Free The Dickens Mirror by Ilsa J. Bick Page B

eyes—leering in his mind.
    At that instant, right before he wakes and strikes her in his panic, what she thinks is,
My God. I
know
you
.
3
    NOW, SLEEPLESS, SHE was as certain of
that
—that she did indeed know this woman—as she’d been less than a half hour ago.
But where from? Where have I seen that woman before?
    Sighing, Rima sat up. Maybe a turn in the cold night airwould clear her head, blow away the cobwebs of that nightmare. Noiselessly, she rose, slipping into a thick woolen shirt. The shirt had a rip, and her socks needed darning, and she would dearly love a pair of mittens. After lacing on her cloddish hobnails and checking on Tony one more time, she wrapped herself in her green muffler and bulky coat and cautiously picked her way around sleeping children as she headed for the far catwalk. In the past, when there were still trains and regular deliveries, men would maneuver iron cars along high rails between the different retort-houses and offload coal through shoots. Nowadays, with no trains coming, the catwalks were the staging point for bodies destined for the flames. Already sweating—it was either wear the clothes or carry them, and she needed both hands free—she climbed down an iron ladder to a large brick room. Long-idled, huge bridles, gigantic iron scoops once used to dump a charge of coals into the furnace, depended from the ceiling. Down here and so much closer to the furnace, the air was sweltering and the orange-yellow light bright enough to scorch tears. Blinking, she averted her eyes and hurried to a side door.
    That first step, from jungle heat to mind-numbing cold and the constant snow, was always a jolt that stole her breath. Driven in near-horizontal sheets, snow stung her eyes, and she could feel the sweat on her neck already chilling. Spilling from the retort-house’s windows, squares of orange light throbbed on the snow. The outside brick wall was toasty, warm enough to melt the snow back a good foot, although days when bodies were in short supply could also mean daggers of ice frilling the retort’s eaves.
    She began trudging against icy gusts through Battersea’s grounds, tossing a look back every few feet to make certain she didn’t lose sight of the retort. Her heavy boots stumped throughcalf-high drifts. After a minute, she was panting and fresh sweat lathered her neck. Already getting tired, too. Her heart thumped in her temples.
    Have to do something about Tony
. Pulling up, she stood, hugging herself and breathing hard. But other than trying to draw the sickness out, which he wouldn’t allow, what could she do?
Maybe Bode will have an idea
. Tomorrow, when she and Tony went to the asylum for bodies, she’d get Bode alone to talk. She wondered if he’d had the nightmare, too.
Wager he has
. But then what did that …
    And that was when the wind suddenly died and the snow stopped.
    What?
Startled, Rima threw a look at the sky. No stray flakes. No icy wind. Nothing. But the
air
was trembling. It glimmered like water over black ice and then …
    Oh God
. Her throat tried to squeeze shut.
No, you don’t belong here, not yet. Why should I see you in my dream, and
now
?
    Of course, there was no answer, though she really did think that
it
was a thing, with a purpose. After all, it had just chased her and that boy with the stormy eyes through a nightmare, and then followed her here, into her waking life, ready or not.
    Where there had been snow and gloom … now, there was only the fog.

RIMA
    Imagine Her Surprise
1
    NO. STAY BACK . She felt herself cringing.
I’m not ready. Go back into my nightmare where you belong. I don’t want to die
.
    The Peculiar only hovered. This close—only feet away—she could see that it was solid, with straight, crisp edges, and motionless as a pristine curtain or blank piece of paper. She noticed, too, that this area had brightened, the air glowing with a milky glare. The Peculiar had an odor, too, one she recognized because she got a