.

Her soft, easy eyes began to fade, the black ink lifting to a blue, then a tan. Not long before the image had washed itself from the page. A blank.

There was no one on the other side of the inky opening.

“I thought you said when they pass beyond, they’re gone.” I looked to him. “Why did you lie to her?”

“When energy rejoins the universe, it just changes form. Her child may not be there in sentience, but she is joining her again, in a way,” he explained. “I didn’t lie, but I suppose it’s hard to express that to someone in distress.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow, my hands fumbling over my final attempt.

It was suddenly hard to catch my breath.

In and out, faster every time, I couldn’t stop.

Then it all broke down at once.

For the first time, it was settling that this might not be something I could fix. There was a gap between my ambitions and my abilities.

Was I prepared for what would happen if this didn’t work, and Dorian was gone for good?

Was I prepared to open the void and hear silence?

Was I prepared to accept that the accident was, in the end, my fault?

No, the ritual had to work. It would work. I’d done the impossible; there was no reason I couldn’t do this.

I wiped my face with my sleeve, placing the book beside me.

With shaking hands, I clenched them in my lap.

“Dorian Fairfax,” I demanded.

My eyes were a bit swollen from crying, as was my nose.

Focus.

I closed my eyes, summoning every intention I knew. I invoked memories of him. The way he would tick his sleeve when he was nervous, or his scent of worn cologne after a long day at work, or even the sound of a sleepy sigh when he dozed off.

My eyes opened . . . to nothing changed.

If my shoulders could slump any more, I’d be the shape of a crawfish after boiling.