Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places
dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone,
fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer
felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had
passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the
sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.
"Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe
in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?"
"No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use
for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I
believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only
shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to
deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the
weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?"
"Yes," she replied. "More than anything."
"The answer is simple," he said. "It is music: a magic that is real,
disproving a magic that is not.
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