In a flash, the Angel’s fingers intercepted, taking hold of the hilt, halting the strike at its very last moment.

“What are you doing?” said the Angel of Death.

“Putting you away,” said Yehuda Leib. “Once and for all.”

“Why?” said the Angel. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because,” said Yehuda Leib. “Because you wear my face. Because you are my Death. Because it is to be you or me.”

“Yehuda Leib,” said the Angel. “You must be careful.”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib sadly. “I know.”

“What do you think will become of you if you strike down Death?” said the Angel. “What becomes of the sheep that is separated from the herd? What becomes of the candle left to the wind?”

Yehuda Leib nodded.

“I’ll take my chances.”

—

“Thank you,” said Bluma softly.

But, turning back, she was shocked to see the Messenger’s eyes filling with terror.

Something had happened.

Her fingers, white-knuckled and trembling, were pushing back hard against her spoon, which seemed to hang in midair, its razor edge inching closer, little by little, to her throat.

“Hello?” said Bluma, and again, “Hello?” but the Angel gave no answer. Her eyes were vacant, as if she’d left them behind for other, more pressing work.

What was going on?

It was only with the flare of the fire that she saw it in the back of the looking-glass spoon, and she nearly ignored it, thinking it the blood that had been drawn from the small cuts in her cheeks:

The reflection of a red woolen scarf.

And above it, there, his face.

And she called out his name:

“Yehuda Leib.”

—

“Yehuda Leib.”

For a long moment, the boy blinked in confusion.

It was not the Angel’s voice that had spoken.

“Yehuda Leib,” came the voice again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to save myself.”

“No, you’re not,” said the voice. “Take it from me.”

Yehuda Leib blinked in confusion. “From who?”

“Look closely,” said the voice, and then, softly, “Even here, you’re not alone.”

Not alone? Yes, he was.

“Look closely,” said the voice again.

And, staring hard, he began to see.

By force of habit, he had been favoring his living eye—it saw in ways that made sense to him, were comfortable and familiar.

But if he gave in to the darkness of his Death’s Eye, he could just begin to see, in the flickering of the hearth fire: there was another person on the other side of Death.

“Bluma,” said Yehuda Leib.

“Take it from me,” said Bluma. “You can’t hide from the things that make you yourself. No matter how hard you try. Not even from your Death.”

“But,” said Yehuda Leib. “But he wears my face!”

“Yes,” said Bluma, “and she wears mine as well. Look closer.”

And, concentrating on the dark eye in his head, Yehuda Leib saw Death’s face correctly: