Niamh came to stand beside Lyse and grinned at her.
"We did it," Niamh murmured, her voice soft with wonder.
But Lyse knew it was not over yet. She took Niamh's hand.
"Now we raise the dead."
Niamh shuddered.
"Are you sure?" she asked Lyse.
"We leave him there and past-me goes to jail," Lyse said. "I get up tomorrow morning and come running down here, all set to tell the police that I'm the murderer. Though I don't know how anyone could think I was capable of toppling over our lovely Lady here."
Lyse reached out and patted the Lady's stone pedestal.
"Still, we don't need past-me rotting away in jail right now," she continued. "Not when The Flood is just about to make its big move."
"No, I have to agree with you about that," Niamh said. "So how do we do it?"
"We cast a circle of life," Lyse said, "using the Dream Journal."
She didn't know how she knew this would work. It had just come to her as soon as Niamh had asked the question. She went back to the bushes where the two of them had been hiding and found the Dream Journal sitting in the dirt. She picked it up, brushing off the soil, and carried it over to her uncle's body.
She placed the tattered old journal on her uncle's crushed chest and then quickly stepped away. The less she had to look at the dead man, the better.
"Now take my hands," Lyse commanded, reaching for Niamh-and as soon as their fingers touched, the book burst into a golden flame that encircled them both.
The light was so bright that Niamh closed her eyes, but Lyse refused. She wanted to see every second of what was about to happen. As they raised their arms into the air, the golden light shot upward, sparkling like a Roman candle between their wrists, both sets as slender as the trunk of a birch sapling. Lyse opened her mouth-and she thought she was going to hum the same tune as before . . . only it wasn't her voice that poured from her lips. Instead, it was a chorale of men and women, a cacophony of different tones and timbres, each vying to be heard over the din of the others. As the voices wove together into one, the golden light became something alive and malleable. It coalesced into something solid . . . a glowing mail made of golden chain.
As the song grew in pitch, the voices became frenzied, and the mail expanded in response. It began to lengthen and stretch, blowing itself up like a hot-air balloon until it was a large sphere that encapsulated both the Lady of the Lake on her pedestal and the dead man on the ground. With a loud boom, the Earth began to rumble. Lyse closed her mouth, abruptly ending the song and invoking a silence that cut the air like a scythe. But the glowing globe of chain mail continued to shimmer and grow as if it had a mind of its own.
Then the silence was replaced by a low growl. One that started under the Earth and bubbled up like a geyser, splitting the concrete around the Lady's pedestal with its power.
"With enough pressure, even the blackest coal can be transformed," Lyse said-and lowered their hands, the action ratcheting up the pressure inside the sphere. "Now return as you were."
She dropped Niamh's hands and clapped twice. The sphere popped, sending a shock wave out into the universe, one that echoed like a shot through the dreams of anyone nearby who had the misfortune of being tucked up in bed. Many people would wake up the next morning and wonder if there'd been an earthquake in the night. One they'd managed to sleep through, though it had managed to somehow infiltrate their dreams.
"It's done."
Lyse spoke the words, breaking the spell they'd cast.
The Lady was whole again, returned to the state she'd been in when Eleanora and past-Lyse had called upon her to act. Below her, the dead man was whole again, as well. His handsome face had filled out once more with flesh, bone and skin uncrushed. He had a head of steely gray hair, buzzed short against the crown of his head.
Niamh reached out with a toe and prodded the dead man's shoulder. The dead man did not stir.
"Are you sure he's alive?" Niamh asked.
Lyse knelt beside the prostrate figure and picked up the Dream Journal, tucking it under her arm. Then she leaned forward so her face was within inches of the dead man's ear.
"You will remember nothing. You will know you have failed in your task, but not how or why. And you will leave me alone. For now, you will not act until you see me one final time at the hospital in Italy."
Lyse whispered these words into the dead man's ear, careful not to touch the dead flesh with her lips. The dead man continued to stay where he was, but Lyse stood up and pointed to the careful rise and fall of his chest.