Three paces more, and then it cleared, and she was standing before me, back against the lamppost. A head shorter than I was, she had on a trench coat and a black beret, her hair glossy, inky. She dropped her cigarette and slowly ground it out beneath the toe of a high-heeled black patent-leather shoe. I glimpsed something of her leg as she did so, and it was perfectly formed. She removed from within her coat then a flat silver case, the raised outline of a rose upon it, opened it, took out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, closed the case, and put it away Then, without looking at me, she asked, “Have you a light?”
I hadn’t any matches, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that deter me.
“Of course,” I said, extending my hand slowly toward those delicate features. I kept it turned slightly away from her so that she could not see that it was empty. As I whispered the guide word which caused the spark to leap from my fingertip to the tip of the cigarette, she raised her hand and touched my own, as if to steady it. And she raised her eyes-large, deep blue, long-lashed -and met mine as she drew upon it. Then she gasped, and the cigarette fell away
“Mon Dieu!” she said, and she threw her arms about me, pressed herself against me, and began to sob. “Corwin!” she said. “You’ve found me! It has been forever”
I held her tightly, not wanting to speak, not wanting to break her happiness with something as cloddish as truth. The hell with truth. I stroked her hair.
After a long while she pulled away, looked up at me. A moment or so more, and she would realize that it was only a resemblance and that she was seeing but what she wanted to see. So, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked.
She laughed softly.
“Have you found a way?” she said, and then her eyes narrowed. “You’re not-“
I shook my head.
“I hadn’t the heart,” I told her.
“Who are you?” she asked, taking a half step backward.
“My name is Merlin, and I’m on a crazy quest I don’t understand.”
“Amber,” she said softly, her hands still on my shoulders, and I nodded.
“I don’t know you,” she said then. “I feel that I should, but…I ..don’t….”
Then she came to me again and rested her head on my chest. I started to say something, to try to explain, but she placed a finger across my lips.
“Not yet, not now, maybe never,” she said. “Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me more. But you ought to know whether you’re a Pattern-ghost.”
“Just what is a Pattern-ghost?” I said.
“An artifact created by the Pattern. It records everyone who walks it. It can call us back whenever it wants, as we were at one of the times we walked it. It can use us as it would, send us where it will with a task laid upon us-a geas, if you like. Destroy us, and it can create us over again.”
“Does it do this sort of thing often?”
“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with its will, let alone its operations with any other than myself.” Then, “You’re not a ghost! I can tell!” she announced suddenly, taking hold of my hand. “But there is something different about you-different from others of the blood of Amber…,”
“I suppose,” I answered. “I trace my lineage to the Courts of Chaos as well as to Amber.”
She raised my hand to her mouth as if she were about to kiss it. But her lips moved by, to the place on my wrist where I had cut myself at Brand’s request. Then it hit me: Something about the blood of Amber must hold a special attraction for Pattern-ghosts.
I tried to draw my hand away, but the strength of Amber was hers also.
“The fires of Chaos sometimes flow within me,” I said. “They may do you harm.”
She raised her head slowly and smiled. There was blood on her mouth. I glanced down and saw that my wrist was wet with it, too.