At the black carved boat, she stopped when she heard the tinkle of the music box. There he sat in the grotto, his head in his hands. The shouts of the crowd drew nearer.

Run away, she thought fiercely. Save yourself. But he didn’t move.

Raoul sat vacantly in the boat, his dazed eyes barely focusing on her.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. He looked up, blank and frightened.

“No…” he moaned.

“I’ll come back. I promise.”

She fought against her skirts as she dragged back up the stairs. This is insane. What if he grabs me? But he looks so forlorn, so helpless. If he stays here, they’ll kill him.

Her lips tingled. I can still taste him on my mouth. It’s not possible to hate him anymore. Not after that.

She stayed out of arm’s reach yet wanted to be in arm’s reach. His ravaged face turned to her like a sunflower, full of hope, and her heart sank.

He wants the mob to kill him. He’ll only move if I stay with him. If he doesn’t move, he’ll die.

Papa’s voice came to her, unbidden. The great northern wizards used to hide their soul in something to keep it safe. It had to be an object preciously gotten: a runestone selected after long and careful searching, or a cat’s body boiled down and each bone picked over to find just the right one. Something like that.

What do I have that’s precious?

On her finger was the answer. The ring.

His mouth moved in little quivers, words beating on his lips for release.

I’ll do it, she thought.

It will diminish your life, the inside voice said. There are risks. Earlier death, perhaps. Loss of joy. Erosion of pleasure.

He’s going to die if he doesn’t move, she argued. Go, piece of my heart, into this ring. Go, part of my soul. Go with him. Keep him safe. Keep him alive.

Her finger flashed blue fire. The words pressing on his lips found release.

“Christine, I love you,” he whispered.

In his big rough hand she put the diamond cluster, and closed his fingers tenderly around it.

Into your hands I commend my spirit, she thought, and gave a little half-laugh, half-sob.

She backed away, tears blinding her as she stumbled down the steps. Go now, she willed him silently. Run.

Raoul’s ash-white face rested on his blood-covered left arm. She thudded into the boat and, as if a spell had been lifted, he punted hard away from the shore.

Up on the stone wall, receding in the distance, the unmasked man surged with life. He leapt to his feet and roared at them, “It’s over!”

Don’t look back, the voice inside said. You’ll make it worse for yourself.

I don’t care, and she kept looking until the boat rounded the corner.

In the distance she heard the smash of glass. Raoul rowed on, eyes averted. She toyed with a few of her curly locks absently, and then stared at them in sorrow and horror, for they had turned iron gray.