"I suppose you have been told that I am your shadow self" the Fabula asked conversationally. She kicked her slipper-covered feet in the dust beneath the bench and looked at Taylor sideways, gauging her reaction.
"I have been told," Taylor said slowly. "But I don't really understand it."
"Take my hands," the Fabula ordered. She turned towards Taylor and held out her hands, palms facing upwards. Reluctantly, Taylor let the Fabula grasp hold of her own hands. She cried out as a surge of coldness jolted through her palms and fingers, through her wrists, and up her arms in a painful, icy arc. She tried to pull her hands away but the Fabula held tight, staring coldly into her eyes.
Visions started to roll through Taylor's head, unpleasant images of the times in her life when she had been sad
