He set off, snuffing the lantern as he traversed the gentle slope leading down toward the staff buildings.

Kant raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, then sighed. A tinge of relief flashed across his features before he hid it again. “Good. Witchety is here.”

15

“Witchety?” Margot frowned as she followed Kant’s line of sight. The driveway wended across the property in the distance, and an older woman followed it, moving toward them, a huge dog leashed at her side.

Kant gestured for Margot to follow and set out to meet the woman halfway.

The sun was at the woman’s back. Margot could make out very little about her except that a braid of white hair ran down her back and swung with each step and the dog beside her came up to her waist.

Margot, warming quickly, unbuttoned her jacket. Small insects flicked from the overgrown wild grass as she strode through it. Despite the sun, dew still clung to her shoes and legs.

The woman’s details began to solidify as they neared each other, and Margot realized she’d been mistaken. The dog wasn’t huge; the woman was just very, very small. And Margot already knew her.

The woman from the wake wore nearly identical, loosely draped clothes, just in different shades: earthy browns and forest greens, covered by an amber shawl. Her skin was shockingly, strikingly white, but there was no sign of powder in her heavily creased face. Blue veins threaded along her throat, pulsing beneath the crepe-thin skin. Her eyelids were heavy, and lines of red crept in across the whites, but there was a sharpness under a layer of blurry cataracts that gave the impression she was drinking in more about the environment than even Margot noticed.

At her side was a golden retriever, mouth open as it panted happily. As the woman neared, she squinted her watery green eyes, sizing Margot up. “Hello again. Poor thing.”

Kant stopped beside her. “Margot, meet Witchety. We have her come by every few weeks.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you, uh, formally.” Margot couldn’t stand it any longer. The golden retriever was smiling up at her, tongue lolling against off-white teeth, black eyes radiating warmth. “Um, can I…?”

“Go right ahead.”

Margot dropped to her knees and buried her hands in the dog’s silky fur. He responded immediately, haunches swinging from the force of his tail’s reckless careening, tongue coming out to bathe her face. Margot, laughing, hugged him.

“His name’s Marsh,” Witchety said. “On account of how much he looked like toasted marshmallows when he was born.”

“He’s gorgeous.” The force of Marsh’s affection nearly toppled Margot backward. She stood before she could ruin her jacket but kept her hands on his head, scratching around his ears.

“Figures you’d like him.” Witchety’s voice crackled with barely repressed coughs. “You were thick as thieves with his great-grandmother.”