Misty lay her hand on Micah's head, brushing his hair back from his face. In the presence of so much Power flying about the room, his hair had grown thick and black, replacing his usual buzz cut with a head full of wavy black hair that hung down to his shoulders. She admired the perfect formation of his features, the way his body was muscular and manly without being grotesque. Power flowed, and Micah shuddered, shifted, and opened his eyes.

"Gelt? Where's Ophilia?"

The drain as her Power removed Micah's wounds and cleansed his body forced her to lean on him. He frowned at her. She called on the Art hovering behind her, and it restored her once again. "Peace, Micah. I must help the Muse last, lest I be unable to help anyone else."

"I don't trust you, Gelt."

"I understand. I prefer Misty, if you care."

Drops of gold fell from her eyes, splashing on Micah's arm. She pretended not to notice as he brushed them off. Instead, she turned to the Pixies cradled in Matt's arms. First, she looked at the smaller of the pair, admiring his honey skin and sapphire attire, chosen to set off his own complexion and the crimson dress the Morrigan wore. She reached out and adjusted his skirt, pulling the blouse straight as she did. Her Power flowed, and the little Pixie squeaked, whimpered, and started to breathe.

"Aiee! That stings!"

"I am sorry, Ricardo, Lady of the Morrigan. I am her creature now, but my power is still my own, and it rather clashes with hers, I think. Forgive me the pain I cause, if you will."

"Mi corazon?"

"He will be fine. I fear I dare not bring him fully awake. His reaction is likely to be more extreme than your own, and though I may not live out the day, I would like to pass from this world with both of my eyes." She smiled at the memory of how X had maimed her when she tried to destroy the Art she should have loved. "Stay with him. Care for him. He will awaken soon enough."

The pain of those she healed washed over her, coursed through her, and went beyond her, leaving her weeping. Weeping more than she had been. All her memories had returned to her. Even some only hers by proxy. Mic was gone, his hardware smashed beyond repair. All she had were her memories and the little black oblongs he'd tossed to her as she sprinted through the museum.

Reality wobbled, and an angel stood between her and Phil. She remembered seeing angels time and again in her youth. This one was beautiful beyond compare, most likely of the first generation. She bowed her head and moved around the angel and started toward her final patient, her greatest debt, and her final destination.

The Muse of Madness lay crumpled on the floor, her hair and clothes in disarray. Misty straightened her limbs, pulled her blouse and skirt back into place, and put her ruby tears back beside her left eye. Misty's Power flared, and it sank into the woman laying on the floor before her. Her breathing steadied as more and more golden light flowed through Misty's hands. Beneath the tattoos that rested uneasily on Ophilia's skin, a green glow grew, brightening breath by breath. When the light seemed that it must start leaking from between the body art and spilling onto the floor like so much before it had done, Ophilia's eyes snapped open.

Misty stared into madness and smiled. Even madness could be beautiful, if viewed without a care for how many it could destroy. She laid her palms on the Muse's cheeks, cupping her face, and her fingers tickled as the tattoos on Ophilia's temples tried to rise.

"Teresa. I remember you. My brushes pin you to the wall like a pretty blonde butterfly. Or haven't I done that yet? When are we?"

She reached up and flicked Ophilia's hair out of her face. The dragon's bile had burned much of it away, and the new hair she'd grown came in a vibrant green. It looked almost healthy. Almost. For just a moment, she let herself envy the woman's beauty, her love, and her life. She saw the chasm of hatred she'd lived in for so long yawning before her and shuddered.

"Ophilia, Muse of Madness, when I was mad with grief and power myself, I hurt you and yours. You pinned me to a wall to defend yourself. You would have been justified taking my life that day. You spared me."

"Oh. Pity. Your skin is so fine, it would make a lovely canvas."

"Living or tanned, I'm sure it would. For the harm I've done you, it is yours to adorn."

The angel spluttered, started to speak, "Teresa, you don't have..."

"Please, angel. I do what I must."

"But..."

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"Let her finish, angel. I want to see what she has to hear and listen to her face."

Misty glanced at the angel to see her reaction to the Muse's mad words. The beauty mouthed the words, obviously puzzled but silent.

"Ophilia, Muse of Madness, when I finished the exile that was less than I deserved, I returned once more, intending to harm you and yours. Once more you stopped me. Once more you spared me. I owe you my life twice. I ought to insist you take it, rather than leave you more unbalanced than you might otherwise be."

The Muse smiled up at her. "You're not done yet. Finish yourself, Knight, in public so everyone can see."

Glowing, golden tears fell from Misty’s eyes, but she didn't care. She didn’t cry for her fate. She cried because she wouldn't get to see Mic again this side of heaven. Perhaps that was why the angel had come, to carry her away. Then again, maybe she would wind up elsewhere. That would be just, but then she would never see Mic again.

Eternal rest or eternal punishment, she would receive what she deserved. "When you could have killed me, you instead forced me to servitude. While I had lost myself, you forced me to return to what I was. In the midst of my eternal loss, you gave me myself. You put all that you have and all that you love at risk, all to create the one I love... Loved."

She broke down, weeping. She forced her words through her aching throat. "You gave me my life. You gave me my love. You gave me my self. All I am and have is yours. I ask you now, would you be Ophilia, the Muse of Madness, or would you be Phil Slate, wife of Micah?"

Sobs distorted her words, but Misty knew the Muse heard them when she heard a whisper deep inside her head.

I'm a Philly chick, dammit.

"So be it. The Art you wear is copied, not real. Your power is real, not copied. Those copies, powerful as they are, could never restrain you, even if you allowed it. My life is yours. My love is yours. My Power... my friends, are yours."

With that she reached out to the Art that sustained her, protected her, and loved her as she loved it. Golden light cocooned Phil, lifting her into the air. The Muse's clothes burned away in the intensity of it, leaving her exposed skin glowing green and gold. Misty nodded, and the wall of Art flew to pieces, whirling around the cocoon of light. The ancient, beautiful armor slid inside the cocoon, encasing Phil's arms, her legs, her body in enameled beauty. The remaining pieces spiraled inward, covering the Muse in layer after layer, bonding themselves to her skin, forming tattoos of such supernal beauty that Misty was glad she was not long for this world. She would never again see something as beautiful as Phil, clothed in nothing but glory and art, exposed for the world to see.

"It is done. Ophilia?"

"Yeah. Call me Miss Morgan. For now."

The light, flaring and fading, set Phil on her feet before it disappeared. Misty knelt before her employer, her liege lady, and bowed her head, sweeping her new hair to one side, exposing her neck. Reaching out with her Power, she pulled the black oblongs that were her last souvenir of Mic to her and clutched them to her breast. "My Lady. My life is thrice yours. I do not deserve it. If you wish it, I will live on, but know that without my love, my life is torment. Please, end this debt."

"Yeah. Right. I'm martial arts chick and can behead you with my karate chop action."

"Lady, your nails."

The sound of steel sliding against steel rang through the hall, and Misty felt cold metal against the back of her neck.

"Fucking hell? That's cool as shit, but since when did I ask for a death manicure?"

"They are art as much as weapons, Lady. Only something as powerful as those swords might direct your Power. Now... please, before I lose my nerve and beg."

Anger colored Phil’s words. "Yeah. What if I want you to go down begging?"

"Please, Lady, do not kill me. I beg of you. Please, my Lady, kill me, I beg you. Please. Please, I beg you, be merciful." Misty bent her back, her forehead coming to rest on Phil's silvery toenails. "Is that sufficient, Lady? I will scream, if you wish it."

"This is really weirding me out. I'm not a killer."

Misty hadn't wanted to coerce her lady, but the pain of loss had already become too much to bear. She saw the pit of envy, of anger, of hate yawning before her, pulling her toward becoming Gelt again, and her choice was no choice at all.

"Lady, would you wish to live if Micah were taken from you, and you knew his loss would force you to become the Muse forevermore?"

"Shit." Phil drew a deep, shaking breath. "Hold still. I don't want this to hurt."

"Thank you."

The voice of trumpets and steel rang through the room. "Stop!"

"Shit, Micky, this is hard enough, but she's right."

"No, she's not."

"I'm not having this debate with you right now!" The metal moved away from Misty's neck, the sounds of metal on metal moving away, then slashing downward...

Burning sugar filled the air, and Phil's fingertips brushed gently against Misty's neck. Wet warmth spread from the point of contact, but she still felt her hands, her feet, her aching, broken heart.

"Stupid stubborn artists. Stupid stubborn martyrs. Give the one with divine fuckin' guidance a chance to explain, okay?"

"Make it quick. I didn't want to hurt her."

"Yeah. Right. Look, who is she going all soppy over?"

Phil paused, and Misty took the chance to say his name one last time. "Mic."

"I got nothin, Michaela. Nobody who works here is named Mike. She can't have Micah. I don't share."

The angel turned to Misty. "Yeah. Who is Mic?"

"My love. My life. The Museum Information Center's guiding consciousness. The Genius Loci of the museum. All of that is Mic."

The angel shook her head in frustration. "Right. Been a while since I dealt with one, Philly. Genius Loci can't be destroyed unless you take out the building or the locale they're bound to, right?"

"Far as I know, yeah."

"And your computer system?"

"Trashed."

"And the backup drives?"

"There are backup drives?"

The angel facepalmed. "Artists. What the hell is she clutching like a demented plastic teddy bear?"

While Misty knelt in a daze, petite fingers stronger than the steel of Phil's nails lifted her to her feet, wiping the tears from her eyes, and turning her to face Phil. Her Lady looked at Misty's hands, smacked herself in her forehead with her palm, and passed sentence on her.

"Okay, lover girl. You're the one babysitting the file restores, and you're setting up the security this time. That job sucks."