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It was nice inside the crystal. Quiet. You’d never say that out loud, of course, but you also haven’t been its prisoner for eight hundred years. You’d never have survived this long in effective solitude. No books, no one to talk to. Nothing to pass the days but curse the ones who put you there and wonder if there’s some way to end it all. It was a little like coming to the Downside, only there really wasn’t a way out this time. Exile was easy compared to this endless green nothing.
But she had survived; half because she couldn’t not and half because she’d never give those damned Scribes the satisfaction.
You guide your thoughts back to the conversation. Monologue, really, since Sandra was the one doing all of the talking. That was usually the case between the two of you: she got to say all the things she’d never had a chance to say, and you would absorb it all with a willing ear. You’ve lost track of the hours you two have spent together since the Rites came to an end. Sandra has a knack for storytelling, and you’ve developed a taste for her dry humor and cynicism.
Among other things.
You’re not sure what she’s explaining this time—something about a blade and some sort of challenge? All you know for sure is that her lips are moving, and words are coming out, and you rather wished they weren’t.
“Sandra,” you say; gently at first, then with more confidence than you feel: “Sandra.”
“—and this idiot thinks he can—what.”
“Shut up.”
She has just enough time to look put-out before you cover the disapproving curve of her lips with your own. Touch isn’t the same inside the crystal—you’re not here, not really, but you’re real enough to feel her, soft and solid, there and not-there all at once. Your lips tingle from the contact, your mind trying to make sense of something your body is unable to translate, and you wrap your fingers in the spaces between hers and hold on.
As you pull away, you realize Sandra hasn’t moved. For a moment you’re afraid that she’s angry. But that’s not an angry face: her brows are arched in surprise, not furrowed, and her mouth, slightly swollen and with a bit more color than usual, open just enough that you can hear her breathing. Which is something, because you’re sure ghosts don’t breathe.
You wait for her to say something, anything, but it quickly becomes apparent that the task has fallen to you.
“Uh.”
Well, this is awkward.
Then something changes. Suddenly she’s the Sandra you know: sneering, shoulders tilted at a jaunty angle, eyes boring into you without sight. This is the face of The Unseeing, the head of the Beyonders, the mysterious assassin from the crystal you met once upon a time; the loud-mouthed specter who’s kicked your spiritual ass more times than you can count.
“Don’t you know,” she snaps, “that it’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re telling a story?”
You start to panic, even as an ache blooms deep inside your chest. You’ve screwed up this time, Reader. You’ve ruined everything.
“I-I’m sorry!” Maybe if you play it off, she’ll forgive you for overstepping your bounds. For being a dumb, love-struck fool. For thinking there was still hope for a pair of cosmic rejects like the two of you. “I just—I mean I—”
The tingle is back, on your lips your face your hands your hair. Sandra is everywhere, her hands ghosting over your features like she’s trying to memorize every edge. Like she’s pulling you into herself.
Now you’re sure ghosts don’t need to breathe. You’d be drowning, otherwise.
Sandra finally pulls away, letting you come to your senses as the tingles fade. You miss them already.
“You really are lovely,” she murmurs. Then Sandra grins, laughing not in spite but in earnest. “There, see?” she asks. “How do you like it?”
“Strangely enough,” and your voice comes out sounding strangled, now, breath or no, “I don’t really mind.”