They talked as days turned to weeks, Miranda reading Stephen's work and then asking the spirit about them at night when he came to her. His writing was gentle, open, and the thought that at the end of each period of study she would be visited by and could converse with the author made her excited to learn more.
Sometimes the spirit, it seemed, had to be guided to his particular words, so long had it been since he had written them, but he opened the theory to her in a way Miranda had never imagined conversing with the Far Corners amateurs. Yes, there was danger in the opening, but the danger was offset by such opportunity. Yes, it would mean the end of the Circle, but what were they, anyway, but hoarders of power who kept their subjects in ignorance? And all the while she felt the living Stephen of the books moving in her, addled perhaps, but lucid.
And Stephen had a spell for her to cast. Two spells, in fact, differing by one word. One was a spell of banishment, to let the poor spirit rest forever. But the one Stephen pushed her towards, in his voice and in his writing, was the other—the opening of the magic—and with it, the gift of flesh for the attendant spirit.
It was true, though, that Miranda felt a duty in any event. Poor, trapped spirit! To grant it rest, or to grant its wishes, and bring Stephen back—and there was something else, wasn't there?
Her choice. And the day of casting loomed: Lammas Night, the night when Peter's chains were broken, the night when the new harvest is celebrated by the baking and offering of the season's first loaves of bread.
Tired, Miranda pressed her hands against the bookshelf and lay her forehead against the leather volumes. She was sick of reading yet still eager to learn, and she half wished that the knowledge would burst from the leather spines of the books and into her head.
'Are you still there?' she whispered.
Another whisper, not her own, and now a breeze touched her open robe and it fell a bit, the cloth sliding past her knees. Miranda closed her eyes and felt something touch her hands, fingers interlacing with her own, and she kept her eyes closed so that they stayed real.
Ghostly fingertips on the backs of her hands, brushing at her wrists. It was Stephen; he was behind her. Don't look. Don't break it. The hands that were and were not there caressed her arms, and then she felt them at her face, soothing, and Miranda opened her mouth as the hands brushed against her lips. The hands came to her neck, gliding along its length, and she gripped the shelf firmly and swayed with them. Yes....
Then she felt his fingers playing at the base of her spine and she heard a rustle as the robe lifted by some unknown power all its own, up and over her head and against the bookshelf. Miranda's breath echoed in the cloth that surrounded her head, and she did not open her eyes, but pressed her head against the spines as he explored her, pressing, relaxing. Warm. She tightened her grip on the shelf.
Miranda felt him pressed against her, felt herself opening to him, arching her back, and the hands glided back to her breasts as he entered her.
She found herself grinding against him, wanting him fully, still not opening her eyes, not even to stare at the dark books, and all she could hear was the echo of her own breath inside her lifted robe,
Miranda gasped again, no air, and the sensation grew in intensity. If she could breath she would only say yes....
But then, a thought, an image in her brain, of Stephen and Dervish and the well, the well empty, Stephen casting a spell there, and Dervish....
Hands gripping the small of her arched back, anger uncontrolled, strangling her, the robe high above and around her head, no air—
Dervish—
Brilliant colors and flashes of white stars, swooning and exploding at once, flooding with warmth and pain and tortuous pleasure. Miranda shook, vibrating head to toe, the explosion rocking her to the core, no air and none needed, God, oh God, shaking violently as it reverberated through her until the shake was just a quiver at the base of her spine, and she felt herself as outside her own body, falling to the floor, crashing to earth.
Alone, Miranda dug her fingernails into the floorboards and gasped, her eyeballs relaxing into her skull, lungs exploding with new air. Alone. Alone. Alone.
Jemuel was still in his nightcap when he came to the door, thrusting a candle before him. He looked out and sighed, as if in exasperation. 'I heard you calling as you rode,' he said.
'Please, can we talk?'
'Of course.' Jemuel rubbed his eyes and turned, and she followed him into his study, where he set a fire burning and she took a seat. 'Chocolate?'
'No. Thank you. Did you know Stephen?'
