by Tahereh Mafi
She was a girl who rarely spoke for fear of spontaneously combusting.
Laylee had locked herself in the toilet for far longer than was necessary. The bathroom was the one place Maman would not haunt her (just because she was dead did not mean she’d lost her sense of decency), and Laylee cherished her time in this unholy space. She’d just finished mixing a soaking solution in a copper basin (warm water, sugarsalt, rosehip oil, and a snip of lavender) for her aching hands when she noticed something strange.
It was slight, but it was there: The tips of her fingers were going silver.
Laylee gasped so deeply she nearly knocked over the bowl. She fell to her knees, rubbing at her skin like she might undo the harm, but it was no use.
It had been hard enough to watch her eyes turn, and even more devastating when her hair went, too, but this—this was dire indeed. Laylee could not have known then the full extent of the damage she’d inflicted upon her body, but she knew enough to understand this: She was irrevocably ill from the inside out, and she didn’t know what to do.
Her first thought was to appeal to Baba.
She’d begged him countless times to return home, but he could never see the sense in her words. Baba had become increasingly delusional over the years, never certain whether he existed in the world of the living or the dead. After Maman died, he fully unzipped from what little sense he had left; now he was forever lost in transit, and there was nothing Laylee could do about it. Just a little longer, he’d always say, in his charming, clumsy way. I’m nearly there. Baba kept his teeth in his pocket, you see, so it was very difficult for him to enunciate.
I should explain.
Once upon a time, Baba had seen Maman at the marketplace and had very swiftly fallen in love with her. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Maman; in fact, strangers had been known to fall in love with her with some frequency. She was, as you might have suspected, a supremely beautiful woman—but not in any common, familiar sort of way. No, Maman was the kind of beautiful that ruined lives and relieved men of their sanity. She had a face that was impossible to describe and skin so luminous it looked as though the sun itself had haunted her. And while it was true that many residents of Whichwood had beautiful skin (they were a golden kind of people, even in the winter, with brown skin bronzed by daylight), Maman outshone the lot of them, wrapping her hair in vibrant, fluid silks that made her glimmering skin appear absolutely other. And her eyes—deep and dazzling—were so captivating that passersby would faint dead away at the sight of her. (You might now hazard a guess as to how Laylee inherited her good looks.) Maman was courted by nearly every person brave enough to fight for her affection, and though she did not hate her beauty, she hated being defined by it, so she dismissed every suitor just as quickly as they came.
But Baba was different.
He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was a man who lived to get lost in emotion, and he was desperate to be in love. After learning that Maman worked at her family’s dental practice, he made a plan. Every day—for just over a month—he paid to have a tooth pulled just to be able to spend time with her. He’d lie back and listen to her talk while she extracted healthy teeth from his open mouth, and each day he would stumble home bloody and aching and thoroughly, hopelessly in love. It was only after he’d run out of teeth that Maman finally fell for him, and though Baba was proud of their unusual courtship, Laylee found their story to be inexpressibly stupid, and it took no small amount of coaxing to convince her to share this memory.
I hope you are pleased.
In any case, Baba seemed a hopeless case. Laylee loathed and adored Baba with a great urgency, and though she thought fondly of their early years together, she also blamed him for being so recently careless. He was a man who felt too much, and his heart was so large that things got lost in it. Laylee knew she was an important part of him, but with so much in this world competing for his attention, the space she took up was disappointingly small.
And so it was there—cold and curled up on the toilet floor, clutching silvered fingers and pressing her lips together to keep from crying—that Laylee heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.
Laylee flew out the bathroom door and into the hall. Her eyes darted around in search of damage, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the tiniest prickle of fear. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
Curiously, Maman’s ghost was nowhere to be found. Laylee peered over the banister to the floor below, squinting to see where Maman might’ve gone, but the house was still. Alarmingly so.
And then: whispers.
Laylee snapped to attention and sharpened her ears, listening closely for any signs of danger. The whispers were rushed and rough—angry?—and it was only a moment longer before she realized the sounds were coming from her own bedroom. Her heart was beating faster now; fear and anticipation had collided within her and she was heady with an unusual kind of excitement. Nothing so mysterious had ever happened to her before, and she was surprised to find how much she liked it.
Laylee tiptoed toward her bedroom with graceful stealth, but when she pushed open the door to her room, eager to apprehend the intruder, Laylee was so startled by what she saw that she screamed, scrambled backward, and stubbed her toe so badly she screamed twice more.
“Please—don’t be frightened—”
But Laylee was horrified. She fell back against the banister and tried to steady the rise and fall of her chest, but she was so untethered by the rush of these many rusty emotions that she couldn’t gather the words to respond. Laylee had been expecting a renegade corpse, a rampaging ghost, perhaps a disturbed flock of geese—but no—most unexpected—
There was a boy in her room.
He was a pathetic-looking creature, half frozen, quickly melting, and generally drenched from head to toe. Worse: He was dripping dirty water all over her floor. Laylee was still too stunned to speak. He’d followed her into the hall, hands up, pleading with his eyes, and yet—he also appeared to be studying her. It was only when Laylee realized he was looking curiously at her hair that she reunited with her senses and ran downstairs.
Laylee snatched a poker from the fireplace before grabbing for her fringed scarf, throwing it over her head and securing it tightly around her neck. Her hands were shaking—shaking! so strange!—and she’d only just begun to brace herself for a fight when she heard the voice of someone new.
She spun around, breathing hard.
This time, it was a girl who stood facing her—also sopping wet—and it was the most peculiar-looking girl Laylee had ever seen. More confounding: The girl was not only shivering and clutching at her wet arms, she also appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“I’m so desperately sorry Oliver is an idiot,” said the girl all at once, “but please don’t be frightened. We’re not here to harm you, I swear it.”
Of this harmlessness, Laylee was beginning to feel certain.
The girl who stood before her was pocket-sized; she looked too delicate to be real. In fact, if Laylee hadn’t already been acquainted with so many ghosts, she might’ve confused this stranger for a spirit. Her skin was a shocking shade of white, the same white as her hair, her eyebrows, and the flutter of thick, snow-bright lashes that framed her light brown irises—these, her only feature that held any color. She was an odd-looking person for the land of Whichwood, where the people were renowned for their golden-brown skin and rich, jewel-toned eyes. Laylee couldn’t help but be curious about this unusual girl.
Her panic slowly subsiding, Laylee slackened her grip around the poker. More than curious—there was something kind about this stranger, and though Laylee did not think of herself as a kind person, she was still rather fond of kindness itself. In any case, she was intrigued; it had been a very long time since she’d met another girl her own age.
“Who are you?” Laylee finally said, her voice rough from a lack of use.
“My name is Alice,” said the girl, and smiled.
Laylee felt a tug at her heart; old habits encouraged her to smile back, but Laylee refused, choosing to frown instead. She cleared the cobwebs from her throat and said, “And why have you broken into my home?”
Alice looked away, embarrassed. “Oliver was the one who broke the window. I’m so sorry about that. I told him we should knock—that we should come inside the normal way—but we were so desperately cold that he insisted we go a more direct route and—”
“Oliver is the boy?”
Alice nodded.
“Where has he gone?” Laylee looked over Alice’s head, searching for a glimpse of him.
“He’s hiding,” said Alice. “I think he’s afraid you’re going to kill him.”
Laylee stopped searching and instead raised an eyebrow. She felt her lips twitch and again quashed the urge to smile.
“Might we please stay awhile?” said Alice timidly. “It’s been a very long journey and we’re dreadfully tired. It took forever to find you, you know.”
Laylee clenched her fist around the poker again. “Find me?” she said. “Why did you want to find me?”
Alice blinked. “Well, we came to help you, of course.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laylee. “How do you intend to help me?”
“Well, I’m”—Alice hesitated—“actually, I’m not really sure,” she said, twisting her wet hair in her fingers. A small puddle was forming at her feet. “It’s rather a long story. In fact—in fact I should probably tell you that we’re not from here. We come from another village, called Ferenwood. You’ve probably never heard of Ferenwood, but it’s ano—”
“Of course I know of Ferenwood,” Laylee snapped. She hadn’t had as much schooling as most children, but she wasn’t stupid. “We study the many magical lands in our second year.”
Alice’s face went impossibly paler. “There are other magical lands? But I’ve only just learned about you.”
Laylee was unmoved. This girl was either very stupid or just pretending to be stupid, and Laylee couldn’t decide which was worse.
“Well, anyway,” Alice rushed on, wringing her hands, “we have a Surrender every year where we perform our magical talents in exchange for a task, and—and anyhow, I’ve been tasked to you.”
This, Laylee did not understand.
It took several minutes of explaining what, exactly, went into a Surrender (this was a magical coming-of-age ceremony specific to Ferenwood) and the mechanics of a task (the purpose of which was always to help someone or someplace in need), and by the end of it, Laylee was not only irritated, she was annoyed, and she wanted Alice to go home.
“I will not accept your pity,” said Laylee. “You’re wasting your time.”
“But—”
“Take your friend and leave me be. I’ve had a very long day and I’ve more to do in the morning and I cannot be distracted by your”—she frowned and waved a dismissive hand—“bizarre offer of charity.”
“No—please,” Alice said quickly, “you must understand: I wouldn’t have been sent here if you didn’t have a problem I could fix! If you would only tell me what’s wrong with you, maybe I could—”
“What’s wrong with me?” said Laylee, astounded.
“Well, I don’t mean”—Alice laughed nervously—“of course I didn’t mean that there was anything wrong with you—”
“Good grief, Alice. Ruined things already, have you?” Oliver had appeared at her side with such silent swiftness he startled both girls at once.
“What are you doing here?” Laylee said angrily, turning to aim the poker in his direction. “Who are you people?”
“We’re here to fix what ails you, apparently,” said Oliver with a smile. “Alice is very smooth, isn’t she? Quite the charmer.”
Laylee, confused, dropped the poker for just a second. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Ah,” said Oliver, raising an eyebrow. “I see we’ve already lost our sense of humor.”
“Oliver, please!” Alice cried. “Just be quiet!”
Laylee, who’d had quite enough of this nonsense, narrowed her eyes and clenched the poker and the next thing she knew she was making up beds for her guests and asking them if they’d like anything to drink. A great fire was blazing on the hearth, and the castle felt warm and cozy like it hadn’t in years. Laylee was always loath to light a fire (as it was a costly indulgence), and she’d spent all year carefully amassing a steady supply of firewood; the most frigid winter nights were yet to come, and she was planning to ration what she had to last the snowy season. Now she smiled at the dancing flames, only partly understanding that these strangers had used up her entire store in a single evening, and she sighed, wondering—with great tenderness—how best to kill them for it.
Alice and Oliver were now nice and dry. Their heavy coats had been hung by the fire and, thanks to the great and crackling blaze, were nearly rid of any remaining damp. Oliver seemed pleased. Alice, however, was looking newly terrified, shooting worried glances at Laylee (who was studying her hands, trying to determine left from right), tugging at her companion’s shirt, and hissing, “Stop this, Oliver! You stop it right now!”
Laylee blinked.
“She’s perfectly fine, Alice! There’s no need for hysterics.”
“If you don’t stop this right now—”
“But she won’t let us stay any other way! Besides, she’d have stuck you nice and bloody with that poker if it weren’t for me—”
Laylee tilted her head, distracted by a spot on the wall. Dimly, she wondered who these people were.
“This is my task, Oliver Newbanks, and you will do as I say. And it’s no fault of mine that she wanted to stick me with a poker! Maybe if you hadn’t decided to break her bedroom window—”
“It was freezing outside!”
“Oh, I swear it, Oliver, if you ruin this for me, I will never forgive you, not ever!”
“Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m only doing it bec—”
Laylee inhaled so quickly she felt her head spin. Slowly, very slowly, she felt the blood rush back into her brain. She rubbed at her eyes and squinted them open, blinking carefully in the intense glow of the fire, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make sense of what she saw. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, and she couldn’t understand who’d allowed these strangers to set up quarters in her living room.
And then all at once, her senses returned.
She spun around, searching for her makeshift weapon, when Oliver cried, “Laylee—please!”
And she slowed.
She was almost afraid to ask how he knew her name.
He was holding up his hands in mock surrender, and Laylee felt she could hold off trying to kill this boy for at least long enough to get a good look at him.
His hair was silver like hers, but in a way that seemed natural. And his eyes—a shade of blue so rich they were nearly violet—were striking against his brown skin. Everything about him was sharp and polished (and handsome) and the longer she looked at him, the more she felt a sudden, fluttering thrill in her heart, and she was so unsettled by the sensation she nearly hit him with the poker just to be rid of it.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” he said. “Please—”
“You can’t stay here.” Laylee cut him off, nervous anger flaming her cheeks. “You’re not allowed to be here.”
“I know—I know it’s not ideal to host a pair of guests you’ve never met, but if we could just explain—”
“No,” Laylee said heavily, struggling to stay calm, “you don’t understand. This home is protected by ancient magic. Only a mordeshoor may find refuge here.”
Neither Alice nor Oliver appeared to be bothered by this revelation. Oliver, for his part, was still staring
at Laylee, transfixed. “What’s a mordeshoor?”
“It’s what I am. It’s the name given to those of us who wash the dead and package their bodies for the Otherwhere. We are mordeshoors.”
“Goodness, that seems just awful,” said Alice, patting Laylee’s arm and looking overly sympathetic. Laylee bristled, snatching her arm away at once, but Alice didn’t seem to notice; instead, she gestured to a chair. “Would you mind if I sat down?”
“You must leave,” said Laylee sharply. “Now.”
“Don’t you worry about us,” Oliver said with a smile. “We’ll be fine—we’re not afraid of a few dead people. We just need a warm place to rest awhile.”
Laylee rolled her eyes so hard she nearly snapped a nerve. “You will not be fine, you fool. You have no protection here. You won’t survive the night.”
Alice finally showed a flicker of fear. “Why not?” she asked quietly. “What would happen?”
Laylee dragged her eyes over to Alice. “The ghosts of the freshly dead are always terrified to cross over—they’d much rather cling to the human life they know. But a spirit can only exist in the human world when it’s wearing human skin.” She leveled them both with a dark look. “If you stay here, they will harvest your flesh. They will make suits of your skin as you sleep and leave you rotting in your own blood.”
Alice clapped both hands over her mouth.
“This is precisely why I exist,” said Laylee. “The process of washing the body calms the wandering spirit; when the body crosses over, so too will the ghost.”
(Maman, you will note, was an exception to this rule; I promise to explain the particulars at a quieter time.)
Alice pinched Oliver in the shoulder. “Do you see now?” She pinched him again. “Do you see what you nearly did? You nearly killed us with your cheating! Skin suits, indeed!”
