Our point here is that Laylee, though conflicted about the mixed outcome of the prior evening’s events, felt the crippling burden of her corpses slough off her body as if she’d shed a full skin. She felt a lightness she hadn’t experienced in years, and as she became aware not only of the day, but of the healthy strength in her limbs, she allowed herself to feel—if only for a moment—happy. The evening had been a horrible one, but at least it was over. They’d saved as many innocent people as they could from an exceptionally dire fate, and sent off all the outstanding spirits to the Otherwhere. But it was with a sinking feeling that she sat up slowly, delicately dislodging insects from her eyebrows. Laylee still felt a kick to her gut when she thought of the four lives they hadn’t saved, and though she’d never be able to applaud her own actions, she did manage to feel proud of her friends for working so hard to help her last night. So when Alice mumbled a smiling good morning in her direction, Laylee felt her face stretch in an entirely new way, cheeks and chin fighting to accommodate a rare grin that brightened her amber eyes. Laylee looked up at the sky, waved her own hello to the winter birds who’d gathered, as usual, for their morning conference, and allowed herself to imagine what on earth she’d do with a day off.

It was just then that Laylee heard someone call her name.

She stumbled up to her feet, wild-eyed, at the sound of Baba’s voice, and spun around in search of him. She felt her heart leap up into her throat until she was sure she would choke on it, fear and happiness erupting within her. Baba had come home.

Baba had come home.

At first, all she saw was his face. All she heard was the thrumming in her head; all she felt was the impossible stillness of the air around her. Her mind had gone thick and muddy, so strange and dense she could rake her fingers through it as she clawed her way toward him. She wanted answers, she wanted to be angry, she wanted to hit him, she wanted a hug.

Baba was here. And at first, that was all she saw.

She did not question why his hands were hidden behind his back. She did not see the Town Elders congregated behind him. She couldn’t feel Oliver tugging at her arm. She didn’t hear Alice suddenly scream. She wouldn’t notice Benyamin and his mother duck out of sight without a word, too decent to stick their noses in Laylee’s business.

Baba was standing in front of her, and at first this was all that mattered.

What happens next is difficult to relay.

Laylee still can’t speak of this time in any measure of detail, so I will endeavor to piece together as comprehensive a summary as I’m able:

The Whichwood Elders had descended upon Laylee’s home at first light, determined to finally put an end to the mordeshoor business. They did not see Laylee’s work as even the smallest kind of success, you see. They saw the events of the evening prior as a terrible wake-up call—a horrifying reminder of the dangers of relying upon mordeshoors. The Elders had long felt that this, the work of the mordeshoor, was an outmoded system for dealing with the dead—it was an ancient ritual they’d held on to for simple reasons of maintaining tradition. Most other magical lands had long ago dispensed with traditional methods of dispatching the dead; they’d enacted new measures, overruled the old magic with more modern magical systems. Mordeshoors were near extinction, after all, and Laylee Layla Fenjoon—who, after Baba, would be the last of her line—was already widely considered to be terrible at her job.

The Town Elders had decided that someone had to be held accountable for last night’s devastation. What Laylee saw as a difficult save of a terrible evening, the town saw only as ruination. Four innocent people had died. Many more had been stripped of their flesh in front of their own children while insects rampaged said flesh without permission; ghosts had scandalized the city into mass chaos, and scores of people had been so traumatized by the ordeal that they’d been rushed to the hospital. The people were outraged and terrified—a lethal combination for an angry mob—and in their blind rage, they were demanding justice. Someone was to pay for the sins of the evening, and Laylee, at only thirteen years old, was deemed too young.

Baba had been sentenced to death.

He’d let this happen, they’d decided. He’d abandoned his post to a child, and the entire system had fallen apart. It was his fault that the people of Whichwood had been compromised and four of them had been killed mercilessly in the street. It was Baba’s fault that Laylee had been so overworked. It was Baba’s fault for putting the town in danger—for being so irresponsible—and he would be punished for it.

The Elders had found the alleged criminal sitting in a tree, eating a sheaf of paper. They’d bound him and brought him before his daughter because he was allowed one concession before his impending death: to be able to say good-bye to his loved ones. And so here he was, so thin and scraggly Laylee hardly recognized him, and he stared at her, a little happy and a little confused, and smiled.

Laylee closed her eyes.

She would not stir; she would not breathe or bat an eyelash; she would not speak; she would not cry or gasp or ever, ever be moved from this spot. She froze because she hoped that the world would freeze, too, that time would fall over and crush her, that if she simply waited long enough, this pain could all be undone.

“Laylee joonam,” Baba said. “Azizeh delam.”

Tears welled up in her heart, her throat, her pockets.