burning my hair and my lungs.
“Stop!” I yell, clawing through space and time at the blaze that started three years ago and, in a way, never has gone out.
“Stop!” I yell and start to scream.
“Are you okay?”
I look up at the driver. The limo isn’t moving and the divider is down.
“You did yell for me to stop, didn’t you? You’ve got to lower the divider for me to hear you. Or press the intercom.”
“Yes. Yes. I want — I need —”
I don’t bother to finish. I just climb out of the car and start down the street, holding up the skirt of my puffy pink ball gown, the train cinched within my fists. Running.
My shoes are gone, forgotten in the floorboard of the car, and I feel the damp cobblestones through the pantyhose that cover my bare feet. Feeling is starting to return to my toes. They go from numb to cold to bleeding, but I just run faster.
Gas surges through the streetlights overhead, growing brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again. The flames flicker and I have to stop.
My breath is coming harder than it should. My dress is too tight and so, so heavy. My head is spinning, too. When I slam myself against a wall, the gasp that comes is too shallow, too quick. I need a paper bag to breathe into but all I have are acres and acres of fluffy pink fabric.
I close my eyes and tell myself that I will not have a panic attack. I will not let them find me. I will not say a word.
Overhead, the streetlight flickers and goes out and all breath fails me. I slide to the ground. It must have rained because the stones are damp. My dress will be not just ripped, but ruined. But breath is more important to me. All I can care about is trying not to die.
When I close my eyes I hear the gunshot. I see the small circle of blood that starts in the center of my mother’s chest. Just a drop of something dark — like she should have used a napkin. But it has already started to spread. She stumbles back, unsteady.
And then the balcony falls. The sound is so loud. There are so many sparks — so much dust and flame and damage.
“No!” I think I might yell.
And then the man is on the street. He looks at me with cold indifference. He smells like smoke. Soot and ash cling to his brown leather jacket.
I retreat backward, away from the growing heat of the blaze. I stare up at him.
“My mother,” I say. “She’s dying!” I scream.
But the man just looks at me. “She’s dead.”
And then he turns and walks away so slowly.
In the distance, there are sirens. Someone will have seen the smoke. The shop has a security alarm. People are coming to help, but the man is not here to save anyone, least of all me.
He stops when he reaches a dark sedan, turns and looks back at the burning building. The whole street is orange and red. I need no other light to make out the massive scar that covers the left side of his face. I swear that I will never forget that face as long as I live.
I swear that, someday, I will see that face again.
“Grace?” I hear the voice in the darkness. When the glow of the lamp returns, I can see the dark figure on the other side of the street.
Instinctively, I move backward, clawing against the sidewalk, desperate to put every possible inch between me and the man who is moving steadily closer.
“Grace, are you okay?” Alexei says, and I curse him. I hate him for disappearing during the ball and now for showing up here — when I’m crying and broken and low.
I can’t let him see me like this. He’ll tell Ms. Chancellor or my grandfather. Or, worse, he’ll tell Jamie. And then it will start again. It will be just like After . With the pills and the shrinks and the looks.
I can never go back to After.
I push myself off the sidewalk and begin limping down the street. My toes are raw, but at least I’m free of the uncomfortable shoes.
“Grace, stop.” Alexei sprints across the street and tries to block my path.
“Go away,” I tell him.
“No.” The way he says it, he
“Stop!” I yell, clawing through space and time at the blaze that started three years ago and, in a way, never has gone out.
“Stop!” I yell and start to scream.
“Are you okay?”
I look up at the driver. The limo isn’t moving and the divider is down.
“You did yell for me to stop, didn’t you? You’ve got to lower the divider for me to hear you. Or press the intercom.”
“Yes. Yes. I want — I need —”
I don’t bother to finish. I just climb out of the car and start down the street, holding up the skirt of my puffy pink ball gown, the train cinched within my fists. Running.
My shoes are gone, forgotten in the floorboard of the car, and I feel the damp cobblestones through the pantyhose that cover my bare feet. Feeling is starting to return to my toes. They go from numb to cold to bleeding, but I just run faster.
Gas surges through the streetlights overhead, growing brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again. The flames flicker and I have to stop.
My breath is coming harder than it should. My dress is too tight and so, so heavy. My head is spinning, too. When I slam myself against a wall, the gasp that comes is too shallow, too quick. I need a paper bag to breathe into but all I have are acres and acres of fluffy pink fabric.
I close my eyes and tell myself that I will not have a panic attack. I will not let them find me. I will not say a word.
Overhead, the streetlight flickers and goes out and all breath fails me. I slide to the ground. It must have rained because the stones are damp. My dress will be not just ripped, but ruined. But breath is more important to me. All I can care about is trying not to die.
When I close my eyes I hear the gunshot. I see the small circle of blood that starts in the center of my mother’s chest. Just a drop of something dark — like she should have used a napkin. But it has already started to spread. She stumbles back, unsteady.
And then the balcony falls. The sound is so loud. There are so many sparks — so much dust and flame and damage.
“No!” I think I might yell.
And then the man is on the street. He looks at me with cold indifference. He smells like smoke. Soot and ash cling to his brown leather jacket.
I retreat backward, away from the growing heat of the blaze. I stare up at him.
“My mother,” I say. “She’s dying!” I scream.
But the man just looks at me. “She’s dead.”
And then he turns and walks away so slowly.
In the distance, there are sirens. Someone will have seen the smoke. The shop has a security alarm. People are coming to help, but the man is not here to save anyone, least of all me.
He stops when he reaches a dark sedan, turns and looks back at the burning building. The whole street is orange and red. I need no other light to make out the massive scar that covers the left side of his face. I swear that I will never forget that face as long as I live.
I swear that, someday, I will see that face again.
“Grace?” I hear the voice in the darkness. When the glow of the lamp returns, I can see the dark figure on the other side of the street.
Instinctively, I move backward, clawing against the sidewalk, desperate to put every possible inch between me and the man who is moving steadily closer.
“Grace, are you okay?” Alexei says, and I curse him. I hate him for disappearing during the ball and now for showing up here — when I’m crying and broken and low.
I can’t let him see me like this. He’ll tell Ms. Chancellor or my grandfather. Or, worse, he’ll tell Jamie. And then it will start again. It will be just like After . With the pills and the shrinks and the looks.
I can never go back to After.
I push myself off the sidewalk and begin limping down the street. My toes are raw, but at least I’m free of the uncomfortable shoes.
“Grace, stop.” Alexei sprints across the street and tries to block my path.
“Go away,” I tell him.
“No.” The way he says it, he
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