I upended the can, cascading fuel down our hair and across our faces. It should have stung, but this world was like a nightmare—terrifying but painless. We could not feel the gasoline, and we would not feel the fire.

The smoke was almost at our mouths. I dragged the torch across our bodies, as easy as cutting a throat, and we exploded into glittering white fire. The ghouls scattered and I clutched Hellida tight, dying one last time.

We awoke in darkness. I coughed on the taste of burnt fabric and seared flesh, and kicked and struggled and cursed until finally I was free. There was Cherub, standing in the doorway, holding a heavy blanket that normally lived on my sofa, and which was scorched to ruin.

“Many apologies,” he said. “I got through the door just in time for the shadows to clear, and for you two to burst in from nowhere, thoroughly on fire. This was the nearest thing I could think of to stanch the flames.”

Behind him, the world was right, the sky was blue, and the soft morning sun shone on my house: three stories of vines, dust, quilts, books, papers, cockroaches, filth, awful memories, and ones too pleasant to ever let go. It was there, and Hellida was by my side.

“Gilda Carr,” she said, hugging me tight. “You horrible child. I knew you would come back.”

Two months later, a letter came with a return address that would baffle any postman: “236 East 48th Street, The Other New York.” It was from Edith Copeland, a short note containing thanks I didn’t deserve and money I couldn’t afford to refuse. I don’t know how she got it across the divide, and I’m not going to try to find out. It’s a piddling, unimportant question, and I’m trying to leave those behind. The Westside offers endless weirdness, danger, and death. How could any daughter of Virgil Carr refuse?

Bex Red and I met for a drink one night at Father Lamb’s, sometime around the beginning of December. The repaired campanile was warmed by a bonfire, courtesy of Glen-Richard Van Alen. From the top of the tower, we watched snow swirl on the park and saw the night-lights burning at every intersection on the Westside, lower and upper. It wasn’t as bright as the other side of Broadway, but it was warm, and the shadows were still.

“What are you painting?” I said, between oysters.

“Oh, nothing grand. Nothing epic. I’ve gone back to watercolors—tiny canvases, small enough to fit in your hand.”

I didn’t tell her, but most nights, I wish I could do the same thing.

Acknowledgments