'Tongue of the dead?' I repeat, my mouth feeling suddenly dirty. 'I feel violated.'

Hadrian gives me a Look.

'Such natural talent wasted on an ingrate,' he murmurs, rolling his eyes. I put my hands on my hips and give him a Glare.

'Well?' I demand. 'What do we do now?'

Hadrian gestures to the boy's body, where the soul is still hovering near his body. 'This is my part. The part where I have this mask that makes this task really easy...'

I put a hand to my forehead. Through gritted teeth I say, 'I get it. Now what?'

He narrows his eyes. 'I have to concentrate. Shush.'

I bristle; shushing me in this mood is not one of his better ideas. But, with lack of anything to do, I turn on my heel and head towards my father.

There's a bead of sweat running down his neck as he presses a cooling towel to an old man's forehead. He's murmuring something to him— I have to get closer to listen, but I'm still in awe that he can't see me even when I'm standing right behind him. From his kneeling position, I see the fine grey hairs starting to speckle his head, the thinning top patch where he will probably one day be bald. My father— growing old. I forget that I'd only ever seen him as infallible, healthy, even when he was hungover after a long night.

You can't bounce back from age.

His tremor isn't as bad when he puts the cloth back into a bucket, rinses it, and reapplies. His quiet conversation is intriguing me; enough that I come to kneel by his side.

Neither the old man nor my father look at me. After all, I'm just a ghost. But I look at them; I see the old man's soul, and I see my father's.

I don't want to look closely. I'm not sure if I'm ready to see.

Then the old man speaks. 'What was she like?'

My father pauses to think.

'She was warmth in the bitter of winter,' he replies. He wrings the cloth, pats down the man's shoulders with the cool flannel. 'So spirited. Far more spirited than I ever was, and so, so clever. Reckon half the lads would have kissed her feet just to take her on a date.'

I raise my eyebrows, almost tempted to laugh. My mother? Spirited? And she's cunning, not clever.

The old man chuckles, his gaze far above the ceiling he's looking at. 'My wife was like that. Many years we had together, right up until fall four years ago. My best friend, my greatest love and my soulmate— snuffed out, just like that. The first few weeks, they were as predicted: well-wishers, mourners, flowers everywhere. It's the afterwards they don't warn you about. The cold nights alone, the early morning daybreak never as bright. Everyone else moves on, the world forgets. But you never forget.'

Splash— the cloth returns to the bucket. My father squeezes it out again, and dabs down the man's arms. The old man sighs in relief.

My father says, 'I'll never forget Ness or my Nate.'

Pure sorrow— that's his expression as he concentrates on tending to the old man. I would have preferred an arrow through my gut, that's how hard his emotion hits me. Spirited and clever hadn't been my mother— he'd been talking about me. Telling his patients about me. Guilt roils in my stomach, a reminder that I'd caused him this pain, me and my obsession with revenge.

My father carries on. 'I never knew her, not really. I failed my kind and beautiful son, and I took to drowning my sorrows, betting away my life in the hope I might gamble back his. They were both terrible solutions, but there was no light for me. What I should have noticed was that in my anguish, I failed my daughter too.'

I cough, hiding a sob within it. The tears that prick my eyes are gone immediately; I wipe them away even when there's nobody to see them.

What's worse is the old man touches my father's arm in comfort. 'You couldn't have known.'

Clenching the cloth, my father shrugs away his consolation. 'I should have. I should have known what she planned, known what she was going to do...she was always reckless. But she could take care of herself. My mistake was believing that she didn't need me anymore. This is how I will make amends...to those that are still living.'

My mouth opens, closes. My voice is too weak to speak, and even if I did, he wouldn't hear. So I stand on shaking legs and leave my father and his patient, and I keep walking. I cut through the busy ward and the dying and the dead, the clamour of souls causing chaos in my skull. I keep walking until I'm out the door, and only cool air is my companion.

I let out a deep, shuddering breath. The night is quiet, and the noise from inside seems distant compared to the empty street and the chirping of insects. Only now do I sink to the ground and hug my knees, letting the sadness wash over me.

I'm not sure how long I've been there when I hear, 'Nerissa? Ness!'

Hands grab me, panicked— and Hadrian drags me to my feet. He looks me over and, seeing that I'm alright, lets out the breath he'd been holding.

'You scared me,' he says, still clutching my arms. He notices his tight grip and, reddening, apologises and lets me go, stepping away hastily.

'I'm sorry,' I say, but I'm conscious of how red my eyes must be. Hadrian goes very quiet, peering at me.

'Is there anything I can do?' he asks.

I shake my head.

'Was it— your father—?'

I nod.

Another second passes by. My feet look remarkably interesting.

Arms enclose around me, pulling me tightly against a warm chest.

'I'm sorry,' Hadrian's voice rumbles around me.

I raise my arms and wrap them around his back. I rest my forehead against him, until there's only the soothing sound of his breathing and the blackness of my closed eyes. His chin rests atop my head and we stay wrapped like that for minutes. Maybe hours. I'm not sure.

Finally, I pull away and give him a grateful smile. 'Did you manage to...do whatever it is you do to that boy's soul?'

'I cut them. And no, it seems he really does need to know whether his sister is alright before he'll leave his body behind.'

I bite my lip in thought. 'So how do we find her? She could be anywhere.'

'I have no idea...' Hadrian cringes. 'My mask can normally see threads. That is, I can see the ties that will be binding his soul here, and I simply follow them. Without it...'

I shrug. 'We'll just have to do it the good old-fashioned human way.'

Hadrian looks at me quizzically. 'Which is...?'

I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, pointing back at the hospital. 'We look through his files.'

Turns out, the files are a mess. What might have been an organised folder has become a stream of papers and torn-out sheets, scribbled writing and half attempts to keep track. The sickness has struck so many, and the workers are so few. We spy several ones before giving up.

'Now what?' Hadrian lets out a long breath. 'We can't leave him here. He's not likely to be harmful, but he could be manipulated or turn twisted...'

As Hadrian starts naming all the different classes of what are essentially ghosts, I think of another idea. One I'm sure Hadrian won't like.

'How do I take on corporeal form?' I interrupt him, mid-sentence.

Hadrian counts to ten. Then says, 'What are you planning?'

I tell him, in light detail, of my idea.

'No,' he protests. 'It's too risky...'

I lift an eyebrow and settle with my most confrontational stare. 'Really? Because it's never been done before, you mean?'

His mouth snaps shut and he gives me an exasperated look. Beneath it, though, I can see his arguments rising and falling away, assessed and invalidated. Then, shaking his head in wonder, mutters, 'I can't believe what you get me roped into...willingly.'

I give him a bright smile. 'Neither can I.'

And so, I wait for the moment to catch my father alone.

Sometime in the early morning, my father pulls on a threadbare coat and staggers from the hospital.

He's bone tired. The air is cool and crisp, and the ground cracks as he steps wearily along it. The night is blackness, and there are no streetlamps to guide him. Aside from the moon, which hangs low and yellow in the inky sky, he's in the dark.

He sets off at an abrupt pace, the cold making his legs work with efficiency to get home quicker. I calculate how far he must walk— several blocks at least. The houses around are decimated: I note white outlines of crosses marking doors, others are open, doors unhinged, the property stripped of any value. A frown puckers my face. This area wasn't the worst for poverty, and I'd never seen anything like it.

What is going on here?

Into the silence, a bird lets out a hooting call. My father pulls up his coat, shielding it around him, and for the first time I see him glance around.

He considers the shadows behind him, squinting in suspicion. He looks right through me.

Somewhere nearby, Hadrian is following us, and I can sense him darting along the rooftops. I take a deep breath and, before my father can move on, I become visible.

The requirements blare through my head.

You must be connected to the earth. I stand barefoot.

Then, project your soul into your surroundings. Doing this will leave you vulnerable...

I push that knowing light in my body around, so that I share it with my environment.

...but visible.

My father's face changes. From tired to alert, curious to shock. He blinks at me, and I think he's about to run. Surely, seeing a ghost will make you run.

He doesn't run.

He looks at me, his daughter, and realises that she's not quite as corporeal as she used to be, and that there's a pale shimmer around her, and that what he's seeing might not be real. He doesn't believe his eyes.

But he wants to.

He steps forward. 'Nerissa...?'

'D-Dad,' I choke.

He runs.

Not away.

Towards me.

The hug he pulls me into isn't the solid, enveloping hug that humans can have. My body is just an imprint, taking up space in the world, and so he feels nothing but pressure. I'm not the things a daughter should be. I'm not kind, I'm not warm, and I'm not really here.

But I feel him. My father is warm and his back has that same comfort, and he smells of home.

Home.

For a moment, for a heartbeat, I'm back. I'm in the kitchen, Dad cooking bacon— one of his sober days. We laugh. The radio is crackling a lively song, and we dance around to it, Dad waving a spatula and I'm singing along, belting out of tune.

Then I remember I didn't choose that.

'You're—' he sobs. 'You're— are you okay? Wherever you are?'

I pull back. Nod. 'Truly,' I whisper, before realising that it's true.

'You're happy?'

'Yes,' I smile, and it seems to be the most reassuring response for him.

'I've never seen you smile like that,' he remarks, looking me up and down. 'I've never seen you look so...'

His return smile is infinitely sad. '...alive.'

I take his hand, and give it a reassuring squeeze. I'm not sure whether he feels much, but to me, I feel like a little girl once more, strong and brave with her father by her side.

'I need your help,' I explain, and the seriousness of my tone makes Dad's eyebrows clench together.

'Anything,' he says.

'It's a long story, but the little boy that just died in your hospital...' I pause, waiting for my father's response.

'There are too many children who died tonight alone, Nessa. What did he look like?'

I try to explain what he looks like, where his bed is.

He ponders for a moment and then seems to understand.

'That's Yohan, I'm sure...' he sighs. 'This autumn flu is horrendous, Nerissa. Is this your doing? Your...husband's?'

My eyes widen. 'You believe in the Lord of the Underworld?'

'My daughter was never one of faith, nor servitude...' my father laughs. 'You're clever. Cunning. I contemplated what might have led you to seek out Death, and my only conclusion is that you didn't just believe he existed...but you knew.'

I shrug. 'Well, now I feel predictable.'

'It took me a long while.'

'Either way, this isn't us,' I glance out at the houses, the "X" marked doors and the charred cinders of piles of belongings burned within the streets.

'It's not natural, Nessa,' Dad presses a hand to his head, shaking. 'First, it's just a cold. Like the flu, except...the throat turns into boils, and they swell, making it hard to breathe. Your gut is filled with these growths and it's painful. You get constipation, because everything's swollen and blocked. Then the growths spread. Some people get it in their liver, and they go all yellow. Others get it in their bones, and some in their heart or lungs, and they normally have it good. Go down real quick.'

My father physically, outwardly shudders, clutching his arms. 'The rest...the rest die slowly. In agony. The ones who get it in their brain, they hallucinate. Go mad. And then...for the ones that are still unlucky to be alive...'

I wait as he inhales, steadying himself.

'Those growths, those boils...they erupt. Often at once, so that blood just fills every crevice, every organ, and they drown in their own blood and pus and gore.'

The taste of bile rises in my mouth, and I fight it down. My hand flies to my mouth, and I step back. What kind of flu is this?

'You can't go back to that hospital, Father,' I say. 'Please. Get yourself somewhere safe.'

'Ain't nowhere safe, Nessa. The plague's spread across the whole city. Nobles too. No cure.'

The word plague set chills along my spine.

'I promised, the day you died, that I wouldn't waste my life as well as yours,' Dad continues. 'I can't abandon those patients now. I can't save them, but I can ease their suffering.'

I look down at the ground, forcing away the anger, the demands, the yelling. I'm scared for him. I want to shout until he understands.

But I didn't choose this.

He has nothing to lose in helping now.

He places a hand on my ethereal shoulder, and asks kindly, 'What did you need my help with?'

I clear my throat, clogged with emotion. 'Yohan...he can't rest his spirit until he finds out what happened to his younger sister...'

I fill my father in, as quickly and simply as I can, about Yohan's family situation. I tell him that he believes his mother was badly hurt and then left for dead as a "flu patient", and that Yohan's protests got him the same treatment. His sister, Bella, is presumably still alive and with their father.

Dad's face crumples. 'I had no idea...Poor, poor child. But that's alright, I can give you Yohan's neighbourhood. You can ask around there.'

Dad takes out a scrap piece of paper from his jacket pocket and then fishes out a pen from another, sketching down a makeshift map. He hands it to me, and I squint at it, letting my bearings settle. Yohan's neighbourhood isn't far. Before I can thank him, my dad coughs and continues, 'Folk won't open up if I'm around, though. They know I'm a nurse at the hospital, and they think I'll be contagious. Best if I wait for the results of your search.'

I nod once more, afraid now that our conversation had come to an end. Dad, sensing the same, ruffles my hair.

'Go on, go do you,' he says, and I swear there's pride in his voice. 'Go and help Yohan...but make sure you come back before you leave.'

I can't stop myself. The word falls out of my mouth, unchecked. 'Why?'

'Because,' he says, turning away, 'This time I want a proper goodbye.'

A/N: Hey guys, long time no write! Did you like this chapter of Ness's reunion with her dad? Y/N/ don't care?

lots of love

Larissa