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“She was,” she chirped, a bit of light dancing to life in her eyes. My eyes.
“You miss her?” I asked gently, watching her little mouth twist and wobble before she managed a nod. “Do you know how much she loved you, Magnolia?”
She nodded, silver lining her saucer-sized eyes. A lone tear escaped, and she turned to stare at the girls where they played. I followed her gaze, spotting Kenna, Rika, Aideen, Jaycee, Sorin, and Zehra among the pack. My stomach twisted, longing digging sharp beneath my ribs.
Thinking back to the isolation of grief—an agony I’d known far too young—I added, “Your sisters love you too. Even if they don’t know how to show it yet.”
But she was already shaking her head. “They think I’m weird.”
I fought back against my smile.
“And they get sick of me crying.”
“For your mom?” When she nodded, I explained, “Sometimes kids don’t know how to deal with hard things—big emotions kinda freak them out, you know?” She sniffled, dipping her chin in agreement—or maybe just acknowledgment. A memory flashed of Zehra sitting with me in my room, and I asked, “The heiress—she’s still kind to you, right?”
“Sometimes.” She dragged the back of her arm over her nose again.
Golden hair and bright blue eyes pressed into my mind, a smile lifting my lips before sorrow coiled tight behind my ribs. “You’ll get a new sister soon, sweetheart, and she will love you so much. She’ll be your very best friend—with you, always.”
“Always?”
I nodded, even as I missed Blythe like a phantom limb.
“Like Zehra and Sorin?”
“Yeah, pumpkin, like Zehra and Sorin.”
Her excitement dimmed a beat later before she admitted bitterly, “Maybe I just won’t tell her about my mom.”
“You won’t have to hide anything from Blythe,” I promised. “She’s an orphan too.”
Her eyes saddened, little brows scrunching. “She’s an orphan, too?”
“Yeah, sweetie. You’ll help each other a lot.”
Tears spilled over, her little eyes dropping to her knees. “Mags?” When a sob was my only answer, I slid out of the swing and onto the ground, lifting her chin with the hook of my fingers.
“Did they die because of her, too?”
The warmth drained from my face. “What?” came out brittle.
“Was it her fault, too?” she repeated, earnest in the way only children could be. Pain lanced through my center.
“Sweetie, what do you mean?” I breathed, searching those familiar aqua eyes—finding the hard wall within them, the agony pinching her dark brows at my question.
“I don’t know how I got out, but she didn’t.”
Because she couldn’t remember. Because I couldn’t remember. I’d forgotten Death’s looming presence at the foot of my bed, the cold caress of his fingers over my cheeks as he soothed my tears, the silky press of his cloak against my face.
I’d forgotten.
Forgotten everything except waking disoriented and inexplicably standing on that cold lawn in my nightgown, staring at our world burning down when Nathara found me. The scream of sirens. Acrid smoke. Firefighters rushing past.
It was there—in her watery, agonized eyes—all the guilt, shame, and condemnation I’d carried for years. The pain of losing her had been swallowed by the sick feeling of never understanding how I survived when a magnificent, fully ascended witch didn’t.
It didn’t make sense. Not then. Not now.
A little sob bubbled between her lips. I tugged her off the swing and into my arms. Her tears soaked my shirt, and I crushed her tighter, letting her bury her face against my chest while I ran my palm over her silky hair and breathed in the subtle scent of lilac and sea salt.
