Page 24 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

Wait, yes. It’s Chloe, they just met, answered by Gurlien, just as close.

Their voices are muffled, like they’re speaking through several thick panes of glass.

Delina scrunches her face, and her head is on someone’s lap, and someone’s hand in her hair.

“She’s coming back,” Maison says, his voice clear, so clear it’s almost startling. “Delina? Delly girl?”

She told him not to call her that.

She told him not to call her that, and he had lied for five years.

She opens her mouth to say something back, but nothing comes out.

Chloe speaks again, and it’s just outside of her awareness, and the cat meows in response.

The cat’s perfectly audible, at least.

“You’re okay, we got you, you’re fine,” Maison says, and she can feel the rumble of his words, so she pries her eyes open.

The world blooms in gold.

There’s gold on the edges of the doorway, gold streaks along the ceiling of the cabin, and the outline of Maison’s jaw as he leans over her.

She tilts her head over, and Chloe is outlined in a similar sheen of gold, though Gurlien is dark, without a trace.

The cat sits on its haunches, close to her, and at least it’s fucking normal.

Chloe says something, Delina can see her mouth moving, but the words still don’t reach her.

“Delly, can you hear me?” Maison says, and she tilts her head back. Of course she’s leaning against him.

She tries to speak, tries to say something, but nothing comes out, so she swallows and nods.

“She needs some water, go get some water,” Maison instructs, and the completely dark form of Gurlien dashes to the kitchen. “It’s okay, everything’s okay, you passed out.”

She passed out?

For a few moments she marvels at it, at the idea of being unconscious, before the memories cram into her brain. Of the door flying in, Maison trapped outside. Of the gunshots. Of Chloe and Gurlien yelling.

Of herself striding into the circle left by her bio-mother.

She jolts upright, scrabbling up, before all her blood rushes to her head and she lists to the side, thumping against Maison’s chest instead of falling to the ground.

They’re splayed out on the floor of the bedroom, with the baby blue carpet and the floral curtains.

There’s not a trace of paint where the circle used to be.

“Here,” Maison says, and he holds a glass of water out to her. Gold lingers on the glass where his fingertips touch, and it distracts her enough to actually take a drink from it. “You’ll be okay, your body just dumped the last few decades of magic into your system at once.”

She twitches herself away from him, and though her head swims and she wobbles, she doesn’t fall back over. “Don’t touch me.”

Right. Magic.

And he lied to her.

“Why are you…” she trails off, getting a glimpse of her hands.

They shine gold, bright.

---