And then all at once, her senses returned.

She spun around, searching for her makeshift weapon, when Oliver cried, “Laylee—please!”

And she slowed.

She was almost afraid to ask how he knew her name.

He was holding up his hands in mock surrender, and Laylee felt she could hold off trying to kill this boy for at least long enough to get a good look at him.

His hair was silver like hers, but in a way that seemed natural. And his eyes—a shade of blue so rich they were nearly violet—were striking against his brown skin. Everything about him was sharp and polished (and handsome) and the longer she looked at him, the more she felt a sudden, fluttering thrill in her heart, and she was so unsettled by the sensation she nearly hit him with the poker just to be rid of it.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” he said. “Please—”

“You can’t stay here.” Laylee cut him off, nervous anger flaming her cheeks. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

“I know—I know it’s not ideal to host a pair of guests you’ve never met, but if we could just explain—”

“No,” Laylee said heavily, struggling to stay calm, “you don’t understand. This home is protected by ancient magic. Only a mordeshoor may find refuge here.”

Neither Alice nor Oliver appeared to be bothered by this revelation. Oliver, for his part, was still staring at Laylee, transfixed. “What’s a mordeshoor?”

“It’s what I am. It’s the name given to those of us who wash the dead and package their bodies for the Otherwhere. We are mordeshoors.”

“Goodness, that seems just awful,” said Alice, patting Laylee’s arm and looking overly sympathetic. Laylee bristled, snatching her arm away at once, but Alice didn’t seem to notice; instead, she gestured to a chair. “Would you mind if I sat down?”

“You must leave,” said Laylee sharply. “Now.”

“Don’t you worry about us,” Oliver said with a smile. “We’ll be fine—we’re not afraid of a few dead people. We just need a warm place to rest awhile.”

Laylee rolled her eyes so hard she nearly snapped a nerve. “You will not be fine, you fool. You have no protection here. You won’t survive the night.”

Alice finally showed a flicker of fear. “Why not?” she asked quietly. “What would happen?”

Laylee dragged her eyes over to Alice. “The ghosts of the freshly dead are always terrified to cross over—they’d much rather cling to the human life they know. But a spirit can only exist in the human world when it’s wearing human skin.” She leveled them both with a dark look. “If you stay here, they will harvest your flesh. They will make suits of your skin as you sleep and leave you rotting in your own blood.”

Alice clapped both hands over her mouth.

“This is precisely why I exist,” said Laylee. “The process of washing the body calms the wandering spirit; when the body crosses over, so too will the ghost.”

(Maman, you will note, was an exception to this rule; I promise to explain the particulars at a quieter time.)

Alice pinched Oliver in the shoulder. “Do you see now?” She pinched him again. “Do you see what you nearly did? You nearly killed us with your cheating! Skin suits, indeed!”

Oliver frowned, flinched, and jumped away from Alice, rubbing his shoulder as he did. He was irritated, but somehow, simultaneously, fascinated.

“Now get out of my house.” Laylee picked up the poker and jabbed them both, briefly, in the centers of their chests. “Out! Get out!”

Alice was crestfallen, but Laylee felt no remorse. These trespassers were not only flagrantly disrespecting her wishes, but they’d used up all her firewood, too, and Laylee couldn’t take much more of their foolishness. This was her home—she alone should be able to choose who entered it.

She was parading the two of them toward the exit when Oliver said, “Let’s say for a moment that you did want us to stay here—”

Laylee jabbed him in the back.

“In theory!” he said, wincing. “Let’s just say, in theory, that you actually wanted us to stay here. Would we have to wash a dead body in order for the magic to protect us?”

Laylee shook her head.

Oliver was visibly relieved.

“Not just one,” she said. “You’d have to wash three. A man, a woman, and a child; three for every night you remain.”

Oliver blanched. “Do you even have that many dead people here?”

Laylee stopped walking. Quietly, she said, “Yes.”

It was a single word, but it carried a great deal of weight. They three were suddenly overtaken by a silence within which each of them was, for a moment, tossed about in a tornado of their own worries. Laylee, weary with exhaustion, could think of little but her own steady deterioration; Oliver, wary of the situation, could focus on little but self-preservation; but Alice, who often took the time to worry about more than just herself, felt a door in her heart swing open.

It was she who finally said, with great tenderness, “That sounds like an awful lot of work for one person.”

Laylee looked up sharply, locking eyes with Alice in a rare moment of transparency. The reminder of her workload had dropped a new weight on Laylee’s shoulders; she felt her elbows unlock. She’d nearly forgotten the newly silver tips of her fingers until she’d felt them tremble, and it was enough to loosen her grip on the poker. She looked away as she said, “Yes. It is.”