Page 118 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

“Neat,” Delina says, impressed, before handing the binoculars to Maison. “Take a look.”

He doesn’t take them, instead frowning at one of the piles of things right next to the window, before he whips off the sheet in another cloud of dust.

Revealing a sniper rifle and a spotting scope, helpfully set up to be pointed directly out the window. The rifle gleams, all sleek metal and hard plastics, and it still smells a bit of oil.

“Of course,” Delina comments, out of a lack of anything else to say. “That’s logical for my mom to have.”

“Congrats, you inherited a sniper's nest,” Maison says, and there’s a little more color in his face, though his brows are furrowed. “She could literally strike people with magic, why would she need a sniper rifle?”

“Greater distance?” Delina offers, and he shrugs idly, like that doesn’t quite make sense in the context. “Maybe it came with the place?”

“Doubt it,” Maison says, skirting around the rather impressive rifle and adjusting the scope instead. “That’s…illegal in a lot of states. Probably Washington, too. Definitely in Canada.” He pokes the edge of the rifle, like he could determine something from it by touch, and his eyes gleam red for a split second. “She maintained it, too. Last touched it about a year and two months ago.”

Which would’ve been right before her mother died. Somewhere in the middle of the Terese disaster, somewhere between apparently running around all of Canada and finding another Necromancer and getting dead, her mother found the time to come up to the cabin and oil the gun.

“Right,” Delina replies, casting a critical eye to the rest of the room. The gun definitely adds more questions than it answers.

Below them, in the sitting room, the satellite phone rings again, and Maison flinches, his shoulders locking up.

They don’t answer it this time, just letting the number ring out.

“Well, this’ll be useful in defending this, I bet,” Delina says, forcefully, and his eyes swing up to her face. “If we get, I dunno, ambushed or something.”

“If we get ambushed, you’re hiding in the basement,” he replies automatically.

“I can almost guarantee I’m a better shot than Gurlien,” she says, pitching her voice a little louder in case he can hear her, and it gets another hint of a smile from Maison, as the phone finally stops ringing. “We’ll figure this out, don’t concentrate on the phone.”

It’s far easier said than done, but he turns his attention back to the scope, pointing it out the window, adjusting it, and she lets him. It’s a good distraction, at least something he could do with his hands.

If the kitchen table below wasn’t covered in laptop guts, she’d tell him to paint.

“Got it,” Maison says, still splayed out with the scope. “Drone, other side of the confusion spell.”

The hair on the back of Delina’s neck prickles. “Can you shoot it down with this thing?”

He gives her the barest of glances. “I don’t think I’m that good of a shot.” He fiddles with something on the scope, narrowing it in. “They’re definitely watching, we’ll have to wait for nighttime to leave.”

Instead of reacting, Delina glances to the other small window, facing the back of the property, and the large sheet covered pile in between her and it.

Climbing over it without knowing what it is sounds like a horrific idea, so she tugs off the top of the sheet.

Revealing a crib.

Delina stills, her breath catching in her throat.

It’s painted a soft pink, though the paint has peeled and chipped, and her name is carved into the headboard. There’s a blanket, color faded by time, with a ribbon edging, neatly folded on the bottom, and a single stuffed animal in the corner.

“What?” Maison asks, glancing up from the scope, then making a small sound at the back of his throat. “Oh.”

The crib would only hold a newborn, it’s so tiny.

And it’s so obviously unused, despite the passage of time.

Delina traces a fingertip over her name. It’s carved by hand, with a chisel, with a care and skill that far outpaces any woodworking skill her own father had.

Maison reaches a hand out to her, but she doesn’t move.

There’s so much care in this little crib, that her heart aches. It’s deliberate, there’s no way in interpreting it as something to be thrown away as a casual motion.

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