Chapter Three
The outburst came from the front of the theater, though from which section, Dagny could not tell. At first, she thought it must've been an actor. Even the most obnoxious guests never spoke above a mumble and that voice had been loud and clear. Had Terrence forgotten to turn his mic off again?
The audience didn't seem too disturbed - maybe the shout had gone unnoticed - but Dagny fumbled in her pocket, all the same. Fingers closing around her earpiece, she prepared herself to speak over the static, praying that someone would interpret her message before any more damage was done.
"This is absolutely preposterous! That would never happen on Asgard!"
Too late.
The male voice rippled over the crowd again, drifting back from the first section of seats. Since the Lapis' speakers were exclusively wall-mounts, it had to belong to an audience member. A very rude, very opinionated audience member.
Dagny lost her grip on the earpiece and it slid down her palm, its pace quickened by the accumulating slickness. The curtain had just dropped, blocking the crew from sight as they erected Scene Three's battleground, and the coming lines were some of the play's most crucial. If the audience missed them...well, her game of "Spot the Critic" had become much more important.
Her eyes flitted to Door A and saw Claire scanning the audience, as well. It was clear from her furrowed brow and the intensity of her expression that she'd heard the voice too. As Dagny crept into the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous, the girls made eye contact. Claire raised her eyebrows questioningly; Dagny shrugged.
As she reached the first cross aisle, the curtain rose on a trio of conversing gods. Thor, adorned in intricate, silver chainmail, was addressing his lover, Sif, and his uncle, Hœnir. Struggling to maintain an appropriate accent, his words alternated between faithful pride in his father's army and fear of a deadly defeat. Unconscious of her lips' movement, Dagny mouthed the lines along with him.
"This day, my nephew, shall be remembered for all of time. They will sing songs of our heroism and how we faced death without fear. Come, let us die, for the cause is worthy and the adventure will be great. In dying, we will know what it means to live." The passion with which Hœnir replied, added to his reputation as a "silent" god, made this one of the play's central lines. Its effect on the audience was pleasing; as she examined their ranks for a shamefaced shouter, Dagny noticed several tear-filled eyes.
"Father, come! What say you?" She glanced up as Thor spoke again.
Odin entered from his "tent" backstage, the determination on his face equalled only by its despair. He lifted his golden staff, waving it loftily, before opening his mouth to answer. When he did, his words - "Wiser counsel, there has never been" - were eclipsed by a cacophonous laugh. It was wild, energetic, and mirthlessly amused. Clearly, it belonged to the same man. Dagny's neck swung towards it as suddenly as if she'd been yanked by a taut rope. She finally saw the culprit, seated in the exact center of the front row.
Michael Browning's seat.
Her pace quickened as a series of worried questions jolted through her mind. Was it possible that Browning had shown up, after all, and felt entitled to his negative opinions? But no, this man was too tall to be the author, and he spoke with a pronounced accent. Was it possible, then, that Browning had sent someone in his place? That still didn't answer the question of why he was being so impossibly rude.
"And that helm is horrendously inaccurate!"
Dagny had three thoughts, one right after the other, as she finally reached the front section of seating.
The first was, Well, at least he's right about something.
The second was a sudden understanding of his speech. The man's slurred voice made it painfully obvious that he was drunk.
The third came as she skidded to a halt in front of him: What now?
In all her rush to find the disturbance, Dagny had not considered what she'd do when she did. Every phrase she'd learned from Marcus, things like "If you're not going to respect your own theater experience, at least respect everyone else's" and "Our troupe put a lot of time into this play, so please do your best to pay attention," evaporated from her mind. She was left, gaping and sputtering, facing a stranger who had yet to notice she was there.
For better or worse, she was distracted by another significant line from the stage. Loki, who had spent the entirety of the first act plotting against Thor, was now proclaiming his allegiance to the thunder god's battlements.
"Without him, all is lost," he said, reverently. "Our only hope now is Thor."
The man before her erupted into another bout of laughter, slightly more indignant than the last. "Never in my life," he choked between giggles, "Would I utter such folly! This is madness!"
A crease formed between her eyes as Dagny pursed her lips together. Her palms were still sweaty and there was a slight tremor in her fingertips, but she ignored these as she hissed angrily:
"Excuse me."
It came out as more of a question than an admonishment, but it seemed to do the trick. The man, who had been poised to say something else, shut his mouth with an audible snap. His eyes went wide as he finally caught sight of the girl, standing in front of him with her arms crossed tight. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one to notice her.
She had hoped she could subtly quiet the critic without drawing any more attention to him - or to herself. It seemed that wouldn't be the case though, when the already squirming audience, began to murmur uncomfortably. A few of them met Dagny's eyes and she quickly looked away.
Alright. She took a deep breath. Let's get this over with.
She bent into a crouch, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible while she thought up a coherent scolding. As she leaned closer to him, the man's eyes followed her, still staring. He looked as puzzled as she felt. For a moment, Dagny wondered what he was thinking.
"Excuse me," she repeated, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Sir, you're disturbing the other audience members. I'm going to have to ask you to quiet down."
She did her best to sound authoritative, while keeping her tone calm and kind. One of Marcus' lessons, at least, seemed to be coming back to her. "However much you might want to," he'd said once, "Never yell at a guest." Dagny rarely wanted to yell at anyone, much less a member of her audience. Something about this man made the thought particularly intimidating.
He had the look of a aristocrat, stamped with arrogance, composure, and a hint of eccentricity. His hair was longer than a typical man's, falling neatly to his shoulders, and it was black as the shadows around him. The coat he wore was simple and dark, beneath it was an elegant suit. His pale face and thin lips were arranged in a mask of dazed confusion. He still hadn't answered.
It was with painful slowness that his eyes lifted to hers. She expected them to be as vacant as his expression, but they stared back at her, alert and interested. Even in the dull lighting, she could see the intensity of their color. They were a dark, cavernous shade of blue.
She looked away before he did, breaking their contact, and wondering again what kind of thoughts ran through his head. He had began to examine his suit, pinching the fabric between his fingertips, and his pursed lips had formed a frown. She watched him, transfixed.
"Tell me."
His words were so soft and sudden that, for a moment, she didn't realize he'd spoken. Then he dropped the folds of his suit and glanced up at her, all trace of intoxication gone. In a voice smooth as velvet, he said, "Tell me how you are able to see me."
"Um," she sputtered. "Sir, you're sitting right in front of me. Of course I can see you. It's you talking that's the problem."
He raised his eyebrows. "What is your name?"
Dagny was so startled that an answer spilled out of her before she could stop it. "It's - it's Dagny, sir."
"Dagny." He glanced down at his suit again. "Are you a sorceress, Dagny?"
"What?" She'd forgotten to whisper that time and someone in the third row let out an irritated sigh. Glancing apologetically in their direction, she thought to herself, What is wrong with this guy?
Disregarding the crowd, whose annoyance had grown palpable, the man repeated himself at normal volume. "A sorceress. Can you perform magic?"
"No..." Dagny's eyes flitted between the man and the audience. "But, sir, you've been disturbing the other patrons and I really have to ask you to settle down."
His eyes settled back on her, bright and calculating. He did not reply.
Dagny frowned, wondering if this was his way of assenting. He was more than likely drunk and obviously had a screw or two loose, but at least he'd stopped shouting. "Okay," she said in her quietest voice. "I'm going to go now. Um...thank you, sir."
She had just taken a step towards the center aisle, prompting relieved sighs from the audience, when his voice cried out again. "Human!"
Human?
The crowd began to rumble. On stage, the actress playing Sol stumbled over a line.
"Down in front!" Someone yelled.
Slowly, her sweaty palms forming into fists, Dagny turned to face the man. Something between a desperate plea and a frustrated snap was ready on her lips, but it evaporated when she realized how close he was. He'd risen from his seat to tower over her, staring down with his mesmerizingly blue eyes.
"Dagny," he murmured. "I think it would be best for both of us if you could no longer see me." Before she could stutter out an answer, he continued. "I think you would be quite happy to return to your other duties and forget that you saw me here."
Her jaw dropped. She felt blood rushing to her face. Was he insane? Did he think he could control her, send her scurrying away like a servant, just because he was a wealthy guest and she was an usher? This was the Lapis - her theater - and Gardians of the Realm was her play. She'd spent six months making it perfect and she would not be chastised for keeping it that way.
For the first time in her two year employment, Dagny wanted to yell at an audience member.
"Sir," she hissed, all kindness gone from her voice. "You're going to have to sit down and be quiet or I'm going to ask you to leave."
A flicker of irritation crossed his features. "Why won't you listen?" he asked, softly.
"Why won't I listen?"
Dagny was overwhelmed, a useless jumble of pride, anger, and indecision. She didn't know what to say or do, only that, whatever it was, it had to get the man out. Her heart was pounding and the audience was stirring and Laufey had missed his cue to start the battle...
Of its own accord, her hand lashed out. Its movement was swift and precise, latching onto the man's sleeve, almost as if she knew what she was doing. But she didn't know; she didn't even remember sending the command. Her grip tightened automatically and she took a purposeful step backward, all without a conscious thought. The man didn't protest.
He remained silent, watching her pensively, as she dragged him away from the stage. There was a small crease in his forehead, but he gave no indication that her grip bothered him; when they rounded a corner and her hand brushed his skin, she was the only one to flinch.
It was she, not him, who stared straight ahead, feeling like a doll on display. The audience had turned back to the show, but she could still feel their eyes on her. Expressions ranged from annoyed to sympathetic, with a smattering of obvious confusion. She tried her best to look capable but, as she neared Door C, she felt anything but. She was expressly aware of her fingers on the man and the fact that, if he was a representative of Browning, she'd just made a terrible impression.
A blush began creeping up her neck as she passed the last few seats. Her eyes longed to search for Claire, but she kept them trained on the door's handle, not blinking until they'd gone through it. When it had swung shut behind them, she let out a deep breath and dropped her eyes to the carpet. For the second time that night, she thought, What now?
"Look," she said, quietly. About ten minutes too late, Marcus' speech had come back to her. "Thank you for coming to the Lapis Theater. We appreciate your patronage but your, um, disruptive behavior has made it impossible for us to accommodate you." She paused. "I don't know if you're here for Mr. Browning -"
"Mr. Browning?"
His sudden interruption caught her off guard. She looked up and was startled again by the brilliance of his eyes. In the lobby's fluorescent lighting, they looked even bluer.
"Mi-Michael Browning," she stuttered. "Original author of the play?"
"Oh," the man said, thoughtfully. "Yes, I saw his name on the door."
"You mean, you don't know him?"
"No." His voice was apathetic, distracted. "Should I?"
"If you don't know him, why were you sitting in his seat?"
His eyes slid over her again, giving her the distinct impression that she was being appraised. It made her uncomfortable, as if she'd been shoved beneath a spotlight, and she felt her breath catch. He still hadn't answered her.
"Why were you in Browning's seat?" she repeated.
"It was empty."
She was saved from forming a response by Claire, who flung Door A open and scurried into the lobby with her braids streaming out behind her. She skidded to a halt in front of Dagny, directly beside the man. He towered over her, but she didn't seem to care.
"What the hell just happened?" she demanded.
Dagny's eyes slid to the man, almost apologetically, before flickering back to her friend. Claire was even more animated than usual, anxiety plain on her face as she bounced from foot to foot. The anger was obvious, as well, in her pointed ignorance of the critic; it nearly made the sleeve grab look polite.
She felt her confusion growing, if that were possible, as she lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm so sorry that took so long. I think everything's under control now, he's about to leave. I was just asking him some questions. Apparently, he's not with Browning." She leaned forward, her mouth inches from Claire's ear as she added, "I think he's drunk."
To her surprise, Claire's anxious expression only grew more pronounced. She looked downright horrified as she placed a hand on Dagny's forehead. "Dagny, honey," she replied. "What are you talking about?"
Dagny heard the man let out a breath, but barely registered the sound. Her friend's response was so strange, so uncharacteristic, that, for a moment, she could only stare.
"The heckler," she finally said. "The man I escorted out? He's right behind you."
Claire's eyes widened and she spun around but, after only a second or two, she turned back to Dagny. Her expression hadn't changed.
"There's no one there, Dagny."
The ludicrousness of the situation almost made her laugh. Was it possible that the entirety of this night had been some strange, deluded joke? Had Claire teamed up with the man to prank her? But, even as she thought it, she knew it couldn't be true. Claire wasn't one for humiliation and she would never interfere with a show.
As she tried to form a rational explanation for every passing second in which no one yelled "Gotcha!", a tiny part of Dagny's brain repeated the man's words: "Tell me how you are able to see me."
But those were the words of a drunk man, a crazy man. Of course people could see him. Why else would Claire have rushed into the lobby, looking so angry and horrified? Why else would the audience have been so obviously irritated?
"Claire," she said, her voice an octave higher than usual. "Didn't you hear him too?"
The lobby doors flew open again only, this time, it was Marcus who blew through them.
He called out Dagny's name as he strode forward, a musical lilt to his voice that only came out when he was panicked. Or furious. "Can you please inform me what in God's name you were thinking out there?"
Dagny felt as if her lips had been sewn shut, so impossible was it for her to open them and answer his question. She had never been on the receiving end of his rage and the thought alone terrified her. When combined with Claire's inability to see the critic, it was enough to leave her petrified. She couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but gape at him as he broke into a passionate speech that would rival even Hœnir's.
"Almost a full house tonight!" he spat, bitterly. "Our biggest show of the season - the one that's finally going to put the Lapis on the Broadway spectrum - and our battle scene is interrupted by...by...whatever stunt you were trying to pull. I would never have thought you capable, Dags." He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, all of the usual warmth gone from his chocolate eyes. His voice grew even quieter. "Why did you do it? Was it really that much of a problem that Jacob played Loki? Are you really so bothered by it that you would ruin our show?"
"Marcus." Claire's voice came from behind them but, if he heard her, he didn't show it. He kept his snarling face fixed on Dagny, who was still too stunned to react. To make matters worse, she could feel desperate tears forming behind her eyes. What had she done wrong? What was going on?
"You've always been a good friend to me, Dagny, but if you think that will keep me from punishing you for this, well, you're sorely -"
"Marcus!" The shout echoed around the lobby. It was so loud that the three troupe members turned, automatically, towards the theater doors, watching them in unified trepidation. When there was no audible reaction, Marcus whirled on Claire.
"What?" he growled.
"I think Dagny's sick."
His brow furrowed, but he still sounded angry as he asked, "She's...what?"
"She's seeing things."
It took about thirty seconds but, as the words sunk in, Marcus' rage deflated like a pricked balloon. Dagny wasn't sure if he was actually shrinking or if it just seemed that way as he straightened himself and turned back to her.
"I should have known," he said in a much gentler voice. "It was so unlike you. Even I couldn't believe it." His eyes focused on her face again but, this time, they were full of concern. "You do look pale," he admitted. "And you haven't said anything in about five minutes."
She was still unable to part her lips as the director brushed her bangs away, smoothing back her ponytail to conduct the same examination as Claire. Her friend was explaining what had happened, using words like "fever" and "hallucinations," but Dagny felt far away from the conversation. Her eyes roved up to the ceiling, taking in the oceanic mural that Marcus had commissioned there, then drifting back down to the lobby. They settled on the man.
He hadn't moved in all this time, standing with his hands clasped behind him, passively watching their dramatic display. His gaze moved from person to person, but still seemed most fascinated by Dagny. She had felt it on her as Claire gauged her temperature and again during Marcus' tirade. Now, over her friends' shoulders, his eyes caught hers. He did something strange then. He smiled.
A sudden breath hitched in her throat and, finally, she felt her lips break open. They began forming silent words, as if everything she'd wanted to say for the past ten minutes was suddenly fighting its way out. This strange action seemed only to strengthen Marcus and Claire's beliefs; they had begun mumbling to themselves, worrying over whether or not to call an ambulance when, finally, Dagny found her voice.
"Just tell me one thing," she croaked.
Claire's voice cut off instantly. It took Marcus a little longer to react but his words - something about Dagny "going into shock" - began to trail off.
"What's wrong, Dags?" he asked, after a pause.
"Tell me you can't see him."
Affirmation mingled with concern on her friends' faces as they looked at each other and nodded. Their movements were so synchronized, they might've been the same person, if there weren't such a vast difference between their heights and if Claire's braids didn't click together when she moved.
"We can't see him, honey," she confirmed.
The man began to laugh, catching Dagny's attention and no one else's. She listened to the sound as it escaped his thin, pinkish lips: it wasn't the drunken cackle he'd let out in the theater. This laugh was soft and amused and its pleased, melodic rhythm made her skin start to crawl. He looked almost satisfied, as if he'd been waiting for Claire's words all night. Dagny felt sick to her stomach.
She knew then, without a doubt, that this was no trick. As clear as he was to her, no one else could see or hear the chuckling man. She'd been talking to herself in the front row or, at least, that was what everyone thought. The crowd hadn't been annoyed by a drunken critic - they'd been irritated with her for interrupting the show. This was the truth of the matter and, however ridiculous it seemed, she had to accept that. And, after she accepted it, she had to figure out what it meant.
"I think I should go home," she said.
"That's exactly what we were thinking!" Claire chirped. "Staying here won't help anything. Why don't you go home and just sleep for a while? You'll feel better after."
Marcus spoke in the same coddling tone, telling her to forget about his yelling, that he'd never really been mad at her, and that she shouldn't worry about anything. "If you need another day," he added, "Just text me tomorrow. You've put so much into this show already. Just do what you need to do."
Dagny felt oddly defeated as she nodded. "Thank you."
She lingered there for a moment, weighed down by confusion, guilt, and humility, before turning towards the row of glass doors. The glowing, scarlet exit signs reminded her strangely of the critic's stare, but she tried not to think about that - or him - as she started towards them. She tried, also, not to think about her friends' pity or the fact that she'd embarrassed herself in front of 600 people or the post-production procedures that she wouldn't be able to help with tonight...
"My bag," she suddenly remembered. "It's still in the dressing room."
"On it."
Dagny nodded for a second time as Claire disappeared through a familiar black door. It was an absent-minded motion and, seconds after she'd done it, her attention was back on Marcus. He looked just as distracted, like he was listening hard to something he couldn't quite make out. With a start, she remembered the earpieces. Her hand dipped into her pocket and closed around the thin, plastic device; only when she removed it did she realize that it had been buzzing ferociously since she'd entered the lobby.
From the look on Marcus' face, he was having the same problem. "Scott's trying to say something, but I can't hear worth a damn over this static. I think it's getting worse." He shrugged before holding his hand out, palm upturned. "Give me that. I'll put it at your station after the show."
"Thank you," Dagny repeated.
The lobby was silent as they waited for Claire's return. Marcus alternated between toggling his headphones, trying to discern words within the static, and staring longingly at the theater doors. Dagny wanted to tell him to go in, but she was caught up in thoughts of her own. It took all of her willpower not to glance towards the critic; despite her careful ignorance, she could still feel him there, watching her. There had to be a reason they couldn't see him. There had to be a reason she could.
What she needed was a plan.
It came to her just as Claire pushed the black door open; she remained still, finalizing it, as her friend approached. Marcus rushed back to his masterpiece with a shoulder squeeze and a parting glance, as Claire asked, "Ready to go?" and held out a bulging, black tote bag.
Dagny took a breath.
She forced her eyes to skim blankly over the staring man, allowing her tense expression to relax and her clenched hands to open, before she replied. She kept all traces of fear and exhaustion from her voice as she said, "I'm feeling much better now."
Her friend's eyebrows rose, but Dagny composed her own face into a smile.
"I don't know what happened in there, but you're probably right. I must be sick or stressed or something..." She smiled again. "Don't let it ruin your night. I can make it home on my own."
When Claire still looked doubtful, she tried a joke. "Come on. If any of the other ushers start having crazy hallucinations, who's going to help them?" She waited for her friend's half-hearted smile, then added, "I promise I'll text you the second I get in. If you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, you can send out a search party."
The other girl finally nodded. "You sound more like yourself now. But you had better text me the very second you open your door or there are going to be consequences." She reached out to squeeze Dagny's hand once, twice, three times. "Take care of yourself, Dagny."
"I will."
A reassuring grin remained plastered to her face as she exited the Lapis lobby, stepping into the frigid winter air, with a last glance inside.
She was just in time to see the man wind himself around her friend and, still smiling, follow her out.
It took about seven minutes to work up the nerve but, after three blocks with the man behind her, Dagny finally asked the question. She said it without looking back, her eyes trained to the sidewalk, but when he didn't answer, she turned.
"Who are you?" she asked again.
Seventh Avenue was not deserted by any means but, on this side of the street, the walkers were scattered. Nearly a block ahead of her, a woman in a fur coat hailed a taxi; behind her, two teenage boys ogled a shop model in a bikini. No one was close enough to hear her words. No one except for him.
She expected the man to be distracted, made deaf to her question by the city around them, but his penetrating stare was fixed on her. As their eyes crossed paths again, he let out a breath; it left a cloud of white smoke hanging in the air. It was another moment before four silvery words followed.
"My name is Loki."
Dagny blinked. Despite his bright eyes and clear voice, the joke's atrocity proved he was drunk. She scanned his face for the lie as she said, "Tell me the truth."
"I just did."
"No." She started walking again, hearing his steps pick up behind her, refusing to acknowledge his blatant teasing. What had happened at the Lapis was enough; she didn't need to be toyed with as well. "No, your name is not the same as the Norse god of mischief's."
"Why not?"
His answer brought her up short and she nearly stumbled. He seemed to notice the falter in her stride because, moments later, he appeared beside her. His expression was quizzical, slightly amused.
She rolled her eyes. "Look. If you don't want to tell me your name, that's fine. How about you tell me why no one else can see you?"
His face broke into a smile then; she couldn't tell if he meant it to be mocking. "My name is Loki," he assured her. "And I think the better question is why you can see me."
"Alright." The word came out as a hiss between gritted teeth. "Why can I see you?"
"I don't know."
"Ugh!" Dagny let out a scream, an hour's worth of frustration finally boiling over the surface. She had not asked for this, not any of it. All she'd wanted was to keep the play - grotesque helmet and all - running as smoothly as possibly. Now she'd been ejected from her theater and left alone to speak riddles with a man no one could see. She needed him to cooperate. She needed to know what was happening. She needed an answer. Now.
Before she could launch herself into a very Marcus-like state, the man - Loki - lowered his voice and asked a question of his own.
"Shall we try something?"
Dagny ignored him.
"Dagny."
Again, she didn't reply. She focused, instead, on trying to place his unusual accent; she was positive she'd heard it before, but she couldn't imagine where. It was either British or Welsh but formal, as if he'd spent a lot of time working at renaissance fairs. And there was something else: an upward lilt that pricked at her memory. She almost wished he would keep talking, just so she could hear it again and think.
"Dagny, please. Stop walking."
Her hasty considerations came to a halt when he stepped in front of her, blocking her way with two wiry arms. She jolted to a halt, feet jutting across a jagged crack in the sidewalk. Before she could demand an explanation, he turned around to face her.
Quite suddenly, he was three shades brighter.
It was as if he'd stepped under a particularly bright streetlamp or like a film had been wiped from his body. His dark hair was now blacker, his lips were redder, and his skin had lightened to a pearly shade of alabaster. Even his clothing looked different. And his eyes...
For the briefest of seconds, Dagny caught sight of something within them; some hint or suggestion that was more powerful than anything she'd ever seen. They were deep as oceans and painfully striking, but those traits were only physical. When she stared into them, just for that moment, it was like looking into the sun. They were limitless.
She blinked and the sensation was gone.
Loki still faced her with his strangely bright body, giving the impression that he was waiting for something. Dagny realized what it was when the two teenagers ambled past.
"Excuse me," Loki called and, to her surprise, the boys looked up.
"Yeah?" one of them replied.
"You're able to see me, are you not?"
The boy exchanged a glance with his friend before nodding, hesitantly. "Yeah..."
"Thank you." Loki's answer was soft and dismissive as he turned his attention back to Dagny. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the teenagers backing away, but her attention was on the man's face. There was something new in it, a challenge that grew more poignant as the rest of him faded.
He was suddenly the man she'd met in the theater, covered by a mysterious pall, the colors of his body noticeably duller. A thought occurred to Dagny.
"Hey!" she shouted, not at him, but to the boys. They were now almost four buildings away but slowly, they turned back to face her.
"Can you see anything now?" Her mind was a jumble of intense curiosity and foreboding. She expected their uncertain answer before it came, but she did not want to hear it:
"Just you."
Odd looks came from both of them as they turned away for a second time, quickening their paces until they were almost jogging down the street. Dagny hardly noticed; she felt as if the crack beneath her feet had widened. As if it were about to swallow her body, as if a hole had opened in the Earth and she was tumbling through. A minute ago, she had been desperate for an answer; she realized now that she wanted nothing more than to avoid the question.
Loki opened his mouth to speak but, before any words could wander out, Dagny dodged around him and fled. She heard his footfalls behind her, but she didn't look back, keeping her arms crossed in front of her and her head bowed to the wind.
A tear trickled down her cheek before she could stop it and then she was running, passing the frightened boys and another woman waving into traffic and six more people who didn't give her a second glance. She didn't stop until she reached her building.
She leapt up its concrete steps, two at a time, and yanked a tarnished, silver key from her bag. Her quaking fingers fumbled across its surface and it slid from her grip; before she could retrieve it, a pale hand snatched it from the ground and offered it back to her. Just as it had in the theater, her body took over, whirling automatically to face the man.
"Leave me alone!" she shrieked. The sound poured out in a rush of emotion, followed by several more tears and the beginnings of a sob. "Just leave me alone," she repeated before slamming the door in his startled face.
Images raced across her mind, accompanied by explanations she couldn't bear and questions she couldn't answer. What she'd seen and heard - what she thought she'd seen and heard - was any of it real? The thought of being crazy was not one she entertained often but, as she trudged up the building's marble staircase, finally alone, Dagny let it soak into her brain like poison. She prayed to god it was a fever or stress or anything but insanity, but she didn't feel sick. At least, not physically.
Fear twisted in the pit of her stomach as she unlocked her door. More images, of hospital gowns and padded rooms, flashed before her eyes. They were followed by others, much more painful, of the audience's faces at the theater, of Marcus and Claire's pitying expressions, of the boys' raised eyebrows as they answered her question. Finally, there came a picture of Loki, fading to dullness in front of her.
"Can you see anything now?"
"Just you."
She took three steps towards her couch and collapsed against it, wrapping her arms around her knees, and wondering what had happened to her life.
