Page 121 of Molt

My stomach turns.

“Every piece you grow...”

“I know.”

“...I lose.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

She looks over her shoulder. One of her eyes mine. One still green. “For once, I actually do.”

That hurts more than it should.

I sit because my knees no longer trust me.

Sarah lowers herself to the floor across from me carefully. Her body looks painful now. Too many structures competing beneath the skin. Her right shoulder is mine. The left is hers. Her jaw keeps shifting between shapes. Even her fingers twitch with mismatched instincts. “Do you remember her dying?” she asks.

I look at her.

“The first Lenora.”

“No.” I whisper.

“Try.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I laugh weakly. “You really are you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Every version of you asks the question I least want to answer.”

“Maybe you need to stop avoiding them.”

“Apparently.” I close my eyes. The memory waits. Not hidden anymore.

Just painful.

1897.

Rain. Lenora in bed. Not the bloody snow. Not the molt.

Before. Before all of it.

Her skin is burning with fever. My hands are trying to cool her. A doctor standing near the door.

His expression tells me everything before he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

No.

I hate those words. I have always hated them.

Lenora lies beneath the blankets. Too still. Her breaths are shallow. Her dark hair damp against her forehead. “August.”