Page 82 of Cast in Atonement

“Jamal was horrified. He shouted at me—I remember that. He would have shaken me until my teeth rattled, if he’d had the ability. He did send my pillows and toys flying around the room in a small whirlwind. But I realized that he wasn’t just angry—truly angry—he was afraid. Of me. Or for me.

“I’d never been afraid of Jamal or the other children before. But I was afraid of him then. So I told him to stop. I didn’t ask. I made him stop.” She fell silent again. Her hands were less shaky, and she did sip her tea, which was probably close to cold.

“He was upset. I was upset. I was still angry—I was young. I told him to leave, while I cradled Tilly. He left. I don’t think he had a choice. But I knew, while I held Tilly, that she just wasn’t there anymore. She could move. She could do what I told her to do. She could only do what I told her to do. I think I waited a whole day, hoping she would wake up, and then... I let her go. I went to tell my parents that she wasn’t breathing anymore.

“I think I knew, even then, that what Jamal had seen, my parents should never see. Jamal had always accepted me; he’d never been afraid of me. But Tilly—what I had done with Tilly—made him afraid. I thought my parents would be even angrier. They came, and we buried Tilly in the backyard.

“Jamal still avoided me. He had always been there for me. Of all of the ghosts, he was the most interactive. When I woke up the next morning, I knew I’d done something terrible, that I’d crossed a line I couldn’t even see. He didn’t come back for almost a week. Katie and Callis did; Esme was trying to calm him down, I think.

“When he did come back, I was so happy to see him. His absence made me realize that he had a choice; that he’d made the choice to be friends with me, to spend time with me. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to, unless I forced him to.” She inhaled slowly, and then lifted her head. “I’d hurt his feelings. I’d never thought that was possible—it certainly wasn’t possible with my own parents, who weathered childish tantrums as if they were irrelevant.

“I apologized—just as I would have apologized to my parents. It wasn’t enough. It was another week before he’d speak to me; he’d watch, and he didn’t stop the others, but he just stood back. He’d never done that before.

“But at the start of the third week—and each week felt like months to me—he spoke to me again. He was quiet, and he was so serious—but I felt desperate, the way only children can. I think I would have done anything he asked of me if things could just go back to normal. I think he wanted that, too. Jamal was never serious—I think he found it embarrassing. But he was serious that day.

“He told me that what I’d done was not waking Tilly. Tilly was gone. I could force her corpse to move—but the corpse would still be a corpse. And he told me that I must never, ever do it again in front of anyone. He said he could understand why I’d done it, but not how—and everyone would be terrified of how. Esme asked why it mattered—it was just a body, and the dead don’t care.

“‘The living are deeply attached to the dead.’ That’s what he said. To the idea of the dead, the sanctity of death. The children could understand. The children did understand. But anyone else would see me as a monster. He asked me to promise that I would never do it again. I promised.

“And then he made me promise to never, ever do what I’d done to him: to take control, to command, to force them to do what I wanted, not what they wanted.” Her smile, as the words faded, was complicated. “I promised.

“It was that promise that I asked permission to break.” Mrs. Erickson closed her eyes. “I’ve had no reason to break the first promise. But I should have told you. I should have told you both.

“I am a Necromancer, in the worst sense of the word.”

14

Helen was silent. Helen must have known. Mrs. Erickson was not adept at hiding her thoughts—why would she be?

Kaylin was silent for a different reason. She was faintly horrified, and it took her a moment to come back to herself. Mrs. Erickson was the woman who baked for the Hawks who were forced to endure the public desk; she was the woman who had stayed—alone—in her home because the children couldn’t leave. She was quiet, gentle, and generous. She cared about people—even dead people.

Maybe her true gift was the ability to see what other people couldn’t see; to listen, to acknowledge, and to speak with people when no one else could.

None of that involved animating corpses.

“Did your mother know about Tilly?”

Mrs. Erickson shook her head.

“But she knew about Jamal.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why she thought you had magical ability.”

“Jamal could prove he existed, even if they couldn’t see him. But you know how that turned out. I had a good life. I had a happy life. I found my husband—and he believed me; he said I was too earnest to lie.” This time, her smile was simple, gentle. “The children liked him, eventually. But at the beginning? I was grateful he couldn’t hear them. Jamal had so many questions he demanded I ask.

“They were suspicious of anyone who wasn’t me—but I think that’s because they were children: they were afraid that I would forget them or leave them, or worse, that he would take me away. They couldn’t follow.”

Kaylin listened quietly; she could imagine what Jamal had been like.

“I did make it clear to my husband that I couldn’t abandon the house—and eventually, told him why. But he loved the idea that I had these four staunch guardians, and he felt that their questions—which were harsh—were fair. They did miss him, when he passed.

“I missed him. I didn’t have anyone else among the living who knew about my ability until the day I met you.” Her smile deepened. “I’m sure all the Hawks thought I was just a dotty, lonely old woman.”

“Yes,” Kaylin said. “But you were our dotty, lonely old woman. Maybe a little bit of a mascot—that’s how I spent my first several years with the Hawks, except I was the official mascot. I was too young to be an officer.” It was her turn to hesitate.

Hope squawked.

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