Boyd stepped closer to me. I stood straighter, not flinching from his gaze. He looked softer than I remembered, more . . . human, mortal. Warm. He held his hands out in the gesture of peace, and his eyes, brilliant in their intensity, held me with the little brown spot on one iris. Such depth in that spot.

“Come with me, Angelina. Stop this.”

I had always known that Boyd and I would meet again—there was a mysterious bond that held us. I had known it since we first met.

“Please, Angelina. It’s not good, what you’re doing here.”

He took another step closer to me, and I was drawn to him, attracted to him by more than his scent; there was something more, something I had once known about Boyd but forgotten, forgotten in the drama of the scenes we had shared since meeting, forgotten in my fantasies, forgotten in the madness of my life . . . forgotten.

“Angelina, I—Angelina, you don’t have to live like this anymore.” He held his hand out, and I looked at it. Large and warm, open and inviting, soft and safe. I was so tired, so sleepy.

Then a scuffle from the floor, and “No!” and the boy leaped at me. In surprise, caught off guard, I took one step back and the coffin stopped me. My knees buckled and I sat down hard, bringing the music and my cane up at the same time. His eyes turned glassy in response to the music as I took careful aim for his temple, but as I swung the cane in a mighty arc, his sister, within me, betrayed my aim. She halted my arm midswing. I hesitated for the briefest of moments, just long enough for the music to falter, the boy to recover his trajectory, and my aim to waver. Then I was back in control and I brought the cane down with all my strength, cracking him hard. But I missed his head and broke my cane on his shoulder. The cane flew from my stinging hand, and then the boy was on me, crushing the breath from me against the box.

“Will, stop!” I heard Boyd cry, but then he, too, was holding me down atop the coffin and my music and I were powerless to stop them.

I struggled, but my legs were weak and of little use. They slid me from the coffin to the floor, where the boy sat on my legs as he worked with one hand on the hasps. The other arm dangled uselessly at his side. I had damaged him; I could see his pain, red and purple all about him, and still he was in a heat to avenge his sister. Such resilience. Such motivation. I was impressed.