Page 62 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

“Around her home, yes,” he says. “Did she know you hated loud noises?”

Ambra nods, of course.

“And lots of crowds?”

“Wasn’t around terribly many of those,” Ambra replies honestly. “But probably.”

“Then she’ll view it as a defense as well.” His phone beeps and he pauses, reading lightning fast. “Chloe says she likes your style.”

“What does that even mean?” Ambra asks, almost exasperated. Of course she’s heard that slang, of course humans would say things like that to each other with her around, but she’s never had the freedom to fully ask about it.

“It means she thinks your appearance is distinctive and unique and not in a bad way,” he defines, typing back. “It’s a casual way of communicating approval.”

Which isn’t something Ambra ever thought she’d get from the alchemist.

Still, in the picture, the stubble on the side of her head sticks out, so she rubs at it, making a face at the texture, even as it’s softening.

“My hair never grew in dead bodies,” she mutters.

“And, see, she sent back a picture of my cat,” Gurlien continues, ignoring that last bit, showing the phone to her.

Indeed, there’s an image of a sleek looking tabby with narrowed green eyes, curled up on a couch pillow, appearing both content and peeved.

“It’s…cute?” Ambra ventures.

“Proper response,” he answers. “Unconvincing, but correct words.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but finds herself smiling all the same, before she shakes herself out of it. “So. Plan.”

He nods.

“We should be in the apartment for the time frame around them finding Johnsin,” she says. “It’ll be more secure and defensible if they choose the stupid option and try to attack me directly.”

“And not just pull you immediately,” he says, which she nods along.

“I’m hoping the scene persuades them that it would be a bad idea,” she says, then dumps a bit more hot sauce on the sandwich. “Enough that they think I’d be more…able to defend myself with less of them.”

“Do you think they’d buy it?” he asks, completely serious. Not patronizing, not talking down, but curious. “Axel and Maison are looking into the control, there’s no real theory behind that idea.”

She knows this, but she swallows. “I hope they'll see the destruction and have enough doubt. Enough doubt to not…hurt me.”

He watches her for a long second, then nods. “So we plan.”

The lump still sticks in her throat, so she swallows again, and someone passes a bit too close to them in the shop, giving Ambra a stare that makes her cringe away.

“Oh, hey, you’re okay,” he says, at something in her expression, reaching out and grabbing her hand over the half-eaten sandwich. “We’ll prep. We’ll gather information. We’ll get through this.”

“Thanks,” she replies, aiming for sarcastic and missing it completely. “It’s…weird. Spending your existence not being able to be perceived, able to fight or flee or be wherever you wanted, with no sensations to bother you.”

He nods, serious, and there’s some gratification that someone is taking her seriously. That someone is hearing her words, hearing how ridiculous they are, and still treating them as worthy.

“And then with this…the entire world is sharper,” she continues, a little bit softer, “light that didn’t faze you now hurts. Someone could strike me, and it’d cause pain. Things you did effortlessly take up a finite amount of energy that doesn’t just…spring back. Your fingers hurt if you move themwrong. You can feel all the magic around and touch all of it all but like a child, fumbling in the dark.”

“And your hair grows,” he murmurs, and he’s getting it. Relief courses through her, as sudden and as striking as a blow to the side of her head. “And the world isn’t kind and there’s a gaping cavern between your internal picture of yourself and where you are now.”

“Yeah,” Ambra says, muted, but holding herself still, holding the very air still around them. “Things are different and everyone can hurt you now.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, his face carved from perfect marble, before he nods, curt. “Exactly.”

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