Mrs. Erickson shook her head. “We can talk later,” she said, in a much quieter voice. “It’s rude to talk about people as if they aren’t here when they are.”

Chastened—which was, on the surface, ridiculous given the possessed freaking Dragon—Kaylin shut up.

Together, the old mortal woman and the young mortal Hawk approached that Dragon, hands entwined. Kaylin wished, for a moment, that she could be Mrs. Erickson—that she could focus her concern and her compassion on the dead.

But the dead were clearly dangerous if they could possess and inhabit a living Dragon, and if they weren’t content to leave, things were going to get ugly.

The marks of the Chosen enveloped both mortals as they walked, centered around Kaylin, but encompassing Mrs. Erickson, the unofficial baker of the Hawks, or at least Bridget’s section.

The ghost that possessed Sanabalis had stopped its plaintive, desperate roar; it stood on four feet, neck folded almost to ground, when it realized that Mrs. Erickson—to whom it had been speaking the entire time—intended to approach, not retreat in the terror anyone else would have.

Only when it was clear that she would reach the possessed Sanabalis did the possessor fold fully to ground, placing the whole of its lower jaw against the stone floor. Mrs. Erickson nodded, her smile tinged with regret. As she reached the Dragon, she reached out with her free hand, and placed it—with no hesitation whatsoever—against Sanabalis’s nose.

“I’m here,” she said, voice soft. “I will stay here until I understand why you’re here. If possible, you might come with me when I leave.”

“Not a good idea,” Terrano said.

Kaylin glanced back at him; his skin was distinctly green-tinged.

“I don’t know if it’s possible,” she continued, as if Terrano hadn’t spoken. “But I’m willing to try. That’s the important part: I’m willing to try. But the Dragon is not, and he has many, many responsibilities that an old woman doesn’t. Will you please let him go?”

The ghost shook the much larger head, but very carefully—as if it were a child.

“But you’ll have to if you’re going to come with me. A Dragon this size won’t fit in my home, and I need a home—it keeps me dry when it rains and warm when it snows. Come. Come on out.”

The ghost spoke. Kaylin couldn’t understand it; she wouldn’t have heard it at all had the marks of the Chosen not responded, as if they were wind chimes in the breeze of inaudible voice.

Mrs. Erickson didn’t have that problem. She held her palm steady against Sanabalis’s face as if Dragons were giant, unhappy puppies.

The marks that surrounded Kaylin began to glow, a golden color rising from the core of each word to saturate its outward appearance.