Chosen, Hope said, his voice reedy, you have done this before.

Kaylin was pretty certain she’d remember if she’d been in this position before, but was unwilling to argue with Hope while the ghost and Mrs. Erickson were somehow conversing. She found herself holding her breath.

“Kaylin, could you let go of my hand?”

Kaylin shook her head.

“Then you will have to extend a hand of your own. I’m just not sure it will be helpful if you can’t see the person you need to reach out to.” For the first time since she’d approached the possessed Dragon, she looked at Kaylin; seeing Kaylin’s expression she nodded. “We can try. My free hand is, as you can see it, touching the Dragon. But it isn’t the Dragon I feel.”

“What do you feel?”

Mrs. Erickson’s smile was soft. Sad. “I can’t feel anything. I can’t touch ghosts. You could touch Amaldi and Darreno—and that shocked them. I don’t know how you managed; I never have. I did try, with the children. They’re lonely—they’re people. But they’re children—and children should be hugged or held or comforted. I only have words and expressions.”

“Then...how do you think you’re going to pull the ghost out?”

“The same way I do with Jamal and others. There are many ways to reach out, and many ways to listen. I’m not certain if this ghost is trapped the way the children are—but I have to assume so.” She hesitated, and then added, “Maybe you can touch them.”

Kaylin shook her head. “I couldn’t touch any of the children who live in your house—and I don’t think Amaldi and Darreno are actually dead.”

“But this ghost is?”

Kaylin nodded.

Mrs. Erickson began to talk, her voice soft, her words gentle. Kaylin could understand all of them, but was forced to infer the other half of what was clearly a conversation by the words Mrs. Erickson chose.

Almost without thought, Kaylin reached out; as she did, the shield of words shrunk until her arm was ringed by the sigils; all were golden, but the golden light was warm and gentle, just as Mrs. Erickson’s tone was.

She was shocked when something lay itself against her upturned palm.

12

It didn’t feel like a hand, although it retained the warmth of living flesh; it was too hard for that. Kaylin ignored her first instinct—to yank her hand back—in part because she was standing beside Mrs. Erickson, a civilian who wasn’t terrified by anything but the possibility that she wouldn’t be able to help.

Warmth filled her palm; she kept the hand as relaxed as she could, although her arm was tense. “Hope, can you help me out here?”

No.