“Yes, I do.”

“Triple it when it’s your own place. Should I take you to the dressing room?”

“Yes, thanks.”

There was tea in delicate china cups in a spacious room with a tall triple mirror and chairs with needlepoint cushions. Paper-thin cookies waited on a silver tray while blush pink lilies and white roses scented the air.

Layla sat, sipped, while Quinn worked her way through the selections.

“It doesn’t suck.” Cybil pursed her lips as Quinn turned in front of the mirror. “But it’s too fussy for you. Too much…” She circled her hand. “Poof,” she decided.

“I like the beadwork. It’s all sparkly.”

“No,” was all Layla said, and Quinn sighed.

“Next.”

“Better,” Cybil decided. “And I’m not just saying that because it’s the one I picked out. But if we’re considering this the most important dress of your life, it’s still not ringing the bell. I think it’s too dignified-not quite enough fun.”

“But I look so elegant.” Quinn turned, her eyes shining as she watched herself in the triple glass. “Almost, I don’t know, regal. Layla?”

“You can carry it with your height and build, and the lines are classic. No.”

“But-” Quinn blew out a breath that vibrated her lips.

After two more tries and rejections, Quinn took a tea break in her bra and panties. “Maybe we should elope. We could go to Vegas, have an Elvis impersonator marry us. That could be fun.”

“Your mother would kill you,” Cybil reminded her as she broke one of the delicate cookies in two and offered Quinn half. “So would Frannie,” she added, referring to Cal’s mother.

“Maybe I’m just not built for the gown kind of thing. Maybe a cocktail dress is a better idea. We don’t have to go so formal and fussy,” she said as she set down the tea and picked another gown at random. “This skirt is probably going to make my ass look ten feet square.” Her glance at Layla was apologetic. “Sorry, this one’s your pick.”

“It’s your pick that counts. It’s ruching-called a pickup skirt,” Layla explained.

“Or we could just go for completely casual, a backyard wedding and reception. All this is just trappings.” She spoke to Cybil as Layla helped her into the dress. “I love Cal. I want to marry Cal. I want the day to be a celebration of that, of what we are to each other, and to what the six of us have accomplished. I want it to symbolize our commitment, and our happiness, with a kick-ass party. I mean, for God’s sake, with all we’ve faced, and are going to face, one stupid dress doesn’t mean a thing.”

As Layla stepped back, she turned around. “Oh my God.” Breathless, she stared at herself. The heart-shaped bodice of the strapless gown showed off strong, toned shoulders and arms, and glittered with a sprinkle of cut-glass beads. The skirt fell from a trim waist in soft ruches of taffeta accented with pearls.

With her fingertips, Quinn touched the skirt very lightly “Cyb?”

“Well, God.” Cybil knuckled a tear away. “I didn’t expect to react this way. Jesus, Q, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t make my ass look ten feet square. Lie if you must.”

“Your ass looks great. Damn, I need a tissue.”

“Remember everything I just said about the dress and the trappings not being important? Now forget I said any of that. Layla.” Quinn closed her eyes, crossed her fingers. “What do you think?”

“I don’t have to tell you. You know it’s yours.”

SPRING BROUGHT COLOR TO THE HOLLOW WITH greening willows reflected in the pond at the park, with the redbuds and wild dogwoods blooming in the woods, along the roadsides. The days lengthened and warmed in a teasing preview of the summer to come.

With spring, porches gleamed with fresh paint and gardens shot out a riot of blooms. Lawnmowers hummed and buzzed until the smell of freshly cut grass sweetened the air. Kids played baseball, and men cleaned their barbecue grills.

And with spring, the dreams came harder.

Fox woke in a cold sweat. He could still smell the blood, the hellsmoke, the charred bodies of the doomed and damned. His throat throbbed from the shouts that had ripped out of him in dreams. Running, he thought, he’d been running. His lungs still burned from the effort, and his heart still drummed. He’d been running through the deserted streets of the Hollow, flaming buildings around him, as he tried to reach Layla before she…

He reached over; found her gone.

He leaped out of bed, snagging a pair of boxers on the run. He called out for her, but he knew-before he saw the door standing open, he knew where her own dream lured her.

He was out the door, into the cool spring night, and running, just as he’d run in the dream. Bare feet slapping in a wild tattoo on brick, asphalt, grass. Fetid smoke hazed the deserted streets, stinging his eyes, scoring his throat. All around him, buildings roared with flame. Not real, he told himself. The fires were lies, but the danger was real. Even as the heat scorched his skin, as it seemed to burn up through the bricks to sear his feet, he ran.

His heart hammered even when he saw her, walking through the false flames. She glided through the smoke, like a wraith, the mad lights from the fires rippling over her body. He called, but she didn’t turn, didn’t stop. When he caught her, yanked her around to face him, her eyes were blind.

“Layla.” He shook her. “Wake up. What are you doing?”

“I am damned.” She almost sang it, and her smile was tortured. “We are all of us damned.”

“Come on. Come home.”

“No. No. I am the Mother of Death.”

“Layla. You’re Layla.” He tried to push himself into the haze of her mind, and found only Hester’s madness. “Come back.” Chaining down his own panic, he tightened his grip. “Layla, come back.” As she fought to break free, he simply locked his arms around her. “I love you. Layla, I love you.” Holding tight, he drowned everything else, fear, rage, pain, with love.

In his arms, she went limp, then began to shudder. “Fox.”

“It’s okay. It’s not real. I’ve got you. I’m real. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I can’t think. Are we dreaming?”

“Not anymore. We’re going to go back. We’re going to get inside.” He kept an arm firmly around her waist as he turned.

The boy skimmed along the fire. He rode it as a human child might a skateboard, with glee and delight while his dark hair flew in the wild wind. As the rage rolled into Fox, he poised to spring.

“Don’t.” Her voice was thick with exhaustion as Layla leaned her weight against Fox. “It wants you to, it wants to separate us. I think we’re stronger together, holding on to each other.”

Death for one, life for the other. I’ll drink your blood, boy, then plant my young in your human bitch.

“Don’t!” This time Layla had to lock her arms around Fox’s neck to keep him from rushing forward. She pushed her thoughts into his head. We can’t win here. Stay with me. You have to stay with me. “Don’t leave me,” she said aloud.

It was brutal, walking away, struggling to ignore the filth the thing hurled at them. To continue to walk as the boy whipped around them in circles, taunting, howling as it flew on its skate of flame. But as they walked, the fires sputtered. By the time they climbed the steps to his apartment, the night was clear and cool again, and carried only the dying hint of brimstone.

“You’re cold. Let’s get back in bed.”

“I just need to sit.” She lowered to a chair, and helpless to do otherwise, let the trembling take her. “How did you find me?”

“I dreamed it. Running across town, the fire, all of it.” To warm her, he grabbed the throw his mother had made him off the couch, spread it over Layla’s bare legs. “To the park, to the pond. But in the dream, I was too late. You were dead when I pulled you out of the water.”

She reached for his hands, found them as icy as hers. “I need to tell you. It was like back in New York, when I dreamed it raped me. When I dreamed I was Hester, and how it raped me. I wanted it to stop, to end. I was going to kill myself, drown myself. She was. I couldn’t stop her. It had my mind.”