Page 103 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

My fault.

My fault Mom died—my fault the hierarchy lost their priestess, that Nat was thrust into a position she never truly wanted as both leader and mother to another little girl. This one with darkness in her veins.

No, my sister in Death, it was not. Death pressed the warm canteen into my palm, and I forced stiff fingers to close around it before bringing it to my lips. Autumn’s demise was no more your fault than the rising of the sun, child.

You took her, I pressed back, certain my swollen mouth couldn’t form the words aloud.

It was merciful.

I hate you.

I won’t argue.

You should’ve saved her instead.

The fates begged to differ.

And me? Why save me?

It wasn’t your time, he said simply. Nor is now. He jostled the canteen in my hand. I sipped greedily, wishing the water was cold.

Portia, I begged. Help Portia.

I cannot.

Bullshit.

She’s not one of mine to guard.

And I am?!

From before your lungs drew air.

Nonsense. But I had the distinct impression that wasn’t worth vocalizing. How long have we slept?

Six hours, Heiress. Rest.

I can’t, I thought back. We had to move. Had to make up ground—catch up. The fate of Grayshell’s people—Aren’s people—was in our hands. We have to⁠—

A cold palm settled on my shoulder before sliding up to cup my neck, easing my head onto the grime of the desert floor. That venom won’t burn off for several more hours. Rest, Heiress.

Before I could argue, the desert vanished.

I stood on the edge of a grassy knoll, staring at a little girl on a swing set. Black hair. Bright blue eyes. Tan skin that spoke of hours in the sun. She sat alone. Maybe five or six. Not swinging. Just resting, her flat gaze fixed on the playground where a rowdy brood of girls played.

I moved closer, tilting my head to see her better. She lifted her little face to mine, dried tear tracks lining her round cheeks.

“Hello,” she said softly, her voice almost otherworldly in its hollowness.

“Hello,” I echoed, easing onto the swing beside her. She sniffled, her attention flitting wistfully back to the girls. “Are you okay?” She nodded stiffly, trying so hard to be brave. “Why are you sad?”

She shook her head tightly, squaring her little shoulders and lifting her chin as if being watched meant she had to be strong.

“Do you want to talk?” I pressed. When she shook her head, I added, “My name is Doctor Green, and I talk to all kinds of people about all kinds of things—I’m a good listener.”

She perked up, those eyes sharp with recognition. “Dr. Green?” When I nodded, a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she wiped the back of her arm across her nose. “My name is Magnolia Green. My mama was a doctor too.”

My heart squeezed at the confirmation as I looked around. The park was vaguely familiar, a memory long lost but tugging at the edges. Smiling tightly, I said, “Your mama was a good doctor.” The little specter nodded, planting her feet as she scooted to the edge of her swing.