The crone’s smile widened. “Excellent.”
She extended her withered hand across the table. Ava hesitated, then reached out and took it.
The moment their fingers touched, Ava felt it—a presence in her mind.
Cold.
Alien.Ancient.
It moved through her thoughts like fog seeping under a door, touching everything, leaving nothing undisturbed.
She gasped as memories began to flicker rapidly through her consciousness. Childhood birthdays. Her first kiss. High school graduation. The day she got her first job. The death of her grandmother. Her first broken heart.
The death of her mother.
The presence wasn’t gentle. It rummaged through her memories like someone searching through a box of old photographs, discarding some, lingering on others.
Then, it focused on her mother.
The memory of her mother.
All of it.
“Wait,” Ava whispered, suddenly afraid. “No. No, I thought you meant a moment—not—I didn’t realize?—”
“It is too late.” The crone’s voice was distant and strange. “The exchange has already begun.”
The presence dug deeper, past the surface memories, down into the core of who she was. Things she’d forgotten. Things she’d tried to forget. Secrets. Regrets. Hopes. Dreams.
All pulling at the strings of every ounce of the memory of her mother.
Ava tried to pull her hand away, but the crone’s grip was iron. Beside her, she was dimly aware of Nos and Ibin rising to their feet, protesting, but the maiden and mother had moved to restrain them.
“Just one memory,” the crone whispered, her eyes now completely black. “Of one person.”
“No—” She gasped. “Not that. Please not her. Anything but her.”
The crone smiled.
And began to pull.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Happy birthday, Ava!”
Ava smiled down at the brownies, still uncut and sitting in the baking tray. They had a single previously-used pink candle shoved into the top of them, slowly oozing lit wax down the sides.
Sad by a child’s birthday standards, but Ava was twenty-two.
And it was the most wonderful thing she’d seen in years.
“Thanks, Mom.” She smiled over the table at her. “I love it.”
It had taken her mom hours in the kitchen to bake the brownies from scratch. But everything was harder, trapped in a wheelchair and with a body that was rebelling against her. Ava had offered to help several times, but was shooed away. People weren’t supposed to make their own birthday treats.
Her mom’s hand shook as she picked up the knife and slid it over to Ava. “Do you mind, hon?”
“No problem.” Ava took the knife and started slicing up the brownies into a grid of four. Her mom couldn’t have too much sugar on her medication—and she knew there was probably little to zero salt in them. Which would make for an experience, but honestly, Ava was used to it.
