Page 71 of Where Light Cannot Follow

The ferryman has a face now. Fully formed. Bronze skin stretched over strong bones, a thick shock of raven-black hair, gleaming green eyes that hold temporary hunger satisfied for this day.

"Well?" His voice has changed, too. It’s richer, more resonant. "Dost thou wish to claim thy end of the bargain, or not?"

"Yes," Virgil says quietly. He must realize I'm too disoriented to speak. "Come, Dante. Let's not render your sacrifice one made in vain."

His eyes meet mine, and there's so much there—apology, gratitude, and something else. Something I'm too dizzy from loss to name.

"I'm well," I manage.

He only shakes his head and guides me toward the boat.

The vessel rocks as we step aboard, settling into the dark water. Charon pushes off from the shore with one smooth motion, and the bank begins to recede.

I glance back.

Constance runs down to the water's edge.

She watches us with her head slightly tilted, that polished composure firmly in place, and she's smiling.

Not the smile of someone who's lost her quarry.

The smile of someone who knows exactly where we're going.

"I'll see you soon, Mr. Dante," she calls across the water, her voice carrying clearly despite the distance. Then she breaks through into my mind again. Do enjoy Virgil's little sanctuary while you can.

The boat slides into the dark, and her figure shrinks against the shore, but her smile stays with me, patient, knowing, triumphant.

27

VIRGIL

Dante and I step off the boat together, our feet scarcely finding solid ground before Charon pushes off, the vessel sliding back toward the far shore. Toward the bank where Constance stood watching us leave, that knowing smile carved into her face.

This was a terrible idea.

"Dante," I say, "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs, as if he hasn't just surrendered a piece of himself he'll never recover. "You nearly drowned in the bog for my sake. I'd say a single memory is a small price."

"We shouldn't have diverted from our course. We should have followed through to the mountain and⁠—"

"You said you'd show me somewhere." Dante looks at me in such a way that the words dissolve on my tongue. His gaze is open, expectant, entirely without reproach. "I wish to see it. If you'd still allow me."

"Yes. Yes, then."

After all, the price to arrive here has already been paid. I'd never intended for Dante to bear it. I'd hoped Charon would accept some memory of mine. He enjoys senators' arguments and philosophical debates as much as pleasurable recollections. Over the centuries, he's spent considerable time sifting through my memories, attempting to negotiate for various fragments. The death of Caesar, as told to me by those who witnessed it. Conversations with Augustus about the nature of legacy. The taste of Falernian wine at a feast I can no longer recall attending.

But he wanted Musa.

He always wants Musa.

And I don't know what Dante gave him instead. Once a memory is surrendered, it's gone entirely. Not even the shape of its absence remains.

Throughout the negotiation, Constance's voice had been screaming through my mind, her presence a jagged intrusion that made it difficult to focus on Charon's words. At least we'd caught him diminished. It had been some time since he'd last consumed a memory, and his hunger made him eager. Otherwise, he might have haggled with Dante for hours, drawing out the negotiation simply for the pleasure of it. It's the only sport left to him, and he's greedy for every moment.

"This way," I say.

Dante follows as we walk down a path that twists and turns, narrowing until it becomes scarcely more than a trampled section of dead grass. The terrain here is forgotten, a wrinkle in the fabric of this realm, overlooked and unclaimed.