So I take off my shoes. So I walk deeper into the cold waves that take my breath away. I wade out to where he’s turning and turning with air, lost in the ocean’s music. Hip-deep in the water. He looks at me and I take his hand. I wade into the empty space between his arms. Slip his hand on my back, my arm on his cold wet shoulder. I become the shape of her. His body visibly relaxes. I feel it relax in my embrace. He smiles for a moment, then looks serious again.
“We have to get you out of here,” he whispers.
I stare at his moonbright face. Glowing, glowing in the light of the bloody sun and the high pale moon. The waves are gentle tonight, but they’re rising. “We do?”
“It’ll be dangerous. You’ll have to fall for me. Follow me. Like I fell for—followed you. Didn’t intend to love—to lose you there like that.”
I trace the scar’s curve along his cheek. “Me neither.”
“Just keep dancing with me. Don’t let anyone else cut in. Ever, okay?”
“I won’t,” I say. “Promise.”
He sighs with relief. Looks at me, his eyes clear and deep as the first mirror. Beautifully broken. “I’m saving you, you know,” he says as we turn in the waves.
“I know.”
Above us, the blue sky begins to blacken. Though the sun’s fading now, there’s still some light on the waves. It’s nearly the end of its story, the fairy tale of the setting sun. Time for the moon’s full rising. We’re still deep in the dark, shining water, but I’m dancing us slowly, surely, to shore.
Acknowledgments
To my parents, Nina Milosevic and James Awad, for everything.
To my uncle Michael O’Brien-Milosevic, who recently passed, but whose influence on me and my way of seeing the world lives on in my heart and in these pages.
To my grandmother Ruth O’Brien, who is （and isn’t at all） the grandmother in this book. Part of the joy of writing Rouge was getting to spend time with you again in this other world.
To the dear friends and family who read drafts and who supported me （endlessly） during the writing of this book: Ken Calhoun, Jess Riley, Alexandra Dimou, Rex Baker, Laura Sims, Laura Zigman, Teresa Carmody, Emily Culliton, Lauren Acampora, McCormick Templeman, and Lynn Crosbie.
To Ken Calhoun, who read more drafts than I can count, for the magical plot talks and the unwavering faith.
To Bill Clegg for being the best reader and champion I could hope for. To Simon Toop and to everyone at the Clegg Agency （Nikolas Slackman, Marion Duvert, and MC Connors） for everything you do and for the invaluable early reads and support. To Anna Webber at United Agents.
To my wonderful editors, Marysue Rucci, Nicole Winstanley, and Chris White, and to the publishing teams at Simon & Schuster, Penguin Canada, and Scribner in the UK: Andy Tang, Katie Freeman, Clare Maurer, Jessica Preeg, Ingrid Carabulea, Zach Polendo, Laura Jarrett, Erica Stahler, Georgia Brainard, Wendy Sheanin, Elizabeth Breeden, Stephen Myers, Dan French, Beth Cockeram, Kate Sinclair, and Meredith Pal. To the amazing sales and marketing teams who get books into the hands of readers.
To the brilliant Oliver Munday and Patrick Sullivan for their incredible work on the dreamy jacket design. If ever the soul of a book could be captured in a jacket, this is it.
To my amazing students and colleagues at Syracuse University for their support throughout the writing process.
To Margaret Atwood for the wise and eerily prescient advice.
To Tom Cruise, who is not in this book, despite appearances.
Music has always been important to my writing, but this book was especially helped along by certain songs and albums, many of which are mentioned or featured in the story. I’m grateful to all the musicians who made this story come alive for me, particularly Cavern of Anti-Matter and Tangerine Dream. And of course, Berlin.
Lastly, once more to my mother, Nina Milosevic, who was nothing like Noelle, but who undoubtedly informed the relationship between mother and daughter in this book, both its petals and its thorns. I still miss you dearly.