Page 45 of Molt

I drag my eyes away from her mouth. “What?”

“You haven’t said anything.”

Because I don’t know what to say. Because I have spent almost forty years preparing for Lenora to return, and within a few hours, every rule I’ve made has turned to ash.

No touching.

Broken.

No memories.

Broken.

No attachment.

Broken before she ever knew I existed.

And now there’s a yellowed tooth sitting on her bedroom floor that belongs to neither of us.

I crouch and examine it without touching it.

Small. Human. Old.

There’s a perfectly drilled hole through the root. Not decay.

Intentional.

I know enough about old burial practices to recognize something made to be worn. A charm. A keepsake. Maybe jewelry.

But I’ve never seen it before.

Not in 1897.

Not in 1908.

Not in 1921.

Not in 1944.

Not in 1967.

Not in 1988.

Never.

“Whose is it?” She asks.

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Lenora folds her arms. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar.”

“Not with me.”

That shuts me up.

My expression shifts.