Storm roared and grabbed the curling bannister. He could see her struggling, clawing the rope. His senses burned in electric connection to her as if it were he choking, dying. He vaulted three steps, another three. She was still fighting it, still there. He made the landing. Saw only the flashing blue light, felt only the siren screaming in his head where his thoughts should’ve been.

“Sophia!”

And he launched himself at her. Up onto the railing, his body stretching out. One hand grabbing hold of the rail, one reaching down. The belt was short. He could reach her. He had her, by the arm. He shouted again wildly. Muscled her up. Tumbled back off the rail under the weight of her.

He fell to the floor, bringing her down with him. Instantly, he scrambled to his knees. Grabbed her. She was gagging. He seized the loop around her neck. Wrenched it over her hair, roughly, with a furious curse. Sophia sank back, coughing, choking.

Storm knelt over her, seething, crazy with rage at what she’d tried to do. He wanted to slap her. His hand flew up over her head. It hung there, trembling. He clenched it, clenched both his hands and shook them at her.

“Oh!” he shouted in his outrage. “Oh!”

Sophia drew a rasping breath. And then another. And then she gave a hoarse, forlorn, animal cry and punched him. Her fist hit him weakly on the chest. Her hair flew across her face and she punched again, blindly, catching the side of his head. He gave another curse. Snatched at her wrist.

But she was finished. She sagged to the floor, making raw, hacking noises, her hair spilling forward, her beaten figure pulsating with the blue light. As the shriek of the siren rose and fell, Storm heard her sobbing miserably. He reached out with a shaking hand and touched her as gently as he could. But she swept her arm around, knocked him away.

Now people were rushing into the gallery below. There were voices calling. There were figures running to the foot of the stairs. The siren screamed. The blue light flashed and flashed.

Panting, Storm knelt on the floor with his palms braced against his thighs, his head hanging.

Sophia sat there beside him and cried and cried.

V

YOUNG
WILLIAM,
A
BALLAD

“Who is it who comes knocking there?”

the widow Annie said.

“And who would come this late round my door

on a night so dreary?”

Tap-tap. “ ‘Tis I, your son, Young Will,

who once around thee played.

Oh, open, mother, and let me in,

for I’m cold and weary.”

“Is it thee, long lost this many a day?

Is it thee, my darling boy,

who knocks at my door in the dead of night,

so I feel I fear thee?”

“It is I, it is I, your long-lost child,

Young William, your pride and joy.”

Tap-tap. “Open, mother, and let me in,.

for I’m cold and weary.”