Chapter Thirty-Six
Born Again
The Bliss
The tears in the fabric of what has been my reality are becoming impossible to ignore.
One of the first imperfections I notice is on the far wall of my living room.
A thin line where the perfectly placed wallpaper doesn’t quite line up with the piece next to it.
The paisley pattern that runs from sheet to sheet is off by only centimeters, but it’s off all the same, and I can’t take my eyes off it.
I rub at my face to distract myself, then look out the window to the front garden.
The flowers are blooming in the exact same positions as they were yesterday.
And the day before that. I seek the comfort of their sameness, and so leave my cottage to be amongst them.
I walk the path and count them. Seventeen roses along the left side.
Fourteen daisies in the center bed. Nine violets scattered throughout.
Seventeen. Fourteen. Nine.
The same numbers every single day.
I pull one of the roses from its stem. The flower comes away too easily, and when I examine it closely, I see that it’s not real at all.
It’s something else, something that looks like a rose but feels wrong in my hand.
It’s like a waxy replica. A perfect facsimile of a flower rather than an actual bloom.
I feel a coldness wash over me.
I drop the false flower and move through The Bliss with new eyes. Everything I see suddenly appears shallow and two-dimensional. Like I’m walking through a painting rather than a place.
The cardigan man approaches me on the path, his smile plastered on his face, his greeting prepared.
“Beautiful tidi—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice sharp. “No, it’s not. It never changes. It is always the same. You always say the same thing. Your smile is always exactly the same width. Your eyes are always the same distance apart.”
The man freezes. His expression doesn’t waver, but I note the shift in his eyes. I’ve broken some fundamental rule of this place by acknowledging the repetition aloud.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand—”
“Of course you don’t. Can’t you see? None of this is real.”
I move past him, my chest aching. I feel like the sky is closing in on me and I don’t know how to escape. I don’t even know where I would escape to. My feet carry me further down the road.
I find the woman with the white dog near Infinity Lake.
“You,” I call out, approaching her directly. “What’s your name?”
She smiles. “Eleanor. I’ve always been Eleanor.”
“No. That’s not possible. You don’t have a name. You’re part of the landscape.”
“I beg your pardon—”
“How many days have you walked this path?” I demand. “How many times have you said the same greeting? How many times have you fed birds that don’t eat? How many times have you existed in this exact moment, over and over, without variation or change?”
Eleanor’s smile wavers for the first time. The crack in her facade is visible now that I’m looking for it.
“I’m happy here,” she says, but the words sound hollow and rehearsed.
“Are you?” I step closer. “Are you truly happy? Or have you forgotten how to want anything else?”
She doesn’t answer. She stands there, the white dog at her side, frozen, like a doll waiting for someone to wind it up and set it in motion again.
I leave her and continue moving through The Bliss, my paranoia building with each step.
Everything is a lie. The cottages are painted illusions. The gardens are artificial replicas. The people are shells, repeating their assigned behaviors. The entire realm is a simulation of peace, designed to trap souls who were too broken to choose anything else.
Then another realization crashes into me, harder than any that have preceded it—I am one of these souls.
I chose this.
I chose The Bliss.
I was broken, and I chose to forget.
But what? What did I want to erase from my mind? What was I running from? Where am I running now?
These questions send panic spiraling through me. I need to leave. I need to find Chance. He’s the only one who’s shown me anything real, anything true. He’s the only one who might know something. He’s the only one who can help. If I even can be helped anymore.
That last thought nearly stops me in my tracks, but it can’t get any worse than this, so I run.
My feet carry me away from the cottages, away from the repetitive gardens, away from the souls who smile and greet and exist without questioning. I run toward the River of Remembrance, toward the place where Chance found me before.
Every instinct screams at me to escape, to get out, to remember how to be something other than this ghost of contentment.
I reach the river and skid to a stop.
Chance isn’t here.
The iron bench where he lay is empty. The water of the river flows peacefully, showing me nothing but pleasant reflections and vague positive memories.
“Chance!” I call out, my voice echoing across the water. “CHANCE! Where are you? I need you!”
A sound behind me makes me spin around.
A woman stands at the edge of the clearing. She’s tall, elegant, devastatingly beautiful, and undeniably dangerous. Her hair is dark as midnight. Her dress is the color of ice. And her eyes … her eyes are dangerous. They look like weapons and make my skin prickle with fear.
Those eyes contain power. Divine power. The golden threads weaving through her metallic silver irises seem to move and shift like snakes ready to strike.
“I should’ve known my worthless brother would have his fingers in this,” she snarls before her eyes lock with mine, the golden threads pulling taut and illuminating. “You,” she mutters, and her voice carries a viciousness that feels like a punch in my chest. “You’re the one he’s after.”
“I don’t know who you are,” I say, taking a step back. “But I suggest you leave me be. I have no quarrel with you.”
“No quarrel?” She laughs, and the sound is like breaking glass. “Oh, how delightful. You don’t even know what you’ve cost me.”
She moves toward me with the lazy grace of something that’s never had to question its dominance. Every step is effortless.
“Asher,” she says the name like a curse. “A reaper. A broken, damaged reaper who was perfectly content to seek pain in my quarters until you, a ghost from centuries ago, suddenly became more important than anything real.”
Recognition hits me like a physical blow.
This woman knows Thomas. Knows him in a way that makes my stomach churn with something that might be jealousy or might be rage or might be both.
“How could I have done anything while trapped here? What do you want?” I ask, my voice steady despite my panic.
“Oh, don’t think I am unaware you have a little friend in your pocket, helping you.
” She gestures to my satchel across my chest, where Chance’s magic ball resides.
“Trust me, when I’m through with you, he will be next on my list. If I’m being exiled, I’m taking everyone I can down with me.
I should’ve made sure you never had the option for The Bliss.
You should’ve been tossed into The Nothing when your shredded soul was spat into the OtherWorld.
” She circles me slowly. “All because you chose to remember, I am losing my power. Do you understand what that means cosmically?” Her lip curls as she looks down at me.
“No. I don’t even know who you are. What are you doing here?”
“I ask the questions. You speak when I let you.”
I am frozen in place. Now, I’m not even sure if it’s safe to talk. The silence lasts a fraction of a second before this spectral stranger reaches out with inhuman speed and grabs my wrist. Her grip is cold and unbreakable. “Good girl. What an obedient little wench you can be.”
I try to wrest my arm free, but her strength is absolute.
“Do you know the problem with asking too many questions, mortal?” Her voice drips venom. After a brief silence, she barks. “Speak.”
“No.” I answer immediately.
“The problem with questions is that they often have answers. And sometimes, those answers are more than souls can bear.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But you will now.” Her eyes flash with something terrible. Power. Fury. And beneath it all, something that almost looks like hurt.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing that hasn’t already been done. You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Maddy?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I. Know. Everything.” The words slither out of her mouth and send shivers down my spine. Her grip on my arm tightens and she begins to drag me toward the river. “And now you will too. About your own sad life, anyway.”
“No!” I cry out. “No, please—”
“You asked the questions,” she says. “Try not to drown in the answers.”
She shoves me with all the force of her fury.
I stumble forward and lose my footing. The edge of the river rushes up to meet me, and I fall headfirst into the water.
The river consumes my body, then my head bobs to the surface.
I open my mouth to scream, but a current I’ve never felt in these waters before pulls me back under. No sound passes my lips, but water instantly fills my mouth. I am now fully submerged, the water swirling around me. I am sinking, but not to the bottom of the river.
No. I am losing myself in memory.
England, 1870
The pain is a deep, twisting sensation that starts low in my abdomen and radiates outward, like fire consuming everything in its path. I wake to find myself soaked in perspiration, my nightdress clinging to my body, my sheets ruined by various fluids.
For a moment, I’m confused. Then the pain comes again, stronger this time, and understanding crashes down upon me.
It is the baby. It is coming.
“Oh,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my swollen belly. “No. Not yet. Please, not yet.”
But my body has decided otherwise.
The spinster, Mrs. Hartwell, appears in the doorway with the efficiency of someone who’s done this many times before.
“How far apart are the pains?” she asks, already moving to the window to adjust the light.
“I don’t know. I’ve only just woken—”