Bummer.
“What kind of powers do you have? Can you make the wind blow or levitate things?” she asks.
“I used to be able to touch and pick up small objects,” I admit. “But it’s been years…”
Her voice softens. “How old are you?”
I can’t answer that. Not really. No more than I can answer any personal question.
Max tilts her head. “Let me guess. You don’t remember.” A laugh slips out, half grimace, half amusement. “Silly me. I should stop asking the same dumb questions, or you’ll hate me before dinner.”
“I don’t mind,” I say too quickly. “The first decade I remember is the eighties, and I was already a ghost by then.”
“So…” she trails off, “you’re at least seventy-ish.”
The figure throws me for a loop. Seventy. Not ideal, given that I appear to be developing a slightly obsessive—possibly unhealthy—crush on Max.
“How do you figure that?” I croak.
“Well, you don’t sound like a kid,” she says. “So you must’ve been at least twenty when you died.”
I turn it back on her. “And how old areyou?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I’ve watched enough movies to know that’s not a good age gap, and it’s vain, but I can’t let her picture me as an old man.
“Do ghosts still age after they die?” I muse.
She winks in my general direction. “I don’t think so. For all we know, I might be older than you.”
“Death does wonders for the complexion. No wrinkles. No calories,” I joke.
“No student loans,” she adds with a goofy grin.
“Truly the dream,” I say. “Eternal youth and free rent in exchange for your corporeal form. You interested?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Hard pass. I like my body where it is.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I miss having knees. And elbows. All excellent, cruelly underrated body parts.”
She snorts, then presses her lips together, rubbing her palms against her thighs. “Alright. Enough nonsense.” Her voice firms. “Let’s do a séance. Strengthen your presence on this plane, and we’ll see if that helps you get that pesky cane out of the way.”
My heart hammers. “A séance?”
“Didn’t Mabel ever try to commune with you?”
The word suggests some sort of intimate exchange, and my throat dries up. I can’t remember the last time I felt thirsty, or contemplated the need for water or food, but I do wish I had a glass of Nether cider at hand to drown out my frazzled heartbeat.
Max skips to the kitchen and comes back with two bulging bags under her arms. She empties them onto the floor with a focused gleam in her eyes, then stoops to pour a ring of coarse salt around herself. Once the circle is complete, she kneels inside it, arranging candles with careful precision, humming quietly.
Settling in a lotus position, she rests a thick, leather-bound book on her knees and flips through brittle pages until she finds a section marked“Glimpses of Otherworldly Planes.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, looking both fierce and innocent, her confident movements undercut by the heavy blush rising to her cheeks and the slight tremor in her voice.
“This kind of spell doesn’t call for talent,” she murmurs. “Just rigorous preparation. I can do this.” She nods a few times, as though she’s trying to summon the courage she needs to succeed.
The crack of a match raises goosebumps along my arms as Max lights one of her candles, the scent of sulphur and smoke flooding my senses. I expect her to use it to light the others, but instead she holds a giant needle over the flame.
