Come on, she said, gritting her teeth.
At last, the Announcer freed itself, zipping off the tree and through the air, floating directly in front of her.
Easy now, Bill said, hovering above the branch. Desperation and Announcer-travel do not mix well. Like pickles and chocolate.
Luce stared at him.
I mean: Don't get so desperate that you lose sight of what you want.
I want to get out of here, Luce said, but she couldn't coax the shadow into a stable shape, no matter how hard she tried. She wasn't looking at the lovers on the beach, but nonetheless she could feel the darkness gathering in the sky over the beach. It wasn't rain clouds. Help me, Bill?
He sighed, reaching for the dark mass in the air, and drew it toward him. This is your shadow, you realize. I'm manipulating it, but it's your Announcer and your past.
Luce nodded.
Which means you have no idea where it's taking you, and I have no liability.
She nodded again. Okay, then. He rubbed at a part of the Announcer until it went darker; then he caught the dark spot with a claw and yanked on it. It worked like a sort of doorknob. The stink of mildew flooded out, making Luce cough.
Yeah, I smell it, too, Bill said. This is an old one. He gestured her forward. Ladies first.
PRUSSIA ? JANUARY 7, 1758
A snowflake kissed Luce's nose.
Then another, and another, and more, until a storm of flurries filled the air and the whole world turned white and cold. She exhaled a long cloud of breath into the frost.
Somehow, she'd known they would end up here, even though she wasn't exactly sure where here was. All she knew was that the afternoon skies were dark with a furious storm, and wet snow was seeping through her black leather boots, biting at her toes and chilling her to the bone.
She was walking into her own funeral.
She'd felt it in the instant passing through this last Announcer. An oncoming coldness, unforgiving as a sheet of ice. She found herself at the gates of a cemetery, everything blanketed by snow. Behind her was a tree-lined road, the bare branches clawing at the pewter sky. Before her was a low rise of snow-shrouded earth, tombstones and crosses jutting out of the white like jagged, dirty teeth.
A few feet behind her, someone whistled. You sure you're ready for this? Bill. He sounded out of breath, like he'd just caught up with her.
Yes. Her lips were chattering. She didn't turn around until Bill swooped down near her shoulders.
Here, he said, holding out a dark mink coat. Thought you might be cold.
Where did you--
I yoinked it off a broad coming home from the market back there. Don't worry, she had enough natural padding already.
Bill!
Hey, you needed it! He shrugged. Wear it in good health.
He draped the thick coat over Luce's shoulders, and she pulled it closer. It was unbelievably soft and warm. A wave of gratitude rushed over her; she reached up and took his claw, not even caring that it was sticky and cold.
Okay, Bill said, squeezing her hand. For a moment, Luce felt an odd warmth in her fingertips. But then it was gone, and Bill's stone fingers were stone cold. He took a deep, nervous breath. Um. Uh. Prussia, mid-eighteenth century. You live in a small village on the banks of the river Handel. Very nice. He cleared his throat and hacked up a large wad of phlegm before he went on. I should say, er, that you lived. You've actually, just--well--
Bill? She craned her neck to look at him sitting hunched forward on her shoulder. It's okay, she said softly. You don't have to explain. Let me just, you know, feel it.
That's probably best.
As Luce walked quietly through the cemetery gates, Bill hung back. He sat cross-legged on top of a lichen-swathed shrine, picking at the grit under his claws. Luce lowered her shawl over her head to obscure more of her face. Up ahead were mourners, black-clad and somber, pressed so tightly together for warmth that they looked like a single mass of grief. Except for one person who stood behind the group and off to one side. He hung his bare blond head.
No one spoke to or even looked at Daniel. Luce couldn't tell whether he was bothered by being left out or whether he preferred it.
By the time she reached the back of the small crowd, the burial was drawing to a close. A name was carved into a flat gray tombstone: Lucinda M?ller. A boy, no older than twelve, with dark hair and pale skin and tears streaming down his face, helped his father--her father from this other life?--shovel the first mound of dirt over the grave.
These men must have been related to her past self. They must have loved her. There were women and children crying behind them; Lucinda M?ller must have meant something to them as well. Maybe she'd meant everything to them.
But Luce Price didn't know these people. She felt callous and strange to realize that they meant nothing to her, even as she saw the pain mar their faces. Daniel was the only one here who really mattered to her, the one she wanted to run to, the one she had to hold herself back from.
He wasn't crying. He wasn't even staring at the grave like everyone else. His hands were clasped in front of him and he was looking far away--not at the sky, but far into the distance. His eyes were violet one moment, gray the next.
When the family members had cast a few shovelfuls of dirt over the casket and the plot had been scattered with flowers, the funeral-goers split apart and walked shakily back to the main road. It was over.
Only Daniel remained. As immobile as the dead.
Luce hung back, too, dodging behind a squat mausoleum a few plots away, watching to see what he would do.
It was dusk. They had the graveyard to themselves. Daniel lowered himself to his knees next to Lucinda's grave. Snow thrummed down on the cemetery, coating Luce's shoulders, fat flakes getting tangled in her eyelashes, wetting the tip of her nose. She edged around the corner of the mausoleum, her entire body tensed.