Free Incarnation by Emma Cornwall

glittered like rare gems in the darkness of my mind.
    The boat train from Dover to Calais, my parents sitting close together in the first-class compartment we shared, recalling their journey along the same route years before when they had spent their honeymoon in France.
    Amanda and I giggling as we strapped on skis, the pair of us greatly amused by the blandishments of a handsome Swiss instructor. Huddling afterward in front of a roaring fire in the chalet, sipping cocoa with our heads close together, laughing at our own antics.
    How lovely it was to feel warm. Or so I imagined, for even the memory of what that was like had slipped away. Already it was beyond my reach.
    At last my lids grew heavier, and I saw myself once again on the moors at Whitby. In my dream it was night, but a full moon rode high in the sky, illuminating a stark landscape devoid of all color. Sharp-edged shadows loomed on all sides. I could hear the distant roar of the waves coming ashore. The tang of salt lingered on the wind.
    Behind me was the high brick house that was my father’s pride, standing as it did in its own parkland and signifying how far he had climbed from his humbler origins. The night was cold and damp. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to wander out into the darkness, past the wrought iron gate and the road beyond until I came to the narrow track leading along the moors toward the sea. I followed it with no thought as to where it might lead until, suddenly, I was no longer alone. No murmur of sound, no flicker of movement heralded the luminous being’s presence, but I sensed him all the same. Elation filled me. Without pausing to think, I held out my arms to him.
    The night tilted around me. An owl screeched. I saw his face, imprinted forever in my memory. Powerful, brilliant, the ruler of the night. His beautiful mouth shaped my name, “Lucy.” At the very last, I thought I heard faintly, a murmur only, “Forgive me.”
    Ecstasy and pain . . . the flash of fangs and then . . . terror and the womb of the grave holding me until he came again and I was reborn into the world.
    Surely it must all be a fantasy of my own dark imagining? Yet as I drifted deeper into sleep, ravens cawed and wolves howled, vampires showed their fangs and humans bared their throats to be bled while off in the distance great engines roared and steam shot into the sky where soot fell as tears, baptizing the new age.
    Through it all he sang of love and the triumph over death, but when I glanced away from the stage, I was startled to find that I was not alone in the velvet-lined box. Marco di Orsini shared the dream with me. In the darkness, the glowing red pendant burned as though lit by inner fire.
    I woke a few hours later alone and with the sense of being summoned stronger than ever. I had to find the one who had transformed me before his song was done. If I did not . . . The mere thought of failure sent a wave of nausea through me. I had the sudden uncanny sensation that I stood on the edge of an abyss into which I and everyone else might plunge at any moment.
    Spurred on by so unsettling a thought, I made as good a toilette as I could manage. My valise held a few basic changes of clothes and other necessities, enough for several days. Beyond that I could not think.
    I donned a fresh chemise and shirtwaist, smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt and jacket as best as I could, and rearranged my hair before ascending the circular stairs to the club.
    As I had hoped, no one else was about. The debris of the previous night had been cleared away and quiet hung over all. Beneath the door leading outside, I saw a crack of daylight.
    Without hesitation, I put a hand on the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. A quick glance was enough to determine that the snake was not in evidence, nor was the amber light lit. Instead, I looked out on a seemingly ordinary scene in everyday London.
    The ever-present band of coal smoke hung above the rooftops, but here and