Time in the darkness was a thick, viscous fluid. Isadora floated in it, a ghost in a lightless, soundless sea. But she was no longer drowning.
The vision of him, of Caelan, had become her anchor.
It was a madness, she knew, to cling to the memory of a hallucination. It was a fool's hope, a whisper in a void. But it was *hers*. The memory of his cold, solid touch was a shield against the creeping, despair-feeding chill of the cell. The phantom warmth of his kiss on her lips was a fire that kept the whispering ghosts of her own guilt at bay.
When the voice of her father, twisted by the hungry darkness, accused her of being a failure, she would answer it in the silence of her own mind. No. I am Isadora Wren. He saw me. He is coming for me.
When the ghost of Clara wept and called her selfish, she would close her eyes and feel the impossible, imagined pressure of his mouth on hers. I will get you out. I promise. He is coming.
