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Lucy’s corpse is a few days old by now, but that shouldn’t mess up the magic too much. What’s really jarring – well, all of this is jarring – but what hurts right now is that they can’t even cast Gentle Repose on the body, because Lucy is the one who knows Gentle Repose. Lucy is the one who would know what to do with her own body – she would put a blanket over it, she would weave sweet-smelling herbs into its hair. She would sing to it or something. Kipperlilly is horrible at all of that; that’s why she needs Lucy. She needs Lucy. She needs Lucy. She needs.
And she’ll get Lucy back. It’ll just take a minute or two. And Lucy will understand, she will. And she’ll give Kipperlilly that sweet and perfect smile, the one that’s like a summer berry – just a bit of bite – and when Kipperlilly hands Lucy an agenda made just for her, planned down to the hour for the next year of her life, she’ll huff a laugh and she’ll follow. She always follows. She is the only person in this world who Kipperlilly can rely on.
Kipperlilly takes the crystal out of her bag; she holds it in her hand. Its sharp points nip at her palm, they draw blood from her. The feeling pisses her off, but nowadays everything pisses her off. It feels good, probably. Powerful.
“Alright,” she says. “Ready?”
No one answers her.
They all refused to come.
She went to each of them. We’re bringing Lucy back, she said. We all need to be there. And one by one, they’d all said no. Ruben, with his face gone pale and stupidly, depressingly nauseous; Ivy with a wince, Oisin with a mute shake of the head. Mary Ann had just said no and closed the door in her face and gone back to playing video games. It makes sense, probably. They know that Lucy and Kipperlilly are – that they – and the rest of them are – and it wouldn’t – fuck, Kipperlilly’s head hurts. It all hurts. It all makes her so fucking mad.
She gets down on her knees by the body. Someone closed Lucy’s eyes; she doesn’t remember if it was her.
“I can manage it,” she tells the corpse. “I can handle it. All of it. I just need you here to help me, okay?”
Lucy’s corpse doesn’t say anything. There is just the faintest trace of that smile held in the corner of her mouth; Kipperlilly feels the nauseous, morbid urge to put her mouth there, to taste that hint of summer. Then she feels horrified at the urge, and then she feels angry at her horror and angry at her desires and angry at her anger and angry at her anger and angry at her anger and she’s wasting time, precious seconds ticking away, she’s supposed to be halfway across town looking up the records of Adaine Abernant’s family tree and this time slot in her calendar was already filled with something else, she didn’t even pencil in time for Lucy’s resurrection, why didn’t she? and why did she wait a few days to bring her back? when Lucy is her best friend, when Lucy is her – and Kipperlilly’s head hurts – and she’s so so so so so so so angry. So she finds the gash that someone already cut in Lucy’s chest, and she pushes the anger inside.
The body convulses. Lucy’s eyes snap open; they flare red light, her mouth vomits red light. Something is scratching and clawing and digging at the inside of her chest, and she bleeds that same red rage in drips and drops. A scream rasps at the inside of her throat.
Then she sits up. The red light tunnels into her body, builds a home there, and when it leaves Lucy’s eyes Kipperlilly realizes that she’s crying.
“Hi,” says Kipperlilly. (Her throat is hoarse.) “Hi. Welcome back. I’m really glad you—”
“Lilly?” says Lucy.
“...yes?” For a moment Kipperlilly is off-kilter, but she only ever allows herself to be off-kilter for a moment; she clears her throat. “Everyone else was – well, we have a lot of plans in motion. Or, haha, I do, and everyone else is in the plans. Except you. I’ll tell you everythi—”
“What—” Lucy says, and then “why did you—” and she’s probing her wound with her fingers; her face is pale, going paler. She’s beginning to sob in earnest, horrible hiccups that bubble up her throat.
“Lucy,” says Kipperlilly, fingers flexing uselessly. (The anxiety is catching.) “Hey. What are you – it’s me. We’re in this together, remember? Like I—”
Lucy whips her head up, stares at Kipperlilly with those horrible tear-filled eyes.
“Do you?” she says. “Do you remember, Kipperlilly?”
“Yes,” Kipperlilly says patiently. “I remember everything. I always do. I know you were against a lot of this, but – well, you’re awake now, so there’s nothing you can do—”
Lucy catches Kipperlilly’s face in her hand.
(Kipperlilly could have dodged it.) (Should have dodged it.)
(She never dodges Lucy’s hands. It’s going to kill her someday; she already knows. There’s no room in this world for weakness. For touching, for being touched. Every time Lucy reaches for her, she flinches, she thinks: this time, it’s Inflict Wounds. And she lets Lucy do it anyways. Every time. Every single fucking time.)
She leans in close, so close, frantically studies something in the back of Kipperlilly’s eyes. Kipperlilly licks her lips nervously (she’s so stupid), studies Lucy right back: tear-smeared, blood-stained, rage-sharpened. She can see the red traces of rage pulsing and flexing inside of her. But her grip is still so gentle. It could be so easy, that’s the false promise of Lucy’s hands. I could hold you up, I could hold you together. Lean into me. I’ll catch you.
“You don’t,” Lucy breathes. “Remember. Oh, Lilly. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Rage slaps Kipperlilly in the face – sudden, jarring, hot. “I already told you,” she’s snapping, before she can catch herself. “I told you why I’m doing this. Why I’m having us do this. You know it’s important – it’s the most important thing there is. And it doesn’t matter what happens to me – I don’t care, Lucy, I’ll break myself in a million pieces. Who gives a fuck. We can win this way. Lucy, we can—”
“Kipperlilly,” Lucy says, and her voice is like a new wound. “Lilly, Lilly, we’ve done this already.”
“What are you talking about? With Ruben? He got over it. He always gets over it. We just had to give him the—”
“Kipperlilly!” Lucy’s voice is louder now; the rage throbs under the surface of it, howling like a winter wind. “Will you just listen to me? For once? We did this already. You already woke me up. You put that crystal in my chest. You made me come back, I didn’t want to, I didn’t even want to, and then – and you gave yourself the honey, Kipperlilly! You made yourself forget it, and now you’re doing it again!”
By the end of this, her voice is a scream. Kipperlilly has never heard Lucy scream before. The sound is beautiful, just like she knew it would be – she knew the rage would make Lucy beautiful in a whole new way, would bring out facets in her that Kipperlilly has never seen before. Lucy’s mouth – still shrieking, saying things that enter Kipperlilly’s mind and swiftly leave again – isn’t berry-sweet anymore; it’s a ninth-level spell, dripping power like blood from every syllable. It is as lovely as a Wish, as beautiful as Power Word Kill. Kipperlilly aches for her. (But she’s always ached for power, and for Lucy. Why wouldn’t the two of them together destroy her?)
And the sound of that mouth saying her name: “Lilly, Lilly. Kipperlilly, please. Please listen. Please listen to me. Why won’t you – why won’t you listen to me? Why won’t you listen to me? Kipperlilly, why didn’t you fucking listen to me when I told you, I told you, I told you I didn’t want this! I told you a thousand times! And you didn’t even care—”
Lucy is the only one who calls her Lilly. Ivy went for Kip, a while back, and Kipperlilly swiftly disavowed her of that notion; none of the others have ever been stupid enough to try a nickname. Only Lucy.
That day, at lunch, in the courtyard. Lucy sprawled out next to Kipperlilly, her eyes closed, her face tilted up to catch the sun. You have such a lovely name—
“I’m just another piece in your game, in your master plan. And when I dare to do something else, something that isn’t exactly what you wrote down for me in your stupid planner—”
—I don’t know if this makes sense, but there’s a flower hiding in it. I like that better than just a flower name. It’s like a secret, you know? Is that silly?
“—you just erase it and go back and do it again. Like it didn’t matter. Like my choices don’t matter.”
It’s just – it’s like in winter, when the snow covers everything. But all the flowers are still there. They’re just waiting. To bloom again, I mean.
“It doesn’t even matter what I’m saying, does it? You aren’t – oh, gods, you aren’t even going to listen to me. And you’re just, you’re just—”
Sometimes we have to keep parts of ourselves buried underneath the snow so they survive. And then when spring comes…
“—you’re just going to—”
The flare of Lucy’s smile, like the sun shining right into Kipperlilly’s eyes. You’ll be a lily in bloom.
“—how many times are you going to—”
Kipperlilly’s throat had ached; she was thirteen years old, and no one had ever compared her to a flower before. She had gotten a whole heap of stupid nicknames – people forgetting her name, changing her name, dunking on it – but no one had ever looked at her and seen something soft and lovely hiding in her. She knew, with great certainty, that no one she had ever met believed she was capable of something like that. She didn’t even believe it. But she wanted to.
So she’d said – blurted, really – You can call me Lilly. If you want.
Oh, Lucy had said. Really? Her eyes all wide with shock, so deep and dark and lovely.
Only if you want, Kipperlilly had said. If you don’t want to, it’s fine. Just don’t call me Kipper, I’m so sick of the fish jokes. Like, I’m over it. Everyone thinks they’re so smart—and she had kept talking like that, high and nervous, and then Lucy had covered Kipperlilly’s small hand with her own hand. And even then, her touch had been that same stupid unforgivable promise.
Lilly, she had said, and she’d smiled again. Lilly and Lucy. It kind of works, doesn’t it?
And Kipperlilly had wanted to say something back, something as kind and meaningful as what Lucy had said to her, but she’s never been the sort of person who can do that. She’s never been capable of it. And Lucy is – and Lucy – and that’s why she needed Lucy, do you get it? That’s why she needs – and Lucy’s eyes – and Kipperlilly hadn’t said anything meaningful, anything kind, she had said something stupid. She always does.
“How many times,” Lucy says, “are you going to bring me back?”
Her hands are clenched on Kipperlilly’s shoulders, her fingernails stabbing bright crescents of pain into Kipperlilly’s skin even through the sleeves of her shirt. The rage makes her so lovely, so lovely. Kipperlilly didn’t realize this, but of course it makes sense: when Lucy is angry, she is finally a promise that Kipperlilly knows how to keep.
“How many…” Kipperlilly says. “What are you talking about? Just once. And then you’re never going to die again. You’re strong now, Lucy, you’re really really strong. Nothing can hurt you. So don’t worry, okay?”
“Lilly,” Lucy says softly. She reaches up, she touches two sweet fingers to Kipperlilly’s temple. “Can you be honest with me for a second?”
No. Yes. Only with you. “What’s the question?”
“Do you remember anything I was saying just now?”
“Why would you ask that?” Kipperlilly says. “You know I remember everything. I always do.”
“Humor me.”
“I…” Kipperlilly’s mind is the one thing (besides—) that she can rely on. But when she goes to check, it’s blank. Sticky-sweet, churning. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t…”
“I know,” Lucy says, and her voice is so soft and so sweet. “Lilly, I can’t do it.”
“Do what?” Kipperlilly asks, like she doesn’t already know.
“All of this,” Lucy says. Her fingers flit again to her wound, digging her nails into it – like she can reach into her chest, pull the crystal out. As if that isn’t impossible. “The rage, the Bad Kids, making the barbarian teacher into a...your whole plan. Kipperlilly. It’s such a beautiful plan. All of your plans are so beautiful and meticulous, and you’re the smartest person I know, and I love the plan, because I love you and it’s yours, but...you know I can’t do it. I told you that already. I told you I can’t do it.”
“But it’s too late,” Kipperlilly says. “You have a piece of a god inside of you. It’s already...I already did it, Lucy. I’m…”
She can’t say it; the words catch in her throat like a spiked star, cutting and bleeding her. It doesn’t matter, anyways. Lucy says: “I know.”
“You didn’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes I did,” Lucy says, and she smiles. “I always do. You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine,” Kipperlilly says. “And we’re going to make a new god together, Lucy. We’re going to be amazing.”
“You’re going to be amazing,” Lucy says. “Well, I mean, you already are. But you’re going to be…” She still has Kipperlilly’s face caught in one hand; her other hand is splayed now over her sternum, over the star, over the wound. “Can I ask you for something, Lilly?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
Lucy just waits. Kipperlilly hates her for waiting; hating brings the rage back, howling like a pack of dogs in every shivering inch of her body. She shoves it down. Not her, not for her. “Yeah,” she says, “yeah, you can ask me.”
“Can you let me go this time?” Lucy says. “Can you just...Kipperlilly, can you let me go?”
“No,” Kipperlilly says. “Why would you even ask me that? Obviously no. We’re going together. We always go together. It’s you and me.”
Lucy studies her face for a moment; she swallows, she looks away. “Yeah,” she says. “It always is. Okay.” She sniffs, worries at the cuff of her sweater. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go make a new god.”
The rush of relief is overwhelming, unbearable. “It’ll be good,” Kipperlilly says. “You’ll see. It’ll be so good. I promise. Lucy. I promise. I promise. I promise.”
Lucy’s corpse is a few weeks old by now, but that shouldn’t mess up the magic too much. Her body is mangled a little by decay, and the sleeves of her sweater are dyed completely brown with blood, but when she comes back she’ll just wash the sweater. She has these stupid homemade wool sweaters that you can’t wash using magic, you have to hand-wash them, and if you do it wrong then the wool gets fucked up and what’s really jarring – well, all of this is jarring – but what hurts right now is that no one can wash Lucy’s sweater for her, because Lucy is the only one who knows how to wash it. Lucy is the one who would know what to do with her own body – she would neaten the braids in its hair, she would find something soft for it to sleep on. She would rub lotion into its cracked hands. Kipperlilly is horrible at all of that; that’s why she needs Lucy. She needs Lucy. She needs Lucy. She needs.
She doesn’t need any of the others, not really. That’s why it’s fine, why it’s fine that they wouldn’t come with her. They don’t understand. None of them call her Lilly, she wouldn’t let them call her Lilly. But she needs to hear it. That name. That name, in Lucy’s mouth. She needs someone who can believe…
Kipperlilly takes the crystal out of her bag; she holds it in her hand. Its sharp points gnaw at her skin. The pain makes her angry, and the anger makes her head hurt, and that pain makes her angry, and she goes on like this around and around forever. For the rest of her life. But she’ll be able to bear it all so easily once Lucy comes back. She can do anything, as long as Lucy is there with her.
“Alright,” she says. “Ready?”
No one answers her, but that’s alright. She cuts Lucy open anyways. She pushes the anger inside, and waits patiently for Lucy to open her eyes and love Kipperlilly again.