The Necromancer ✓

Chapter Eight

"Zephan has requested the privilege of giving you a tour of the grounds," Jack said, popping into my bedroom in the morning. I sat up dizzily, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"What time is it?" I asked, my voice coming out in a husky croak.

"Time to get up," Jack said, hauling me out of bed. He carried me to my bathroom and put me down on the bath mat. "I'll find you something to wear," he said, closing the door behind him.

"I can do it myself," I called from the bathroom.

"I'll do a better job," Jack called back. "I did this for the king remember." My very own royal dresser. Lucky me. "Besides, I couldn't possibly pick something worse than you would."

"What's that supposed to mean," I said, flinging the bathroom door open. Jack turned to me, with one hand on his hip.

"Did you look in the mirror the other day?" he asked. I frowned. "Trust me, you shouldn't have worn a grey sweater. You looked like you were going to pass out all day."

"I did pass out," I said, "several times. And I vomited once."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he pushed me back into the bathroom.

"It has everything to do with it."

"Just have a shower, okay. If you don't like the outfit, you can wear something else."

If I could have thought of an argument against that, I would have said it. As it was, I was forced into the bathroom in silence.

Jack left the pile of clothes on my bed and went to get coffee. He said he'd be back in twenty minutes and he was taking me to Faerie Land regardless of whether or not I was dressed. I smoothed leave in conditioner through my hair and twisted it into a simple braid, letting the end of the plait hang over one shoulder when I was done. It might be more traditional to have a braid hang down your back, but it's a lot harder to do that way. If you drag the hair over your shoulder, you can plait it down the side and actually see what you're doing.

"Laurel?" Someone called from the other side of my door. My twenty minutes were nowhere near up, but it wasn't Jack's voice anyway. It was my mother. I shrugged into my dressing gown, tying the cord around my waist as I went to the door.

"What?" I asked, opening it.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

"Why?"

"I want to talk to you," she said, impatiently, "and if we talk out here your new roommate will think you're crazy." I frowned at her. I didn't really have time to argue, so I kicked the salt out of my doorway and let the circle down. "Thank you," she said, tension seeming to ease out of her body. I thought that was odd, since she didn't technically have a body. I guess it's one of those things that you're left with out of force of habit, like when an ex-smoker raises their hand to their lips, even though they haven't had a cigarette there for years.

"I have to get ready still," I told her.

"Okay," she said, sitting on my bed. Another habit that. It was habit that stopped her falling through the bed, habit that made her wait for me to open a door, habit that made her smile, or frown, or change her posture so it looked like her muscles were knotting up. She stayed on the bed, because she expected to, expected it to feel solid beneath her and so that's how she reacted to it.

That's one of the creepy things about ghosts. The way they stay so human, for so long. It's only the really old ones who seem to forget who and what they are, who lose touch with reality and become unanchored. The floating spirits that don't know how to do or say anything because it's been so long that they've forgotten how. They fade to grey, impressionistic streaks, barely sketches of their former selves.