"Do you hear it?" Emilie demanded, but it was too late. The delicate woman had written much, and now she wept and clutched her hands, massaging her long elegant fingers. The depth of connection had altered, and words were no longer working.


    Not right now, at least. But this was the one to hear her, out of the four. She was receptive. Perhaps it was her name, the same name. Or the dress she wore, not unlike something Virginie or herself would have worn, unlike the strange garb of the other guests. Whatever it was, Emilie intended to make use of her for as long as she could. Get everything out there. Win the battle in the end, the battle that had been going on so long, she''d forgotten how long exactly.


    He would arrive soon. She''d forgotten this. Always did forget it, only dimly recalled that it had happened before and would most likely happen again. When she was alone, she was confused. When she was no longer alone, it all beame too horrifyingly clear. He would come home for dinner, at sunset, and then it would begin in earnest all over again. Except, one difference: he would be mad about the uninvited guests. Even though it had nothing to do with her.


    Always the same, every time.


    Emilie scanned the pages the woman''s writing - the pages on top, lying askew, which she could see without touching them - but it was no use. The delicate woman had written in English, so Emilie could not check if she had told the tale accurately. But someone knew now, and that was enough. That was cause to be celebrated. Next time, she would get the woman to look for the source of the wailing in the house. Surely that was the way to put an end to all this.


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    Wait. Would there be a next time? What if his arrival terrified the delicate woman into leaving? For she was so like a frightened deer. Emilie had seen her start at all sorts of things that the others had said and done. Especially the uncouth man with the tall hair.


    She couldn''t be allowed to leave. Emilie needed to impress that on her. She needed to stay, and hear the whole tale out.


    Emilie reached for her, touched her shoulder, and the delicate woman was gone.


    Virginie was there instead.


    "Virginie, can it really be you?"


    Emilie dove for her mouth, then remembered herself, hesitating before her lips with a quivering breath. Maybe this was still the delicate woman, and Virginie was a figment of her imagination.


    Then Virginie leaned in and kissed her.


    Emilie surged forward into her, the reunion electrifying, revivifying, making flesh real again where surely there was nothing more than spirit. There was no question: this was Virginie, returned, just for her. Emilie did not seek a contradiction to this, as her hands made solid, her mouth warm again, sought only Virginie, Virginie, after all this time.


    At the culmination of her pleasure, the coming violence entered her mind. It did not ruin the feeling, but seasoned it bittersweet.


    Was it too late to protect this one?


    She looked down at the woman on the floor as the rapture and certainty faded. A rush of guilt rode through her. This was not her Virginie after all. The delicate woman did not seem perturbed, lying there in a happy glow, post-ravishment. But Emilie felt as if she''d used her, just to taste mortality again.


    Not fair.


    But this one - Virginie? something similar enough to the name, pronounced differently - would have to suffer her presence many times more before the end.


    If she made it that far.


    "Sorry," Emilie whispered, and fled the room to seek another window.


    There, the mist turned peach as the sun winked toward the horizon.


    Emilie wrapped her arms around herself, the pleasurable sweetness within her remembered body turning sour with the fading of daylight.