Oblivion

Cool air gusted past them, stirring Gwen’s hair, intensifying the scent of lavender, and with each silky note, the world around Isobel grew clearer, its lines sharper, the colors more vibrant, until she was fully present in the moment, not split between two places, two worlds.

She’d never known Gwen could sing like this. She’d never have guessed, either. Before this moment, Gwen had always been wry wit and blunt truths. Gwen was sound advice and rationality. Her kindness had always been the sandpaper sort, as abrasive as it was smoothing. Apparently, though, Gwen had a softness, too, a gentleness she kept hidden. A gentleness Isobel found herself all too grateful for.

“That word,” Isobel said as the song looped to its chorus. “Lyul—lyul—”

“Lyulinke,” Gwen said, pausing. “It means hush-a-bye.”

Isobel shivered at the meaning, recalling how Varen’s mother had once composed a lullaby for him. Isobel had seen his memory of that moment multiple times, both in reality and in the dreamworld.

Like Gwen’s, Varen’s lullaby had been unbearably sad. Sorrow distilled into sound. And though Isobel could not understand the lyrics of Gwen’s song, the music helped her to feel less alone. Because it captured how she felt. Bereaved. Forsaken. Held hostage by the past.

As Gwen’s singing turned again to humming, Isobel’s clenched muscles began to relax. Her body slackened in Gwen’s grip, and she rested her head into the crook of her friend’s arm, content to feel like a child again. Content to be reminded that, despite everything she’d lost, she was still here, still alive.

The song ended before Isobel was ready for silence, and though the ache inside of her returned with the pulsing noiselessness of the graveyard, the fear that had nearly consumed her moments before remained at bay.

“That was beautiful,” Isobel said at last, staring into the bright blue of the clear sky. “Where did you—?”

“My grandmother,” Gwen said. “Lullabies are kind of an old tradition in our family. In many families, I guess. They’re said to have the power to protect. The word ‘lullaby’ itself means, ‘Lilith, begone.’”

Isobel frowned, remembering how Pinfeathers had once said something about lullabies. About how they never worked . . .

Then her fingers rushed to her collar, burrowing through the layers of material to find the hand-shaped pendant Gwen had given her, the amulet that had worked to save her life. “You mean like the hamsa?”

“Like the hamsa,” Gwen said.

The wind whipped past Isobel’s ears with a white-noise rush, mixing with the chirping of birds. She listened, doing her best to sync her breathing with Gwen’s, to slow the rhythm of her heart before trying to move.

Huddled there in the grass with the best friend she’d ever had, Isobel tried to limit her thoughts to the here and now, absorbing the calmness she would need to prepare her for whatever came next.

But then a loud crack boomed through the cemetery, causing the birds to disperse in a flutter.

Starting, Isobel sat up.

Gunshots, she thought as the blasts came twice more, their echoes ricocheting through the air like claps of thunder.

6

The Grey Tombstone

Peeking around the corner of an enormous mausoleum, Isobel saw another tent erected several yards away, its burgundy canvas shielding a gathering of about a dozen from the weak winter sun.

The cluster of mourners, dressed in somber suits, skirts, and heavy winter coats, stood with their backs to her and Gwen, facing what Isobel knew must be a grave site.

To one side of the small assembly, a trio of military officers waited at attention, each armed with his own rifle—the source of the gunshot blasts.

“Green Berets,” Gwen whispered, peering over Isobel’s shoulder. “This must be the bookshop guy.”

Recalling how Bruce’s obituary had mentioned his service in the army, Isobel realized Gwen had to be right. The shots they’d heard moments before must have been meant as a final salute.

Isobel scanned the ranks of mourners, searching for Varen’s familiar form.

“Do you see him?” Gwen asked as the first notes of “Taps,” played by a lone bugler, floated forth to fill the reverent quiet.

Slipping out from behind the tomb, Isobel glanced left and right but saw no one among the other graves, no sign of that black coat or jet hair.

“No,” she said.

Just because she couldn’t see him, though, didn’t mean Varen wasn’t there. Watching.

Strengthened by Gwen’s lullaby, by the reminder of the hamsa’s presence around her neck, and by the knowledge that she had already survived Varen’s worst, she pressed toward the memorial, Gwen behind her. Together, they crossed the grassy alley between plots and entered the shade of the tent, joining the group at the rear.