From the defense: “Objection, Your Honor—what is the point here?”

From the judge: “Overruled. I’d like to see where this is going.”

Back to the prosecution: “Let me put it like this: Wouldn’t you like to go to school?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have toys and clean clothes and live with a family who loved you and took care of you so you could enjoy your childhood instead of having to work so hard?”

Laylee hesitated, feeling her throat close up. “Well,” she said quietly. “I—I’d—”

From the judge: “The question, Ms. Fenjoon. Answer the question. And remember that you are under oath.”

“Yes,” Laylee whispered, feeling like she might cry, and hung her head in shame.

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

What Laylee didn’t know how to say was this: She wanted it all. She wanted to go to school and have a family and enjoy her childhood and still get to be a mordeshoor. She didn’t want to lose this part of her life.

She just wanted more.

I must tell you straightaway: Alice’s plan worked well. It did not, however, work as well as she had hoped.

The second half of the day was beautifully dramatic. As soon as Laylee’s side was offered a chance to present their defense, Oliver made Laylee’s young attorney sit down, cease speaking, and focused the attentions of every person present. The stage was set for Alice.

Our talented friend from Ferenwood did not disappoint. She began by extinguishing all the light and color from the room, turning the entire space into a black backdrop upon which she would tell a story. Paintbrushes clutched in one hand, she nodded at Benyamin, ready to follow his lead as he narrated, step by step, the many intricate details involved in washing the dead. It was the only time during the entire day that the ghosts actually sat quietly and listened; they were heartened not only by the story, but by the pictures Alice had painted.

Alice’s illustrations were so lifelike they startled even her; she’d only ever done this sort of thing in private, on a much smaller scale—but her ability was proving to be even more impressive than she first suspected. Her talent was such that she could easily impress infinite colors (hence: images) from her own mind onto any canvas. She could manipulate pigment in any way she wanted with the simple wish of her mind, and her brushes helped her focus the size, scope, and placement of the images. It was a long demonstration, the details of which I will not burden you with (as you, dear reader, already know exactly how Laylee washes her dead), but I will tell you this: Alice painted the story with all the skill of a seasoned artist, and Benyamin, whose narration was intentionally affecting, seemed to be hitting each emotional beat with aplomb—though no part of his presentation was more impressive than when he described the tens of thousands of eternally red roses Laylee had planted in honor of each spirit. At this part in the story, the ghosts actually burst into tears, sobbing so loudly Laylee had to strain to hear Benyamin’s voice. The six specters huddled around their mordeshoor and whispered words of encouragement, promising her that no matter what happened today, they would never abandon her. Laylee was moved despite herself, and couldn’t fight the tears that sprung to her eyes.

Along the way, Oliver did quick and clever magic that encouraged all people present to accept this unusual show as a solid (and ordinary) defense for Laylee’s position and, by the time it was over, the room had fallen into a thoughtful, careful silence that slowly—then quickly—grew into a roar of anxious whispers. The magistrate had to bang his gavel to get the room in order.

Laylee looked at the jury with a nervous sort of anticipation, scanning their eyes for any indication that they may have been moved by Alice’s story. Sadly, their faces were inscrutable. Laylee felt her heart sink.

The judge nodded at Laylee’s attorney. “Would you like to call any witnesses to the stand?”

“No, Your Hono—”

“Yes!” said Laylee, who stood upright with such suddenness she surprised herself.

Laylee’s attorney blinked at her. He had the face of a field mouse.

“Your Honor,” she said more steadily, “that is—I would like to testify.”

Her friends had fought so hard for her today—and for their help and their stubborn affection she would be eternally grateful—but now it was time for her to fight for herself. The prosecution had made her feel weak and juvenile, two things she knew she wasn’t. They’d called her actions irresponsible and flighty—citing these characteristics as symptoms intrinsic to her youth. They’d pressed at her age like it was something to be ashamed of, using the word child as a pejorative term and impressing upon the jury the idea that she was, as a consequence of her few years on this planet, an ineffectual human being, an incompetent creature devoid of passion or intention and, ultimately, incapable of thinking for herself.

None of this was true.

Laylee was thirteen years old, yes, but she had lived, she had loved, she had suffered—and her age was no reason for her feelings to be so easily and carelessly diminished. She was not lesser for being younger; her hurts were no less important; her feelings no less relevant. These were the things she said that day—chin up, shoulders back—even as she felt something shattering inside of her. She was all alone in the world now, and save the kindness of her new friends, she had no one upon whom she might rely except herself.