Page 54 of The Reluctant Reaper
Or she just had a bellyache.
She followed her mother upstairs, through the kitchen, and into the dining hall, stopping short when she saw the evidence of her crime on the table.
Her father’s crown.
“Did you think if you hid this from me, I wouldn’t be able to Reap?” he asked kindly.
Amara shrugged. Her father’s deep red hair was getting long again; he always grew it out, along with a beard, for winter. His red eyes were warm, like banked coals.
“I guess I should be glad you didn’t try to destroy it. It was a bitch tracking down all those owls for all those feathers. Especially the secondary wing feathers. Never been pecked so hard in my life.”
“Good!” Amara snapped, then burst into tears. She heard a sigh and squinched her eyes shut as Death rose to his feet. She shouldn’t care he was disappointed. She should care about stopping him.
Then he was gently dabbing at her tears with one of Mom’s scratchy linen napkins. “It’s Sophie, right? She missed a lot of school, and when she came back, you knew she was going to die.”
“And she shouldn’t have!”
“Oh, sweetie, you’ll get no argument from me. But we’ve been over this, and we’ll keep going over it until you understand: I did not kill your friend. Remember when we talked about psychopomps? I helped Sophie with her inevitable death, which is not the same thing as killing her. And my obligation to her doesn’t come from a pile of feathers. My crown is like every crown. It’s not a tool, it’s a symbol. Do you understand?”
“But it isn’t fair! She was sick for so long and she was happy to be back at school. Remember when I accidentally dumped my pudding cup all over my sweater? She was the only one who didn’t laugh. And she helped me clean up. She’s nice!” Amara took the scratchy napkin from her father, who was on one knee in front of her. “Was nice.”
“You’re absolutely right, it’s not fair. Not even a little bit. But it was always going to happen.”
“She’ll never come over to make cookies again. She’ll never go sledding with me again or pick me first for dodgeball—why?”
“Because it was her time, hon. And now that you can see people’s deaths, that means someday, when you’re ready, you?—”
“I won’t! Not ever! It’syourdumb, dusty crown.Youkeep it. I’ll never take it. I’ll—I’ll chuck it into the pond. I’ll burn it up!”
“Hon, you’re not listening.”
“’Cuz you’re still saying the same stuff you always do! Someday I’ll be you and have to kill everybody!”
“Well, yes. But not everybody. And not until you’re ready.”
Amara rubbed her face with the stupid scratchy napkin. “So who decides when that is?”
“You, hon.”
She looked into his kind, creased face. “Well, I won’t ever. So there.”
“Fair enough.” He straightened with a sigh. “Your mother’s making lefse again. How about we go help ourselves?”
“I hate lefse,” she lied, and swiped at the stupid tears rolling down her stupid face.
“Now, now,” he said mildly. “Say what you like to me, but never traduce your mother’s cooking.”
“I hate everything!”
“I don’t blame you, hon. Today of all days.”
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Amara paused, looked up at the million billion stars gleaming at her from the dark, then trudged through snow toward her tower. She’d known the weekend would be awful, but it was now a full-on calamity galloping toward a debacle.
She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, pulse hammering so hard she could feel it in her temples. Quick as thought, his arm came around her as he leaned in and?—
“Amara?”
