“We have to make her hear us.” Dana looked around for something to batter against the wall. “She must be somewhere else, in her head, the way we were. We have to make her hear us so she’ll snap out of it.”

Moe went wild, leaping up to tear and bite at the wall of mist. His barks echoed like gunshots, and still Malory stood like a statue, her back to them.

“There has to be another way.” Zoe dropped to her knees, pressed her fingers along the mist. “It’s freezing. You can see her trembling from the cold. We have to get her out.”

“Malory!” Helpless rage had Flynn pummeling the wall until his hands bled. “I’m not going to let this happen. You have to hear me. I love you. Damn it, Malory, I love you. You listen to me.”

“Wait!” Dana gripped his shoulder. “She moved. I saw her move. Keep talking to her, Flynn. Just keep talking to her.”

Struggling for calm, he pressed his forehead to the wall. “I love you, Malory. You’ve got to give us a chance to see where we can go with it. I need you with me, so either come out or let me in.”

Malory pursed her lips at the image taking shape on canvas. “Did you hear something?” she asked absently.

“There’s nothing.” Kane smiled at the three mortals on the other side of the mist. “Nothing at all. What are you painting there?”

“Uh-uh-uh.” She wagged a playful finger at him. “I’m temperamental. I don’t like anyone looking at my work until it’s done. My world,” she reminded him and daubed on color. “My rules.”

He gave a single, elegant shrug. “As you wish.”

“Oh, don’t pout. I’m nearly done.” She worked quickly now, all but willing the image from her mind onto the canvas. It was, she thought, her masterpiece. Nothing she’d ever done would be so important.

“Art isn’t just in the eye of the beholder,” she said. “But in that, in the artist, in the subject, in the purpose, and in those who see.”

Her pulse skipped and stumbled, but her hand remained steady and sure. For a timeless moment, she shut everything out of her mind but the colors, the textures, the shapes.

And when she stepped back, her eyes glittered with triumph.

“It’s the finest thing I’ve ever done,” she declared. “Perhaps the finest thing I will ever do. I wonder what you’ll think of it.”

She gestured in invitation.

“Light and shadow,” she said as he stepped toward the easel. “In looking within, and without. From within me to without and onto the canvas. What my heart speaks. I call it The Singing Goddess.”

It was her face she’d painted. Her face and the first Daughter of Glass. She stood in a forest, full of sparkling gold light, softened with green shadows, with the river sliding over rock like tears.

Her sisters sat on the ground behind her, their hands clasped.

Venora, for she knew it was Venora, carried her harp, and with her face lifted toward the sky you could almost hear the song she sang.

“Did you think I would settle for cold illusion when I have a chance for the real thing? Did you think I’d trade my life, and her soul, for a dream? You underestimate mortals, Kane.”

As he spun toward her, fury leaping off him like flames, she prayed she hadn’t overestimated herself, or Rowena.

“The first key is mine.” As she spoke she reached toward the painting, reached into it. A stunning blast of heat shot up her arm as she closed her fingers around the key she’d painted at the feet of the goddess.

The key that gleamed in a beam of light that cut the shadows like a gilded sword.

She felt its shape, its substance, then with a cry of victory, she drew it free. “This is my choice. And you can go to hell.”

The mists roiled as he cursed her. As he lifted his hand to strike, both Flynn and Moe burst through the wall. With a barrage of sharp, staccato barks, Moe leaped.

Kane faded like a shadow in the dark, and was gone.

As Flynn plucked Malory off her feet, sunlight shimmered in the tiny windows, and rain dripped musically from the eaves outside. The room was only an attic, filled with dust and clutter.

The painting she’d created out of love, knowledge, and courage was gone.

“I’ve got you.” Flynn buried his face in her hair as Moe leaped on them. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

“I know. I know.” She began to weep quietly as she looked down at the key still clutched in her fingers. “I painted it.” She held it out to Dana and Zoe. “I have the key.”

BECAUSE she insisted, Flynn drove her directly to Warrior’s Peak, with Dana and Zoe following. He kept the heater on high, and had wrapped her in a blanket from his trunk that unfortunately smelled of Moe. And still she shivered.

“You need a hot bath or something. Tea. Soup.” He dragged a hand that was still far from steady through his hair. “I don’t know. Brandy.”

“I’ll take all of the above,” she promised, “as soon as we get the key where it belongs. I won’t be able to relax until it’s out of my hand.”

She clutched it in a fist held tight to her breast.

“I don’t know how it can be in my hand.”

“Neither do I. Maybe if you explain it to me, we’ll both get it.”

“He tried to confuse me, the way he separated us. To make me feel lost and alone and afraid. But he must have some limits. He couldn’t keep all three of us, and you, in those illusions. Not all at once. We’re connected, and we’re stronger than he realized. At least that’s what I think.”

“I can go with that. To give him credit, he had Rhoda pretty much down pat.”

“I made him mad, just mad enough, I guess. I knew the key was in the house.” She pulled the blanket a little tighter, but couldn’t find warmth. “I’m not telling this in good journalistic style.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll edit it later. How did you know?”

“The attic’s where I made the choice, when he showed me all the things I wanted so much. I realized that was the dream place once I went upstairs with Zoe and Dana. And the studio, the artist’s studio, had been on the top floor. The attic. It had to be where I had that moment of decision—like in the paintings. At first I thought we would have to hunt through whatever was up there, and we’d find something that jibed with the clue. But it was more than that, and less.”