Alice and Oliver helped Laylee unclip her dead from the clothesline. The corpses had frozen solid while they slept—icicles hung from their chins and ears and shirt hems—but they’d been defrosting steadily in the sunlight, which made them a bit easier to maneuver. Once unclipped, the heavy bodies fell to the ground with a series of tremendous thuds, and Alice and Oliver, who stood stock-still and ankle-deep in dead, were ordered to wait as they were—while Laylee hurried off to retrieve the necessary items for the next steps.

She was gone for some time, rummaging around in her moldy shed of death, and in her absence Alice and Oliver had time to reflect on their horrible evening. Alice was trying to be optimistic, but Oliver was not having it. They’d been swathed in sludge up to their frozen knees, their clammy skin hugged by sodden dress; they were starved, exhausted, filthy even behind their eyeballs—and had now been ordered to keep still amidst a pile of half-melted bodies. Oliver simply refused to see the good in it.

“I can’t believe,” he was saying, “that this is what winning the Surrender got you.” He crossed his arms, head shaking. “It’s a bad deal, if you ask me. An awful deal.”

“But—”

“Maybe,” he said, his face brightening, “maybe we could just go home.”

“Oliver!” Alice gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Oh, just imagine it! Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back?”

“Well you are free to go wherever you like,” said Alice, who was now plucking a leech off her sleeve. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve a task to accomplish, and I’ll do it with or without you, Oliver Newbanks, no matter your whining.”

“But don’t you see? It’s a perfect plan,” he said, his eyes aglow. “Your father is a Town Elder now—I’m sure he’d make an exception for you. And you’ll just ask for a redo, that’s all. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is already my second go-around. I haven’t any interest in repeating my Surrender again. Besides,” Alice sniffed, “they’ve already made an exception by sending me here; Ferenwood is making a great effort to re-form its ties with other magical lands, and Father says it’s important I do well here so that we might continue in this direction. And anyway, it’s precisely because Father is a Town Elder that I need to be on my best behavior. Things have been so wonderful since he’s come home and I won’t be the one to ruin it for him. No, we’ll just need to make do with what we’ve got and—”

“Make do with what we’ve got?” Oliver cried. “What have we got, Alice? A pile of dead people and the girl who loves them. Goodness, that doesn’t seem like much.”

“Why Oliver Newbanks,” said Alice, raising an eyebrow. “What a strange thing to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just surprised to hear you speak ill of our hostess.” Alice smiled. “I thought you seemed quite taken with her.”

At this, Oliver blushed a furious pink.

He fumbled for at least an eighth of a minute and when he finally spoke he said, “Such—such nonsense, Alice. I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

And at precisely that moment, Laylee came into view.

She was a truly striking girl, even caked in grime, and Oliver Newbanks—who doth protest too much if I do say so myself—could not help but notice. Laylee’s eyes were a sensationally bizarre color, and they caught the light like liquid pewter lit by flame. She’d shucked off her helmet only to tuck it under her arm, and the business of doing so had left her a bit disheveled; stray locks of hair had escaped her carefully wrapped headscarf, and the loose tendrils, tipped in silver, lent a softness to her features that was entirely deceptive. She was feeling far from soft as she dragged along a long, flat cart, her face furrowing from the physical effort required to pull its heavy load. She stopped only a moment to wipe at her perspiring brow and, noticing her unkempt hair, quickly tucked the half-silver strands back underneath her scarf. It was only when Alice and Oliver—who’d just remembered their manners—ran forward to help that they saw the wares she’d been hauling: Stacked flat and vertical and packed high to the sky were dozens of simple wooden coffins.

Alice’s heart gave a little leap.

Oliver’s stomach heaved.

Even so—even so—he decided to be chivalrous. Now, it was true that Oliver Newbanks thought Laylee was a beautiful girl. But you must remember: Beauty is easily forgotten in the face of death, decrepitude, and general unpleasantness. So, while, yes, Oliver thought Laylee was very pretty (when he had the luxury of thinking such things), that wasn’t what moved him now. No, there was something about Laylee—something about her Oliver couldn’t quite place—that drew him to her, and though at the time he couldn’t understand what it was, the explanation was actually quite simple.

Reader, he admired her.

Because somehow, even with the encumbrance of such an unfortunate and isolating occupation, she walked through darkness with elegance, navigating the corridors of life and death with a confidence he’d always secretly longed for. She appeared so self-assured, so steady—so untroubled by the opinions of others—it inspired in him something he’d never experienced before. He was made nervous at the sight of her. He was suddenly eager to understand her. Most of all, he wished she were his friend.