Page 36 of A Winding Wave of Magic
“Er. Won’t you have a seat?”
I eyed the chair in front of his desk, both of which were littered with papers and other debris.
“Or maybe we should stand,” he conceded. “Hard, you know. We, um, can’t tell what others want the way, um, you can.”
There it was, the knowing look of another fae, recognizing me for what I was. But just as obviouslynotknowing that even seers had differences in abilities.
I cleared my throat but didn’t correct his assumption about me. “My grandmother?”
“Oh, um, yes.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and wriggled it in a decidedly feral manner. “If it’s any consolation, she died in her sleep. At least, that’s my assessment. No indication of foul play or anything else. Er…maybe you already knew that?”
I cocked my head. “That’s it? You don’t know anything else?”
“Well, I know this is difficult, but we haven’t performed an autopsy. We usually don’t in cases like these.”
“Cases like these?”
The doctor coughed. “Of death by natural causes.”
I couldn’t tell if he was playing nice or if he didn’t know what I was talking about. I pulled off a glove, then reached a tentative hand across the desk. He cringed but didn’t move to take it.
“Do you mind?” I asked.
He looked at my hand in bafflement. Then, as if he knew I wouldn’t let up, touched his paw to my fingers.
Confusion scurried about his nervous mind like a rodent through a den. He didn’t know what I was doing—only that as a witch, I was strange but also powerful. And apparently fragrant.
Why does she need my hand? What is that odd smell under all that smoke? Brine, maybe, plus something sweet, like honeysuckle? The others never smelled that way. Even the one she’s supposedly related to. Sad, yes, but why all the fuss about an old woman who died of heart failure? Happens all the time?—
I took back my hand and replaced my glove. So, he wasn’t lying, though I was a bit interested in what his enhanced smell could tell him. I, for one, had no idea I smelled faintly of honeysuckle.
As for Gran’s death, however, there was nothing more he could tell me that I couldn’t learn for myself.
I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or happy about that.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
I followed Dr. Aaron back into the room with the steel drawers, where he grabbed a clipboard from a rack on the wall. “Let’s see…Penelope Monroe….ah, yes, she’s in number twelve.”
He led me to one of the drawers and pulled it out, revealing a plastic-covered body. His nose twitched in a way that made me wonder if he sensed something more than just formaldehyde. Then he unzipped the bag, and my insides cracked in half.
There she was. Penelope Monroe. Gran. Her nearly unlined face, cold and slack, tinged purple with rigor mortis. Silver hair cut close, body still, graceful fingers curved slightly toward her hips. The red felt skirt and thick wool sweater were the most lively things about her.
My chest constricted, and my knees grew weak. I placed a hand on the wall to steady myself. Mistake. Muddles flashes ofDr. Aaron mixed with other people grieving new deaths dashed through my mind.
I pulled back like I’d touched a hot iron.
“Yes, that’s her,” I said, wincing as my voice cracked.
“Oh, that’s all right, we know.”
I looked up, mildly affronted.
The doctor turned red, waving one hand in front of his face. “I just mean that one of her neighbors already identified her. It was the mailman, I think, who found her. We just needed you here to collect her body and arrange for its, er, disposal.” Dr. Aaron’s thick brows stood out like black rubber stamps as he scratched his fingers nervously over his chin. “I’ll, um, just give you a moment.”
I turned back to Gran’s body as he bumbled back to his office. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Gran. Just a body. I had to keep telling myself that. Just. A. Body.
