It had been a great leniency from the Elders that had allowed Laylee to stay in her own home until the hour of the trial, and she was quietly grateful for it, as she did not think she would do well in a prison cell. And though she hated the people of Whichwood for what they’d done to her father—and for how they’d treated her—Laylee could not imagine herself as anything but a mordeshoor; she knew she had to fight for her right to be the bearer of the dead.

But how? What would she say?

She felt limp, hollowed out, no longer fueled by any kind of passion. She had grieved, yes—she had attempted to empty her heart of its agony—but though she still carried a great deal of pain, she was surprised to find that she felt no violent outrage over the loss of her father or the actions of her people. She felt no desperate madness that would bolster her in court tomorrow. No, Laylee was comforted now by a clarity that helped her understand that Baba never would’ve returned home to her, that perhaps on his quest for Death he’d been unwittingly searching for a reprieve from life. She knew how much happier he was to have crossed over with Maman—and knowing that Baba was at peace had made her anger a superfluous emotion. She would not begrudge her parents their happiness, so she had to let them go.

She’d let everything go.

She’d been stripped of family, friends, and even her livelihood—but she hadn’t expected to be stripped of her anger, too.

A peculiar calm had come over her lately, and it felt a bit like what she’d heard of humility. At every moment she felt a steady, kneading pressure against the back of her neck reminding her that—no matter how bad things were—they could be worse. Bite your tongue, said the voice, and be grateful for what you have lest you lose that, too.

This was all it took for her to be reminded, in a sudden moment, of Benyamin Felankasak.

Laylee had always thought of Benyamin as simple and weak; she’d considered his kindness a sign of weakness—a symptom of an easy, untroubled life. But after getting to know him and his mother, Laylee wondered if she’d been wrong.

The thing was, Laylee had always resented the smiles of others, their easy charity, their willingness to be kind. But she was beginning to wonder whether she’d gotten her theories confused. Maybe it was not naiveté, but suffering, that inspired kindness. Maybe, she thought, it was pain that inspired compassion.

Just then, she heard her doorbell ring.

Laylee took her time.

She feared the Elders had come for her early—that they’d changed their minds about letting her stay at home—so she moved in slow motion as she tied her long, chestnut locks into a low bun at the base of her neck. She moved even more slowly when the bell rang for the second time, her nervous hands reaching for her fringed, floral scarf from its hook by the door. Carefully, she tied the scarf in an elegant knot at her throat, and calmly, very calmly, she took a deep, steadying breath, and unlocked the door.

Shock rearranged the features on her face.

Benyamin, Oliver, and Alice were waiting for her, and Laylee could not hide the flood of emotions that rushed through her all at once. Happiness, relief, confusion—

Laylee could not have been more surprised.

She’d thought her friends had left her for good. She thought they’d tired of her cold anger and churlish behavior and she couldn’t imagine their reasons for returning here, to her home where she’d treated them with nothing but thinly veiled hostility.

“What are you doing here?” Laylee finally spoke, stunned.

“We had to find you,” said Oliver too quickly, tripping over his words. He wondered then if she had any idea what she’d done to his brain. “We had to find a way—”

“Find me?” she said, turning to face him fully. She could hardly dare to believe they’d come back just for her. “Why did you want to find me?”

“Well, we came to help you, of course,” said a smiling Alice, who was reminded, in a moment of wistfulness, of an identical exchange they’d shared not several nights ago.

But this time, the mordeshoor returned her kindness.

Laylee’s face thawed and broke open, the parted lines of her mouth blossoming into a smile that touched her wide, amber eyes. Oliver had never seen Laylee’s teeth before—she’d never shown so much emotion—and he spent far too long admiring her mouth in those first moments of their reunion. Laylee didn’t seem to mind.

“Actually,” said Benyamin quietly, speaking for the first time, “we were wondering if we could come inside for a cup of tea.”

I feel I should mention something.

This was not the first time Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin had seen Laylee that day. No—they’d arrived in Whichwood right around noon—and it was now many hours later. The sun was sideways in the sky and the clouds were quickly purpling and the group of them had just returned from a brief gathering at Benyamin’s house, where they’d assembled after stumbling upon the mordeshoor during a very private moment. Collectively, they’d decided to leave and never breathe a word about it, but one day Oliver’s romantic intentions would encourage him to make the mistake of sharing this story with Laylee. He’d describe what he’d seen and what this moment (and many other moments) had done to him—in hopes of illustrating how he’d come to care for her. Unfortunately, Laylee was horrified to hear it. Which was, of course, how I’d come to hear of it.