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Meanwhile, Benyamin was (hastily) explaining to the humans what had happened.
“What?” This, from Benyamin’s mother. “What do you mean the ghosts escaped hallowed ground? How is that possible?” she cried, nearly falling out of bed in horror.
“They’re here right now?” asked Oliver, who’d gone pale. “In—in here? Right now?”
“What do they want?” said Alice, who’d gotten to her feet. “Are they upset?”
Haftpa reported that, yes, they were very upset. They wanted to know what had happened to their mordeshoor. They wanted to know why she’d left them alone for so long. And they wanted to know whether she would be coming back.
Benyamin hurried to explain exactly what had happened to Laylee, but instead of de-escalating the situation, Benyamin’s explanations had apparently made things worse.
Roksana shouted out so angrily in response that Haftpa jumped up, startled, and spun an unexpected web in the process. She was enraged to hear that the mordeshoor had been left to die like this. The dead were nothing if not soulful creatures, and they felt great pain and pity for the mordeshoor that they, the ghosts, had taken for granted. Laylee had been treated poorly by her people, and now an entire other civilization of beings would suffer as a result. What would happen to the dead once their only remaining mordeshoor died? (Never mind the crazy father, said Roksana.) What did the people of Whichwood think would happen? Had they expected that they could just discard this young girl and her position with no care or thought to her well-being? Did they not see the shortsightedness of their own actions?
This thirteen-year-old girl had been left to suffer all alone, with no one in their busy, bustling city stopping long enough to care. The ghosts, understanding this all at once, were no longer simply angry—they were enraged to the point of asphyxiation. Roksana could hardly speak for all her fury. And she and her ghosts huddled around Laylee’s body, suddenly sorry for ever having given her a hard time. They knew they could be annoying, jumping out of corners and being occasionally absurd and unkind—but they were desperately bored for conversation, and Laylee was the only human with whom they could interact. She kept their secrets, and helped soothe the pain of passing. She was the only living person to care what happened to her people when they passed on, and the ghosts valued her dedication to them.
So this?
This would never do.
Haftpa had quickly explained Roksana’s sudden outburst, and Benyamin, who hurried to carry out the translation to the others, had begun to whisper the words, so terrified was he of what Haftpa had told him. The ghosts had come to find Laylee in hopes of making amends, but now, having discovered the truth of how terribly she’d been treated, they sought to exact revenge.
The ghosts’ consciences would be clear tonight.
It was clear to them that by mistreating Laylee, the Whichwoodians did not respect the rites and rituals that affected their dead and, family or not, the spirits would not defend those who’d stood silently by as their unseen world was plagued by injustice.
“Wait,” cried Benyamin, who was now beseeching the ghosts blindly. “Please—we’re doing the best we can to help her—we just don’t know how long it will take—”
“We recognize your efforts,” said Roksana, and Haftpa hurried to translate. “As a thank-you for your loyalty to the mordeshoor, we will not harm the four of you here tonight. But we will not grant the same protection to the people celebrating in the streets. They dance and feast while their mordeshoor dies!” Roksana cried, shaking her fist. “This, we can never forgive.”
In the time it took Haftpa to translate the rest of her message, the ghosts had already gone, charging wrathfully into the night—
Heaven help the humans whose paths they crossed.
“What do we do?” cried Alice, who was looking from Laylee to Benyamin to his mother to Oliver and back again. She couldn’t possibly abandon Laylee, not now, not at this critical juncture, but it was also true that they couldn’t just wait here while the ghosts charged into the city to strip innocent people of their flesh. “What do we do?” she said again, when no one responded.
Oliver opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but no words came out. Benyamin looked to Haftpa for advice, but the little spider wasn’t sure what to say. Madarjoon was the only one who didn’t seem too stunned to speak. She was shaken, yes, but she hadn’t lost her wits, and it was her quiet, adult authority that rang true and clear in their young bones when she said simply, “You must go. At once.”
“But what about—” said Alice.
“You must take her, too.”
“Take her with us?” said Oliver, eyes wide. “How?”
“Put her on the train and take her with you,” said Madarjoon. “You will make it work; you cannot leave the mordeshoor behind. Alice will stay with her, healing her as you go, and hopefully, before the end of the night, she will have been able to help the girl enough to get her eyes open.”
“But why?” said Benyamin, who was seeing something in his mother’s eyes that only he, her son, could recognize. “Why do we need to take her with us?”
“Because,” said Madarjoon, “once her eyes are open, you’ll be better able to see what’s happening.”
“What do you mean?” said Oliver.