“You’re very calm about it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte, death is a part of all things.”

“I meant about the impact.”

Auntie Meredith patted her arm. “My observation stands. And I’m so sorry to hear about you and Jack. So good that there’s plenty going on to distract you.”

She was gone, trailing a double line of pale blue yarn, before Charlie could respond.

“That’s why I didn’t want them to know,” she muttered at the cat. “The world’s ending, and it’s still going to be, ‘Oh, poor Charlie.’”

The cat yawned.

Moving to Auntie Ruby’s side, Charlie realized she had no idea if the skin that had collapsed around the old woman’s prominent bones looked like actual parchment, but she’d seen enough cookies baked to recognize parchment paper just out of the oven—brittle, fragile, and stained by use. She couldn’t hear a heartbeat, only a soft flutter, and each breath sounded like the last breath.

Until one of them sounded like her name.

“I’m here, Auntie Ruby.”

Auntie Ruby’s eyes had sunk deep. It seemed as if half the lashes were missing from the edges of pinkish purple lids, and the whites were a sort of yellow/gray. For all that, they were surprisingly aware.

“Thing left . . . to do.”

“What thing, Auntie Ruby?” All things considered, Charlie wasn’t really surprised when the dying woman found the strength to sneer. “Okay, none of my business. What can I do?”

“Delay . . .”

“Dying? You want me to delay your death? I’d be happy to, if only to annoy Auntie Meredith, but I don’t know how. Death delaying isn’t exactly a Wild Power. Death defying, yes. Delaying, not so much.”

It wasn’t exactly an eye roll, but it was close enough and Charlie had years of experience in eye roll interpretation.

“You’re saying I do know how? I just need to figure out what I know.” Telling her not to die, in a Bardic sort of way, would not end well. Although, the odds were high that zombie aunties would ensure the world welcomed an extinction event, so . . . lemons to lemonade.

“Delay . . .”

“Right. Don’t stop, delay.” She settled on the edge of the bed and decided it might be safer not to stroke the cat. Auntie Ruby had been old for as long as Charlie could remember—old and crazy and good for embarrassing stories about other members of the family if caught on her own. She’d cackled and not cared who heard her and, if she got her hands on a broom, she was all about reliving her glory days. It was hard to see the woman in the bed as the Auntie Ruby of memory. She’d faded until . . . “Holy crap, your fingers are cold!” The contrast between her wrist and the single finger pressed against it nearly burned.

“Hum . . .”