Page 42 of Cast in Atonement

“But in one case—and I think this is the closest example we have found to Mrs. Erickson—a young woman appeared at the door of a wealthy lord’s manor. She did not go to the trade entrance; she simply knocked at the grand front doors and waited. The author of this account was a child at the time and heard the noise—he came down the stairs to find his mother and father at the door.

“His mother was weeping; his father was furious; he summoned guards to have the woman either driven away or killed. The mother, however, countermanded those orders, as she was the lord of the manor; she ordered the guards to apprehend her husband, or to stop him from interfering.

“The young woman then spoke to...thin air for some time. That thin air was, purportedly, what remained of the child’s sister, who had run away from home.”

To Kaylin, it didn’t sound like biography. Her expression must have contained some skepticism.

“You are wondering why we believe there is some grounding in fact in this incident.”

“I am, sorry.”

“The woman who ordered her husband apprehended on that night wrote many, many volumes in her life, which was markedly long for a mortal. None of those volumes were fiction; many were magical engineering manuals. She was remarkable, and although she was often accused of flights of fancy, even those whimsical flights of fancy proved grounded and true in the end.

“All information is sifted, evaluated. We look at the surrounding cultural context, the contemporaries of the author. It is part of the reason research can be so time-consuming. We might find something that seems promising, but attempting to verify it in an objective fashion can easily increase our time by an order of magnitude—if only that.

“Everything we present to you has been vetted in this fashion. There are thousands of stories involving the dead; most are, as you suspect, unverifiable. They are relegated to fiction.”

Kaylin exhaled. “But the author of this biography wasn’t the shaman in question.”

“No. The woman’s written forays into her personal life were very, very few. The author of this incident was her son. It was an interesting biography; his childhood provided personal insight into a scholar and mage of some power. He was spare with his words, which gave the illusion that he embellished very little. As her child, he was mentioned in contemporary sources, but not to any great extent; beyond this, very little is known about him.

“But the timing of this recollection and the timing of the death of the lord’s husband—and daughter—overlap exactly. She did not write about ghosts. She did not write about shamans. But she did write about the discovery of her daughter’s corpse, and she did write about her husband’s execution, the latter in some detail.

“And I have lamentably digressed.”

Androsse rolled his eyes.

“The child’s father caused a bit of disturbance; he attempted to kill this strange visitor, and he became increasingly unhinged. He had not been friendly to his son, and his son had craved—as human young do—approval and affection, neither of which was offered. The father’s love, such as it was, had been for the younger sister. The boy had resented her, and had tried very hard to keep his distance, because he loved her and hated her, both.

“But she ran away from home one day. The servants could not find her. She was equipped with rings that might be easily traced with magic, but no invasive magics—such as slave seals—had been cast. The ring was found, but it was no longer with the boy’s sister.

“And the shaman who came to the front door, the shaman who asked—in an eerily neutral voice, as the son described it later—to speak with the lord, carried the word of the dead. She spoke a single name, and the lord grew still. And then the lord commanded three things: that the woman be allowed to enter, that she be treated as an honored guest, and that her husband be incarcerated.

“The stranger was odd; she would turn to her right and she would speak; the boy could hear the murmurs as if they were half a conversation. The lord had questions for her, and the boy followed at a discreet distance; he wished to hear what was said, but knew he would be sent back to his room if he was discovered.

“He eavesdropped, and perhaps his mother allowed it—or perhaps her thoughts were occupied with tragedy and its consequences. He said that this experience shattered everything he had thought and known: The sister he had resented and envied was dead. Her body was in the manor. The father was not a man without power, and it had not occurred to the lord to be suspicious of him, except in a desultory way.”

“What do you mean, desultory?”

“She had food tasters, among other things. She did not immediately choose to trust the stranger, but the stranger continued her one-sided conversation, and it was clear to the lord that if this woman was a terrible, predatory sham, she was either the actual murderer or she was speaking the truth. The shaman knew things about her daughter that could not be casually known.

“She tested the stranger; her son remembers that clearly. She asked questions, seemingly at random. The woman did not even need to convey the questions to the ghost; the ghost, unseen, unfelt, could hear them. She conveyed the answers. On occasion, his sister’s ghost appeared to argue. He could imagine—he said—the stamp of her foot, the waving of fists, even the squeal of frustration.

“He believed she was there. Abandoning caution and secrecy, he burst into the small room; the guards stopped him, but they did not have time to eject him. He believed his sister was present. He believed the stranger. And he needed to tell his sister something: that he loved her, that he missed her, and that he was sorry about their fight, sorry that it was the last living thing he’d given her.

“The shaman turned to him; he was surprised because she was only barely adult. But she smiled and said, ‘Your sister says, I’m sorry you’re an idiot.’ As final words went, they were perhaps not a comfort, but they were real. I was jealous of you. I didn’t want to be loved. And I couldn’t tell you. Take care of my dog.

“He, too, believed the young woman who said she could speak with the dead. And envied her.”

“Some people are garbage,” Kaylin said, teeth on edge.

“I cannot argue that. But this particular incident—I feel it is something Mrs. Erickson could do now. The lord questioned the young woman. The shaman refused to speak about anything but the desire of the ghost she had accompanied. If she had a greater power, there was no evidence of it. The power that she used was similar to Mrs. Erickson’s, except in one regard: she could bring that ghost home.”

“Mrs. Erickson did bring the ghosts from the palace to her new home,” Kaylin said. “The children to whom she was most attached had no desire for vengeance; if Mrs. Erickson had attempted to take them to confront their killer, they’d’ve done everything they could to prevent it.

“The ghosts of those children were bound to Mrs. Erickson’s home.”

Bellusdeo said, “And my sisters are bound to me.”

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