She hesitated a heartbeat or two, seemed to hold her breath, then sighed heavily. “I was afraid . . . for you. I was worried about you.” I waited, needing more assurance, not knowing how she might assure me. She stared briefly at me, then cast her glance downward. “I was afraid you were heading off the deep end with all this psychic stuff, that it would spread like a contagion, until there was no peace at home. Okay, I was afraid for myself, too, and angry. I wanted you and Mom to leave this stuff alone and let us lead a normal life. I can’t separate myself from it the way Dad and Fred do. I was so upset I couldn’t remember what I’d done to upset Daniel. That bothered me the most. I could barely keep my mind together when I drove to school. And then . . . well . . . I stopped at this light, and it turned green, and the weirdest thing happened.”
“What?”
“I . . . wasn’t worried anymore. All of those fears left me in an instant.” She lifted her head, our eyes meeting. “I knew we would be all right. You would be all right.”
“How could you know all that in an instant?”
She flushed, her smile almost beatific. “I know that this may sound as self-indulgent as some of your and Mom’s beliefs, but I know God is watching over you. Call it faith. I knew it the moment the fear left. I know God’s protecting you.”
I shivered at her intensity, the strength and conviction she conveyed.
“You’re protected, too, little sister,” I whispered, hugging her. “I won’t let anyone or anything ever hurt you, Gin. Not ever.”
“It’s all right.”
“It is,” I said. “Now let’s get to sleep.”
She nodded. I bunked down in the bed beside Daniel, still dreaming in the land of Nod in his fancy crib.
Gin turned off the light. I heard the rustle of her covers as she pulled them up. “Good night, Leigh Ann.”
“Good night, Gin. Sweet dreams.”
“For both of us,” she murmured, and then silence filled the room.
I didn’t sleep immediately, dozing lightly, snatches of thoughts and images drifting before my mind’s eye . . . one image in particular. A face had come sharply into focus, eyes alight with gentle humor, mouth a lopsided grin. Chloe. The girl from my dream of Eliom, who had teased me about love and Bael. Her curly brown hair cascaded down and wisps of it framed her forehead and cheeks. I gazed at her soft blue eyes and awoke with a jolt.
Her eyes, so clearly before me, had been Ginnie’s eyes.
Curiouser and curiouser, I thought.
My own eyes wanted closing, wanted the oblivion of sleep. I wanted no more shocks, no more dreams to puzzle out in the morning.
I began to drift off again, my body heavy and numb, but pleasantly so, sinking away from consciousness.
My bed creaked softly; I felt the mattress sway with an additional weight. A gentle sensation of touch caressed my left breast, hardening its nipple, my flesh responding to the feather-light exploration. A second simultaneous caress brushed my inner thighs, then moved like a soft breeze over my pubic hair. It swept over my vaginal lips to my clitoris. I arched sharply in response and sat up.
The room remained silent, no one but myself on the bed.
—Bael,— I thought and felt his lips press, barely tangible, on mine.
—Lie back.—
—How did you? . . I’m clothed—covered with a blanket!—
—My hands slide through them. Have I pleased you?—
I could psychically visualize his dark eyes, shining, mesmerizing, the curve of his lips, his lean taut body leaning over my own. My physical eyes were blind to his presence. —I can’t see you.—
—Of course not. In your plane, I am spirit-fleshed. Close your eyes. I can cross the gap between our dimensions through touch.—
—No.—
His anger rose palpably at my refusal, then ebbed, as if he struggled to suppress it. —I have waited over four thousand years, Leianna. Do you deny me this long-awaited fulfillment? And your own?—
—My son. My sister.— I gestured toward Daniel and Ginnie.
—They sleep. They need not know.—
—I can’t. Go now, Bael. I have to sleep. I have to find Quatama.—
—Quatama will not run away.— His tone became petulant, then coaxing. —I have sought you for so long. I must join with you. Let me rock you to sleep.—
—No.— I turned on my side, facing him. —Not until I know more. You promised me control.—
He bristled, the current sweeping over me physically. —We will finish what we once began,— he snarled, furious.
I lay curled in a fetal position, waiting, unafraid, but determined to defy him, to hold him to his psychic word.
A standoff silence, electric and hot, ran between us.
And then, like a capricious wind suddenly shifting direction, he vanished from the room.
CHAPTER 8
The Snow Queen. It reminds me of Hans Christian Anderson’s famous story, everything white and crystal. The crystalized plain, smooth and shining, seems to travel to an endless horizon, only small white huts with frozen gardens and shrubbery dotting the flat landscape. In the distance beyond the village, the plain rises to the right, a forest flowing outward, and dips to the left, continuing the line of flatland.
The spirit masters live in these huts. Quatama calls himself my spirit master.
We walk along the crystal ice to his dwelling. I remark upon the wintery, fragile, fairy tale appearance of this place.
“It is winter here, just as it is in your world. The spirit planes of Eliom and of Earth are very close and share the same seasonal rotation. But the seasons are enhanced in our world, made pure in a way that cannot be matched in your dimension.”
I notice I’m barefoot, in my nightgown, yet only feel a pleasant coolness beneath me and around me. Quatama is clothed in a brown longsleeved robe that seems much too roomy for his short, almost scrawny frame. His thin black hair curls over his neck. Tendrils cling to his forehead. His face is neither old nor young and difficult to focus on, as if it were a flickering hologram. From what I can see of it, he has small, opaque, black eyes, a pointed but small nose, thin cheeks, and thin, relaxed lips. His skin is sallow and pale.
We reach Quatama’s hut. There is no door, just an entrance way we pass through. The inside is sparsely furnished: a low table, no chairs, rugs on the floor. Shelves and hooks hold belongings, but I cannot focus on them.
Quatama sits on the rug in the front room. There is a smaller room beyond it, which also seems bare, empty, but I cannot see fully into it. Quatama gestures beside himself, and I sit down next to him.
“I don’t know how I got here,” I tell him.
“You are out of body. Your mortal, Earthly body. Your spirit is now encased in your astral body, a more permanent vehicle of expression.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think of stacking dolls, one fitting within the other. The outer body is the physical body, within it, the mental or emotional self attached to the physical. Within that, the astral body which is a viable thought form created by the spirit which rests within it, which cradles the spark of life fueling each individual.”
I blink at him, understanding, experiencing my multiplicity as he explains it. The feeling is uncomfortable. I struggle and return to a sense of just one self.
He laughs, three fluted notes of perfect tone and duration.
“No,”