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To the left, folded linens were stacked on shelves. To the right, cupboards lined a narrow room holding plates, goblets, candles, and utensils. She had come to the bottom of the stairs. Ghosts did not get hungry, at least not for food. Modina did not recall the last time she had eaten, but she was not hungry. The smell of food indicated she was near the kitchen. Perhaps it was the same for her, as she struggled to scratch at her missing life. She heard that people with missing limbs felt an itching in a phantom leg or arm. Like most afternoons, Modina wandered the sequestered halls and chambers like a ghost searching for something long forgotten. Amilia had become a tiny point of light in a sea of darkness, the singular star Modina steered by, and it did not matter where that light led. It would be easy to give in, to close her eyes and sink to the bottom once more, but if pretending to live could help Amilia, then she would. The horrors were all that remained, calling to her, threatening to pull her under again. There had been a time, long, long ago, when she would have said that life carried hope for a better tomorrow, but for her, hope was a dream that had blown away on a midsummer’s night. Amilia had pulled her to shore, but no one could call her existence living. Modina did not feel saved.Įver since Dahlgren, she had been drowning in overwhelming terrors that she could not face. Amilia had saved her, if saved was the right word. What she had said on the balcony was the truth. Everyone attributed Modina’s recovery to Amilia’s healing powers.