"You understand," she said quietly.
"Yes. But you're not dying, Poppy. This isn't a death scene you're setting up."
"But I'm going away. I'm changing." Poppy couldn't explain exactly, but something in her said she was doing the right thing.
She was dying to her old life. It was a solemn occasion, a Passage.
And of course, although neither of them mentioned it, they both knew she might die for good. James had been very frank about that-some people didn't make it through the transition.
Phil came back with candles, Christmas candles, emergency candles, scented votive candles. Poppy directed him to place them around the room and light them. She herself went to the bathroom to change into her best nightgown. It was flannel, with a pattern of little strawberries.
Just imagine, she thought as she left the bathroom. This is the last time I'll ever walk down this hall, the last time I'll push open my bedroom door.
The bedroom was beautiful. The soft glow of candlelight gave it an aura of sanctity, of mystery. The music was unearthly and sweet, and Poppy felt she could fall into it forever, the way she fe!l in her dreams.
Poppy opened the closet and used a hanger to bat a tawny stuffed lion and a floppy gray Eeyore down from the top shelf.
She took them to her bed and put them beside the mounded pillows. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was childish, but she wanted them with her.
She sat on the bed and looked at James and Phillip.
They were both looking at her. Phil was dearly upset, touching his mouth to stop its trembling. James was upset, too, although only someone who knew him as well as Poppy did would have been able to tell.
"It's all right," Poppy told them. "Don't you see? I'm all righ t, so there's no excuse for you not to be."
And the strange thing was, it was the truth. She was all right.
She felt calm and clear now, as if everything had become very simple. She saw the road ahead of her, and all she had to do was follow it, step by step.
Phil came over to squeeze her hand. "How does this how does this work?" he asked James huskily.
"First we'll exchange blood," James said-speaking to Poppy.
Looking only at her. "It doesn't have to be a lot; you're right on the border of changing already. Then the two kinds of blood fight it out sort of the last battle, if you see what I mean." He smiled faintly and painfully, and Poppy nodded.
"While that's happening you'll feel weaker and weaker. And then you'll just go to sleep. The change happens while you're asleep."
"And when do I wake up?" Poppy asked.
"I'll give you a kind of posthypnotic suggestion about that. Tell you to wake up when I come to get you. Don't worry about it; I've got all the details figured out. All you need to do is rest."
Phil was running nervous hands through his hair, as if he was just now thinking about what kind of details he and James were going to have to deal with.
"Wait a minute," he said in almost a croak. "When------when you say 'sleep'-she's going to look ..."
"Dead," Poppy supplied, when his voice ran out.
James gave Phil a cold look. "Yes. We've been over this."
"And then-we're really going to-what's going to happen to her?"
James glared.
"It's okay," Poppy said softly. "Tell him."
"You know what's going to happen," James said through clenched teeth to Phillip. "She can't just disappear. We'd have the police and the Night people after us, looking for her. No, it's got to seem that she died from the cancer, and that means everything's got to happen exactly the way it would if she had died.
Phil's sick expression said he wasn't at his most rational.
"You're sure there isn't any other way?"
"No," James said.
Phil wet his lips. "Oh, God."
Poppy herself didn't want to dwell on it too much. She said fiercely, "Deal with it, Phil. You've got to. And remember, if it doesn't happen now it's going to happen in a few weeks-for real."
Phil was holding on to one of the brass bedposts so hard that his knuckles were pale. But he'd gotten the point, and there was no one better than Phil at bracing himself. "You're right,"
he said thinly, with the ghost of his old efficient manner.
"Okay, I'm dealing with it.”
'Then let's get started," Poppy said, making her voice calm and steady. As if she were dealing with everything effortlessly herself.
James said to Phil, "You don't want to see this part. Go out and watch TV for a few minutes."
Phil hesitated, then nodded and left.
"One thing," Poppy said to James as she scooted to the middle_ of the bed. She was still trying desperately to sound casual. "After the funeral-well, I'll be asleep, won't I? I won't wake up ... you know. In my nice little coffin." She looked up at him. "It's just that I'm claustrophobic, a little."
"You won't wake up there," James said. "Poppy, I wouldn't let that happen to you. Trust me; I've thought of everything."
Poppy nodded. I do trust you, she thought.
Then she held her arms out to him.
He touched her neck, so she tilted her chin back. As the blood was drawn from her, she felt her mind drawn into his.
Don't worry, Poppy. Don't be afraid. All his thoughts were ferociously protective. And even though it only confirmed that there was something to be afraid of, that this could go wrong, Poppy felt peaceful. The direct sense of hi s love made her calm, flooded her with light.
She sudde nly felt distance and height and depthspaciousness.
As if her horizons had expanded almost to infinity in an instant.
As if she'd discovered a new dimension. As if there were no limits or obstacles to what she and James could do together.