Page 137 of Cast in Atonement

Kaylin flinched. “I can hear something. Can you?”

“I can hear what you hear. I cannot hear them on my own—but I can detect them, or I could not house them at all. I think both you and Imelda translate what you hear; your translation is not as perfect as Imelda’s, because that is not your gift. If you were not Chosen, I’m not certain you would hear or see anything. Do you understand what you must do?”

“I understand the end result I want: the ghosts become resident on my skin; they take the place of the marks that left me in order to stabilize what Evanton was trying to build.”

“They are not marks of the Chosen, dear.”

“No, of course not—but the green believed I could bear them on my skin the way I bear the rest of the marks.”

“Are you even aware of those marks?”

“Not unless they glow. They feel like a natural part of my skin.” Kaylin hesitated, and then added, “I don’t expect these ghosts to feel the same. But Evanton said the green thought these words were necessary somehow, and the green felt that I could bear them.”

“But not easily.”

“No. The green thought I’d feel the weight. But it means Mrs. Erickson won’t be carrying them; she’ll get a break.”

“How much of a break, if Evanton feels her presence is essential?”

It was a fair point. She almost said as much, but the sounds she had heard grew louder, as if they were a real crowd and she’d drawn close enough to hear individual voices. Crowd? Mob, maybe; the sounds clashed, as if in argument, although other voices were raised that seemed distinct—a scream, a shout, a plea. None of these resolved into intelligible words. Had she been Mrs. Erickson, they would have; she could have walked into the crowd, raising her hands, and listening to every single voice as if each had value, each had merit.

Mrs. Erickson was the least judgmental person Kaylin had ever met. Maybe that was why the dead found comfort in her: she could see them, she could speak to them, and she could listen. Kaylin didn’t expect to understand other people. She didn’t expect them to understand her, either, if she was being fair.

It didn’t occur to Mrs. Erickson that she couldn’t. Maybe because, when she faced the dead, she understood the pain of being able to see the world in all its complexity, but remaining unseen, unheard. Maybe all she wanted to offer them was the comfort of finally having someone who could see them and hear them; to confirm that they still existed, that they had once lived.

There was peace in that.

Kaylin couldn’t offer it. She understood its value but understood her own limitations. She wasn’t aware of any time in her life that she’d offered comfort successfully. She froze.

She could think of one time. One time, when she, who was powerless, had found children who had even less power. She’d protected them. They’d found comfort in her.

And she didn’t want to think about them here.

She swallowed. She’d accepted those deaths. She’d made peace with them, inasmuch as she could. Why did they come back, time and again, to make a lie of acceptance?

“Because you loved them,” Helen said, her voice very soft.

“That didn’t do them any good.”

“Yes, it did. Be careful, Kaylin. If you only remember the pain, if you only remember the end, nothing you ever did that helped counts. You did help them. They did love you. Had they died in a wagon accident, you wouldn’t have assumed that all their life with you was terrible for them.”

“That’s not how they died. That’s not why they died. If Severn hadn’t killed them, they would have died anyway—and it would have been a terrible death. Neither would have happened if we’d never met.”

Hope squawked up a storm.

“Right.” She swallowed. “Let’s get back to these ghosts.”

“Yes, dear. I don’t think yours are haunting you. I’m sure if they were, Mrs. Erickson would have let you know.”

She’d certainly done that for Bellusdeo, and Bellusdeo’s life hadn’t improved for it. Kaylin exhaled; she was being unfair. Closing her eyes, she returned to listening. Returned, as she did, to thinking about Mrs. Erickson, and what she offered the panicked, restless dead.

As she did, she saw the marks on her arms begin to glow. Their light could be seen clearly through the sleeves of the green’s dress, but the emerald hue deepened the color of the green without appreciably changing the ivory that edged it. The color of the flower in Azoria’s painting of Mrs. Erickson and her family had been a bright, yet simultaneously sickly green; this green had a depth of color that seemed the opposite of that green, while still somehow being in the same spectrum.

It was warm. The marks were warm, not hot; she felt them against her skin as summer shade. Summer shade in the heart of the green, where insects weren’t biting her and the summer heat wasn’t slowly burning her skin. It was almost peaceful to look at the marks, and she’d never felt that before.

“No.”

“But I didn’t feel the green was peaceful when I was actually in it,” Kaylin pointed out.

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