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said.
    He rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s life is painful. But for most people life is only temporary. There’s an end in sight, so they can tolerate the wait.”
    “But you’re a constant,” she said quietly. “The world turns around you and, like these trees, you stand even if the forest burns down.”
    He nearly smiled. It hurt his face. “You make it sound so noble.”
    Who did she remind him of? As she smiled again, he got it—Miranda. No…Cora. No, it was definitely Miranda. He imagined her holding a guitar and the picture made sense. Something about her reminded him of the Queen.
    Or perhaps it was the Signet that did that.
    He caught sight of it as she turned toward him: a heavy chain, a faint glow…and red.
    “Who are you?” he asked again, this time throwing authority into his voice. Very few people survived ignoring that tone.
    Or they hadn’t, back when…he shook his head, confused. Too many lifetimes in one mind. Too many decades crammed together, too many memories clamoring to be heard, and out of the chaos, nothing.
    “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “I think a better question is, who are you?”
    He groaned. “Oh my God, you’re the fucking Caterpillar. I knew this was the drugs.”
    She laughed. It was a ringing sound, especially here in the silence of the wood. Yes, very like Miranda indeed, though physically they didn’t really look much alike. Miranda had leaf-green eyes, and of course the curls. This woman’s eyes were…
    Black…
    No delineation of pupil and iris, just endless black, and they had stars in them...stars that went on, and on, and if he looked at them the right way, they formed…
    They formed a Web.
    “It’s You,” he said softly.
    This time, She didn’t smile. “It is.”
    “What are you doing here, then? I thought you couldn’t talk to us yet.”
    “In dreams,” She replied, “and other altered states, the distance is shorter.”
    “Close enough to show me visions of my dead husband, but not close enough to actually lift a finger to help him survive.” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but failed, and let each word be a dagger if it wanted.
    None of them seemed to cut Her. She nodded, obviously having expected something of the sort. “I gave him knowledge. Perhaps if he had shared it, you could all have found a way to avert fate—or perhaps not. My children have free will. Jonathan made his own choices. There is only so much I can do without violating natural order.”
    “That’s a pretty pathetic excuse.”
    An eyebrow lifted.
    “If we’re supposed to be Your little private army, and destroy the people who were strong enough to put You in the ground last time, You’re going to have to do better than some vague theological platitudes about free will. We need help ,” he said. “Real help. No more codes, no more dreams—a plan. Information. Firepower.”
    He was trying to provoke Her, of course, but instead She looked amused again. “We? I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
    Deven shook his head and turned back to the rail. “I didn’t. I don’t.”
    “Or perhaps you understand, underneath all your attempts at self-destruction, that eventually you will come out of this and take your rightful place.”
    He had to hold himself upright with all his will; exhaustion and sorrow were never more than a step behind him, but the thought of living again…it was too much.
    “No more,” he muttered, bending until his head touched the rail. “Let me wake up. Wake me up.”
    “I’m trying to,” he heard Her say gently.
    He tried to ignore Her, and reach out to the forest as he’d done so many times, to wrap the feeling of trees and rocks and water around him; there was nothing else in this place that might offer comfort.
    But the memory intruded of the last time he had been here, in the real world, and whom he had been here with. This place, too, his last sanctuary, was tainted by the life he didn’t want.
    “