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MARIPOSA
    Nancy Springer
    “I’ve lost my soul?” Aimee repeated, almost losing her usual perfect control.
    The doctor nodded. “I think so. Probably in early adolescence. It happens more commonly than you might think.” The doctor was a W.D., a Warlock Doctor, a.k.a. Warloctor. Very professional, she betrayed impatience only by adjusting her turban. Aimee could not decide whether the big, craggy woman was black or Lebanese or perhaps Hindu, but it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter. Not even dieting. It was this apathy that had landed Aimee here, in this office with pink cabbage roses growing down from the ceiling.
    “Let’s have a look,” the Warloctor suggested gently. “If you’ll stand up, please, and face the mirror.”
    Aimee stood, automatically checking her appearance in the full-length mirror: flawless, as usual. Hair in the latest style, makeup worthy of a fashion model, silk blouse, Lauren suit accessorized to perfection, and most important of all, the sparkling diamond on her finger. Colin had bought her the biggest one she could possibly wear in good taste. Colin had promised her a trip to the Polynesian Islands on their honeymoon. Aimee knew herself to be a privileged young woman, in full possession of a highly desirable fiancé, a diploma from Vassar, a BMW convertible, a Fortune 500 career, designer clothing, a personal trainer to help her stay fashionably thin, and on top of all that, a symmetrical, perfectly corrected face. Why, then, did she awaken every morning to a sense of profound, aching emptiness?
    “Blessed be that the days of invasive procedures are over,” the Warlock practitioner was saying. “No need to undress.” Murmuring, with her dark, liquid eyes out of focus, the older woman made a few passes with her unadorned hands.
    Despite having been briefed on Warlock Doctor procedure when her internist had referred her, Aimee gasped. Just like that, she saw her mirror image change. On her reflected self, all her expensive, expertly applied makeup was gone. Hair color, gone. Breast enhancement, gone. Cantilevered lingerie, carefully assembled clothing and accessories, every artifice by which Aimee maintained an attractive feminine image was stripped away. Only nakedness remained—
    No. Staring, her eyes widening but her symmetrical face disciplined into a beautiful mask, Aimee saw that what remained in the mirror was not a naked, unadorned body. Rather, it was a pale silhouette of a body, without substance, depth, or core. The edges seemed solid enough, but toward what should have been the center, it looked translucent, spectral.
    It appeared to have no heart.
    No guts.
    And no face.
    “Yes, you’ve lost your soul,” said the W.D. comfortably. “Please, sit down.” She twitched a tree-of-life Indian-print curtain over to cover the mirror.
    Amy sat in a white wicker chair, staring at her own hands layered on her knee. They seemed to be all there, complete with diamond ring and French manicure. But she felt hot bewilderment stinging at the backs of her eyes.
    “It happens most commonly to fully socialized young women such as you.” The Warloctor sat behind her desk, upon which stood a statuette of a Minoan goddess, bare-bosomed, lifting a serpent in each hand. “Aimee, when did you stop dreaming at night?”
    “I, um…” Aimee glanced up, wondering.
    “The soul is responsible for dreams,” the Warloctor explained. “As you sleep, it flies wild and free, but tethered to your heart with a thread of silver so that it will come back to you. Something must have happened to compromise the thread. Were you abused as a child?”
    “No. Not at all.”
    “Some other traumatic event in your childhood?”
    “No….”
    “To return to my original question, how long has it been since you dreamt?”
    Aimee had never given the matter of her dreams much thought. “Um, I think…about ten years.”
    The W.D. nodded. “You were thirteen or thereabouts, then? At puberty, were you