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her eye sockets.
    Sometimes, the dream skips all the first part, and I'm just sitting on the cold bathroom floor, unable to scream or think, staring at my sister's eyeless face.

Chapter 3
    Libby awoke with water up to her chin and the feeling of sliding. She sat up quickly; the thousandth replay of the dream of the night her sister died, coupled with the fact she had dreamt it while sleeping in a bathtub, made her feel slightly sick. It had also shattered the fragile peace she had been searching for, soaking in a bathtub surrounded by candles. Water from her struggles had splashed up onto the sides, and the last candle sputtered out, leaving her in the dark.
    She pulled the drain and stood, grabbed a towel and began drying herself with merciless strokes. She wanted to ignore the shiny white tiles that made up the floor and walls of the bathroom, because they reminded her of her curse. She wondered what evil imp had made her grandparents want to do their bathroom in tile, anyway. With the light on, they were nice, well cared for, but in the dark the tiles reflected the soft electric-blue glow of her eyes.
    She looked at the mirror without meaning to and saw the irises shining like neon headlamps. The light was reflected by the white around her, creating a sapphire glow she could see to dress by.
    "This was the stupidest idea I've ever had,” she said as she flicked on the light. “You want to get away from your problems, so you remind yourself forcibly of them by bathing in the dark. Brilliant, Libby."
    The glow was no longer noticeable, but her eyes were still an improbable shade of neon blue.
    "And,” she added, “I don't care how much money my grandparents spent to put in this nice bathroom, the tile goes. Or gets painted. I don't care, as long as what's left is no longer glossy or white."
    Dashiel looked up from the floor of the kitchen as Libby passed through putting a bathrobe on. He tilted his head as if listening to her; his liquid brown eyes seemed to hold sympathy. She spared him a pat, determined to forget all this, eager to get something done. She was behind on her book, but if she got back on it, she'd have it finished to turn in to her agent in November. Heck, with a little more effort, she might get it done sooner.
    She turned on the computer and sat down, determined. She procrastinated a tiny bit, going over to the built-in shelves that lined the room and looking up things. She then noticed her one plant, an ivy, was dry as a bone and went to fetch water. This led her to wondering where the phrase “dry as a bone” came from, and she ended up poking through her shelves again.
    Finally, she decided that her goal of three thousand words wasn't getting any nearer and sat down.
    His eyes were like smoked glass , she typed. No, she thought, backspacing, they didn't have smoked glass back then.
    She thought it through a moment then saw how things were beginning to fit together. She began typing again, eager to find out the rest of the story.
* * * *
    Sierra took the body from the freezer and set it on the table in front of her. She grimaced and took a breath, grasping a feather as black as ink and dulled by death. She pulled, and shuddered as the flesh that held the feather resisted then let go. She held it up and stared at the end then sighed and placed it in the large silver bowl. Grasping another, she pulled and tried to think of other things.
    When she got to the party the previous night, she had mingled a little out of habit. Circulating used to be an activity of key importance. Networking at parties such as those could get you new voters, could help you gain friends you would need later, and learn who was political poison.
    She spoke briefly to two people. The first was Jennifer, who had chased the reporters away and guarded Sierra jealously those first few months. She hugged Jenn, who smiled back, slightly surprised. Sierra had never been one for public affection.
    Sierra squeezed her hands. “Take good