I opened the door.
Three faces. Sera and Lira, as expected — Sera holding a bowl of something warm, Lira balanced on her crutch with a second bowl. And between them, clutching a plate with a glass of juice that trembled in her fingers, stood Mirra.
Pink hair. Brown eyes. The mousy, round-faced healer who carried the blessing of the Goddess of Bad Luck like a stone around her neck. She had come with the sisters. She had brought juice. She had been trying to be helpful, to be useful, to be the kind of person who brought things and was not blamed for things.
She blinked. "Eh — what?"
Her eyes moved past me. Into the room. Onto the bed.
Seraphine lay there.
