chapter 9
Up until her untimely and brutal death, Imogene Minx had been a lucky girl. She was healthy, an independent thinker, and a member of a well-to-do family. Everyone who knew her thought she would live a long and interesting life, not only because of her intelligence and self-assured character, but because the surname, Minx, had become synonymous with success.
It was Imogene’s great-great-great grandfather, Nikolaj, who jump-started her family’s legacy. Early in his career as a furrier he was struggling to survive, living in poverty, until he decided to change his name from Minksoff to the more glamorous, and professionally appropriate, Minx. It proved to be a shrewd decision and soon Nikolaj Minx was the preeminent furrier in all of Imperial Russia, the man every fashionable empress and dowager could not live without. One of those dowagers became so enamored with the charismatic man that she became his wife three months after she became a widow.
While Nikolaj built his business into an empire, his wife, Svetlana, combined her dowry with his profits to create one of the largest arts centers in Russia, the Minx Center for the Performing Arts, which still stands in the heart of St. Petersburg today long after many of its competitors had collapsed. It was there that Imogene made her operatic debut in a production of La Boheme at the age of six. Her mother, Katya, sang the role of Mimi, the ill-fated seamstress who dies of consumption, a role that she played to great acclaim and one that would become her signature, while Imogene appeared as one of the children in the second-act street scenes. Even then, her voice was pitch-perfect, a lilting soprano whose clarity could penetrate a chorus of more powerful and better- trained singers. Katya knew that her daughter had the raw talent needed to become an extraordinary singer, that she possessed a voice that could, if used properly, bring her international renown. But Imogene had other ideas.
One night while they were having their usual postperformance meal of cold chicken and blini with red caviar, Imogene, quite prophetically, told her mother that she wanted to be like Mimi when she grew up.
“Maliysh,” Katya said, “my baby, why would you say such a thing?”
“Because Mimi gets to die young,” Imogene replied. “Before she gets old and ugly.”
Unfortunately, Imogene would be granted her wish. She had escaped death twice, once when Nakano tossed her aside, preferring to take Penry’s life instead, and once when she accidentally killed Jeremiah before he could kill her. However, when she got caught in a tug-of-war between two powerful women, Brania and Edwige, a third reprieve was not granted, and it was Edwige who unwittingly made a six-year-old girl’s wish come true.
When Imogene regained consciousness and noticed no real difference, no drastic physical change, she thought her luck had held out, that she had somehow managed to escape death yet again. Wasn’t her soul supposed to be released from her body; wasn’t she supposed to embark on a journey to heaven, a journey that would transcend mortal limitations? And shouldn’t she be reunited with Penry, her boyfriend, her one and only true love? That’s what the nuns had taught her was supposed to happen; that’s what she had come to expect of death. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to wake up, unable to move but fully aware that she was in a coffin, hear the world around her, hear the rain fall, the birds chirp, and not be able to respond in any way. This just wasn’t right.
After some time, she had come to realize that while she was indeed dead, she was also under Edwige’s control and being held a prisoner, suspended between the realms of her past life and true death. She was trapped within her own body, she felt like one of those people she had read about who were about to undergo surgery and appeared to be anesthesized, but who were completely awake. Mentally she was alive; physically it was as if she were in a coma.
The only ability she did still have, however, was the ability to sing, which is how she spent much of her time. It didn’t show on her face as she sang, but each note made her smile. Maybe it’s because Mama always said that when she sang, it was like hearing an angel rejoice. Maybe if she sang loud enough, Mama would hear her and know that her angel was nearby, know that her angel still looked like her daughter, that she was still alive despite looking like this toy corpse. And so she continued to sing until, of course, Edwige told her to stop.
Now, as she stood outside of St. Florian’s, she could smell the roses. The scent was sweet, but powerful, and wafted down from the window on the second floor. It was a scent that consumed her with fear, the same aroma that had filled Jeremiah’s apartment and she knew that somewhere in Michael and Ronan’s dorm room, there was a vase filled with white roses. Had she complete control of her body, Imogene would have turned and run as far away as possible, far from the smell and the violent memory, but Edwige had given her a command, a task, and she was unable to resist.
She told her body to rise and it did, not stopping until she was able to look through the window and see the boys asleep in their bed. Looking down, she saw her feet standing on air, the snow-covered ground two stories below, and she couldn’t help but be amazed by her power. I don’t know how I’m doing this, she thought, but it’s really impressive.
When she raised her arm, the window opened as if the two were one. Once again she was impressed with her new gifts, but quickly admiration turned to fear. The sweet scent of roses swept passed her, through her, making her relive that terrible night, making her feel Jeremiah’s grip, his desire to destroy her. No! She would not give in. She had survived his attempt to kill her and she would survive this. Closing her eyes to defend herself against the fragrance that rushed toward her, Imogene thought of happier times, the night of the Archangel Festival, Penry, kissing Penry, shopping with Phaedra. It was working; she was breathing easier; her thoughts were replacing the harsh memories.
And then she heard the rain.
Opening her eyes, she saw the rain fall all around her. She couldn’t feel the drops, but she could smell them. The rain’s fresh scent was combating the smell of the roses and she knew that it was no coincidence. The rain had been sent to help her, to help her regain her strength, her sanity, so she could fulfill her duty. When she was inside the room and saw the vase filled with a bouquet of white roses on the end table next to the boys’ bed, her body didn’t falter, her voice didn’t waver, she kept singing, softly but firmly, calling out to Michael, urging him to rise.
There’s that song again, Michael thought, still dreaming. How wonderful, the meadowlark has finally returned. But when he awoke, when he opened his eyes to greet one old friend, he was amazed to see another. He blinked his eyes several times, thinking that he was still caught in a dream, but she wouldn’t go away, the apparition didn’t fade. What was Imogene doing at the foot of his bed singing, floating in the air like a marionette connected by invisible strings to some higher power?
“Hello, Michael.”
In the midst of this fantastic occurrence the only thought that popped into Michael’s head was a practical one: How can she sing and talk at the same time?
“You need to come with me.”
What was going on? He wasn’t scared by his friend’s presence, just really curious. What was Imogene doing here? He turned to look at Ronan, hoping he would have some answers, but saw that he was still asleep, totally unaware that they had a visitor. How could he sleep? How could he not hear that music? The sound was filling up the room.
“Because I’ve only come for you.”
And now she can read my mind? Michael sat up in bed and fought the urge to shake Ronan, to wake him up so he could share in this incredible experience, to let him know that after all this time, Imogene had returned. But even though he didn’t understand what was happening, he intuitively understood that this vision was meant only for his eyes.
The singing stopped, but when Imogene spoke again, her lips still did not move. “I have something to show you.”
Quietly, Michael got out of bed and followed Imogene as she floated toward the window. She looked the same and yet something wasn’t right, something about her made his heart ache. Her hair was still so black that the light from the moon made it shine blue in some places. It still fell just below her chin, her bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her skin looked as unblemished and pale as Michael remembered, her eyes—yes, that was it! Her eyes were still black, but instead of being inquisitive and alert, they were dull, devoid of any life whatsoever.
