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Imogen’s breathing has evened out, slowed – Laudna wore her out, or Imogen wore her own self out with the force of her joy. This whole night has felt like opening presents on holiday, for both of them – Imogen and Laudna discovering themselves, and each other, and the two of them together. All over again. The giddy teenage ecstasy of being alone with the person you like, and not having the ghost of your murderer sitting in passive-aggressive silence, tapping her foot, as if she’s waiting for you to beg her for sex tips. Or, well, this is what Laudna imagines that sort of teenage ecstasy feels like. She didn’t really have that. Her teen years – well, anyways. Her mind is skittering all over the place like a cockroach. She feels so alive, or so close to alive. She should redesign her whole outfit. She should cut off all her hair. She should find a way to get Pâté into Delilah’s little prison soul anchor thing, because all three of them deserve that. She should wake Imogen up and get into – what, round seven? Round nine? Fuck, she’s lost track. She should wake up Imogen and ask her what number they got to. She should—
“Laudna?” Imogen says blearily.
She’s already awake! “Imogen!”
“Hi,” Imogen rasps. Laudna rolls onto her side in bed and there she is: Imogen. She’s wincing at the faint purple light that is now beaming in her direction; in its illumination, she is the most lovely thing Laudna has ever seen. How beautiful, how wonderful, how extraordinary that she could be here in the same bed as Laudna. Once again. Like it’s easy. Like it’s where she’s supposed to be. Like she could never be anywhere else.
There’s a smile pulling at every bit of Imogen’s face, except the bits that sleep is pulling in the opposite direction. “You’re really awake,” she whispers. “You aren’t tired?”
“No,” Laudna whispers back. “I think I’m the most awake I’ve been since I died. She’s gone. It’s so quiet. I was thinking I should redesign my wardrobe. That cage is actually a bitch to move around in. What do you think?”
“Mm. I think it’s too late to start makin’ major wardrobe changes. Or too early.”
“You’re so right. You’re always so right. I missed you.”
That sleepy smile pulls up Imogen’s mouth again. “I missed you too.” She reaches out, touches Laudna’s face; she brushes a thumb over Laudna’s cheekbone, like she isn’t even worried she’ll cut herself open on it. “I really thought…” she says. “Laudna, I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone. I couldn’t...I wouldn’t have been able to...look, I’m glad you’re back.”
But for a moment, she isn’t back: she’s on the edge of that black pit, looking down at the stairs carved into the side. One step, another step. Yes, she was headed somewhere Imogen wasn’t following her. Yes, she wouldn’t have come back. But Imogen...and the moon, and the way Imogen’s scars – during the fight, how they – and Ludinus, and—
And she knows the thoughts are unhealthy and she knows they’re black and poisonous and oh, Imogen, there’s a moment – just a moment! just a little moment! – where she’s waiting, patiently, for Delilah to encourage her. You’re right. Of course you’re right, Laudna. Imogen just doesn’t understand. We’ll protect her from Ludinus. You’re doing the right thing. Take another step down, sweetheart. At the bottom of the pit you won’t see the sky anymore, but Imogen will see it for miles and miles and miles.
“Laudna?”
Delilah isn’t there.
Laudna comes back to herself with a guilty jolt. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. I was...I can’t believe that she’s gone.”
“I mean,” Imogen says wryly. “She’s not gone. Woulda been great to blast her into ash again, huh?”
“Oh, yes, incredibly satisfying.”
“But now she’s your puppet.”
“But now she’s my puppet. And I don’t have to die for it, so, big win!”
Imogen’s breath goes shaky; she scootches closer, so she can press her forehead up against Laudna’s. “Big win,” she says. “The biggest – gods, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“And I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Imogen says. “Not anywhere.”
Joy unfurls from Laudna’s heart like new green leaves – oh, shit, her Form of Dread. She blurts, “What do you think my Form of Dread is going to look like now?”
“I mean,” Imogen says, “we can find out tomorrow, right? Or...today. Later today. Hey, so, the reason I wanted to talk…”
She’s breaking up with you!
“I was just...oh, this is so stupid.”
She’s breaking up with you she hates you! She knows what you were thinking a few seconds ago, of course she knows, she’s a telepath! She reads minds! She read your mind and saw that the black poison was still in it and Delilah is gone so she knows it’s just you! She knows it’s you!
“And it’s honestly not even worth worrying about—”
She knows you’re poisonous! She knows you’re poisonous! She knows you’re poisonous! She knows you’re poisonous! She knows you’re poisonous! She knows you’re poisonous! She knows—
“Can we tape a pillow to your chest or something? That light is – it’s just, it’s bright. I’m sorry, I know that’s ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry,” Laudna says, before Imogen can even finish. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll be better, I promise you, please don’t be ma—wait. What?”
“What?”
“Oh!” Laudna looks down at her chest. The soul anchor beams a serene purple light over them both. “Oh. I didn’t even think about that. Shit. I can sleep face-down? It’s not like I breathe that much. Does it go out the back?” She twists her neck around to try and see if purple light is emanating from her back. “Imogen, does it – is it omnidirectional?”
Imogen’s hand lands on her shoulder. “Hey.”
“Was that a yes or a no.”
“It was a hey. What were you just apologizing for?”
“What? Oh, nothing. I don’t know. I think I just sort of start apologizing whenever you get that cute little wrinkle between your eyebrows.”
“When I what?” Imogen says, with a cute little wrinkle between her eyebrows.
“I don’t want to make you upset.”
“You aren’t—” Imogen exhales; her eyes close. The wrinkle takes the compliment from Laudna and sees it as a sign that it should expand its real estate, maybe open sister offices at the corners of Imogen’s eyes.
Imogen’s eyes open again: purple light, purple light. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, okay?”
“Right, right, I said I’d stop compulsively apologizing. Sorry about – hm! I’m sorry. I—”
Imogen exhales, leans forward, and kisses her.
Her mouth tastes like all sorts of things, because they’ve been very busy. But also there’s a faint hint of toothpaste. Clean bright mint, shining. Like a star that’s obscured by light pollution. But Laudna’s the light pollution. And Laudna is kissing Imogen back, her green-leaf-heart trembling in her throat: I could have lost this. I almost lost this. But she didn’t. It’s still here. Imogen is still here.
Laudna knocks her forehead against Imogen’s. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers. “I’ll make you an eye mask. Or I could put my hands over your eyes, that could be soothing. Like cold compresses.”
“I don’t care,” Imogen murmurs sleepily. “Changed my mind. I don’t care. Just want you here.”
The words sneak out of Laudna’s mouth: “Are you sure?”
“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”
More leaves. A canopy of leaves. The Sun Tree in spring, when it blossoms. Does it blossom? Laudna and Imogen can go back to Whitestone in the spring, they’ll see all the flowers. Surely someone has planted flowers.
“I want you here too,” Laudna says. “I love you. By the by. I love you very much.”
“I love you too,” Imogen says. She tugs at Laudna’s wrist; Laudna follows her, and then they’re lying down again. Imogen is all lit up by the soft purple light of Laudna’s new beating heart.
“You’re right,” Laudna says. “That’s much too bright.”
“I’ll get used to it,” Imogen mumbles. Her eyes are already lolling shut. Laudna can see the veins under the skin of her eyelids; her heart aches. She fumbles behind her, grabs a pillow, and squeezes it against her chest; the light fights stubbornly to keep shining anyways. But it’s enough to dream by.
“Good night,” Laudna whispers. Imogen doesn’t whisper anything back; exhaustion has grabbed her by both hands and dragged her under.
“Sweet dreams,” Laudna whispers. She puts her whole heart into the words, like a prayer to a god that she could believe in. Wonderfully, beautifully, no god or god-shaped monster answers her; the only sound in the world is Imogen’s breathing, slow. Everything else is so quiet, so lovely and perfect and quiet. Laudna squeezes the pillow closer, she closes her eyes; she lets the sound of Imogen’s breathing lull her, eventually, to sleep.