Page 15 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
I had never understood that.
A book was meant to be opened. To be lived in.
I ran my finger along the polished wood of the bookcase, not a speck of dust in sight, before tapping my bright rednails against the spines. My eyes skimmed the titles with vague interest as a yawn left me.
How long would I have to stay at this thing?
I took a deep breath and leaned back against a table, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing my palms against them, grateful I had skipped mascara today.
I imagined Margaret beside me, her arm thrown over my shoulder in comfort.
It wasn’t as if her death had been sudden. Old age had taken her. We had fair warning.
And yet… it stillfeltsudden.
One minute she was here. The next, she was slipping away.
“Going home,”she had told me softly the night she passed.
We had done one final spread of cards together, not knowing it would be our last.
A shuddering breath left me.
Candles guttered and flickered about the room, breathing shadows up the walls as the scent of lavender and myrrh tickled my senses. The smell now permeated every fiber of our home after years of incense burning. It was safe and familiar, but that safety began to shatter at the sight of Margaret propped against her pillows, looking like a tired queen at the end of a long reign.
“What’s the hold-up, Dovey love?” she said, tapping the duvet twice.
The old deck felt soft in my hands. I took a breath and began to shuffle, avoiding her all-knowing gaze as I perched on the bed. My eyes caught a flash of brown in the cards before it disappeared into the fold I was shuffling.
“Scared?” Margaret teased, a gambit to get my eyes to meet hers.
It worked.
“Maybe,” I muttered, looking up as my hands continued to shuffle.
“Nothing to be scared of, really,” Margaret said, holding my gaze. “Death is never the end; it’s just the opening of the door to something new.”
“For you,” I said, my tone grim as I kept shuffling. “I’m still here, trying to work out who I am without you.”
Margaret clicked her tongue. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re Dove Marley, with or without me. Death comes for us all. You know that. I’ve been lucky enough to have a long and fulfilled life. Be happy for me, Dove. Don’t sit in your grief for too long.”
My eyes burned, and my hands paused.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” I murmured. “Being prepared for it—watching you slowly die—or the suddenness of it, like when we lost Diana.”
Margaret smiled sadly and shrugged, her thin shoulders rising and falling. “Grief hurts regardless,” she said. “Whether the bandage is dragged off or ripped off quickly, it still stings.” Her lips pressed together for a moment; her eyes were a little watery. “You’ll look after Ida, won’t you?”
“Always,” I answered immediately, straining to hear her fumbling around in the kitchen.
Margaret visibly relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do the cards. Past, present, and future.”
I laid three cards facedown on the duvet. “Past. Present. Future.”
Margaret hummed under her breath, eyes twinkling.
I flipped the card for the past and stared down at it.
“The High Priestess,” I said, reaching out to trace the faded pomegranates and eyeing the veil behind the priestess, the curtain that hid what lay beyond subconscious view. “Stillness without spectacle,” I murmured. “A solid symbol of everythingyou’ve taught me. Death is a door, not a wall. That you can look on both sides of the veil and normalize what happens in between.”
