That was strange. It was cold outside, to be sure, but thanks to her father’s oven, of all the houses in Tupik, theirs was by far the warmest. In fact, it was because of the warmth of the upper floors that Bluma’s bubbe had continued living in the attic even once her hip had started to bother her.

And, with a start, Bluma realized that she could no longer say that her bubbe continued living in the attic. She could no longer say that her bubbe continued living at all.

Bluma curled up as small as she could, threw the spoon against the wall, and began to sob.

It was only once she looked up again that she discovered the second peculiarity of the Dark Messenger’s instrument.

When it was not cultivating frost, the round face of the spoon seemed entirely unremarkable: small dings and scratches marred it, and behind these, a person could easily recognize herself reflected. But the reflection was odd: slow, delayed, as if it had traveled a long distance through something thick and viscous.

This is why, when she looked up, the girl that Bluma saw reflected back to her was curled up as she had been a moment ago, crying.

Bluma dried her tears and shuffled forward, staring intently at her sobbing double.

After a moment, the Bluma in the spoon looked up and noticed her. Soon she dried her own tears and inched closer, just as Bluma had done a moment ago.

And this is how it came to pass that there, beneath her bed, Bluma descended into the sleep of the grieving under the watchful gaze of her own unblinking eyes.

Chapter Three: Ripples

Bluma was wakened by the gentle hand of her father on her shoulder.

She rolled over, bleary on the rigid floorboards, and there he was, kneeling above her, red-eyed, tender, and completely clean of flour.

“Bluma,” he said, a quiver in his voice.

Bluma couldn’t stand the thought of him speaking it out, and she lunged at her father, wrapping him in a tight embrace, her face buried safe between his beard and his shoulder.

Softly, his big hands fell onto her.

Softly, he began to shudder with tears.

Soon things started to move very rapidly. There were, said Bluma’s mother, necessities to think of.

First, the members of the Holy Society were sent for, and they assembled in the front room of the bakery, one by one, somber, respectful, their eyes cast downward. Once their quorum was gathered, they tramped en masse up to the third floor and carried Bluma’s bubbe down on her straw mattress.

She did not look like Bluma had imagined.

It was unmistakably her: her face, her body, even her unruly hair. There had been no violence done to her, no cuts or scrapes or bruises or holes made, but all the same there was something missing.

She was a person who had departed.

It was incomprehensible.