"My tears are transparent. There is nothing special about them." Her hope was squashed, and everyone resumed their work. I had no intention of telling her a lie. The dead deserve the truth.

I was barely getting some kind of answer for Grimm's wings. But I know my father's books have a solution. I know they do. Dark magic breaks all the laws of controlled magic. But translating Latin was not my specialty. It was tedious work. Between my nightmares of my mother's and Matias' death, and my thirst for revenge. My mind was all over the place. Thinking of too many things at the same time.

None of the souls seemed to know about this, they probably saw a weeping girl who easily made more friends with the dead than the living. The truth was that having voices inside your head can often feel like a hallucination, a creation of my deepest fears. Except they proved me wrong every time they predicted a death. The voices—the spirits—felt unreal. At least the dead were once living beings and were kinder. But I suppose death can be a humbling experience.

The young girl attended my nails, her posture slouching as she felt defeated. How many times have I sat in the same position? Too many times to count. "What's your name?" Her gaze flickered toward mine. "Maggie." She answered.

Once Beth stopped putting blush on my cheeks and the older woman finished adding another bobby pin into my hair, I leaned in speaking low enough for only her to hear. "I'll talk to him and see if there is anything that can be done about the Restless but I don't want you to expect something will happen. Now, tell me, who is down there that you know?" She was brimming with watery eyes.

"Don't cry," I said sternly. "You don't have to cry anymore." From the corner of my eye, I could see Dilara raising a brow.

Maggie held her tears back but her voice wobbled. "My mother. She is there." She talks about her. She tells me about the notes she would always leave her. On the fridge, on the table, and the mirrors. Maggie was forgetful, always needing to be reminded about her keys or what she had to do for the day. Slowly, the threatening tears were washed away and replaced by a glowing memory. Her mother always signed her notes off with an I love you. As if she needed to be reminded that her mother loved her. A mother's greatest worry is if their child knows they love them.

Beth picks up after Maggie, she starts talking about her sister and what they did together when they were children. Her sister, Diana, was older by five years and Beth idolized her. She followed her and always tried to keep up with her. There was a time Beth put herself inside her sister's suitcase because she was leaving for college. Unfortunately for her, she didn't fit. Everyone laughed and Dilara too.

After they quieted, Beth said full of nostalgia. "I want to go back to when I was eight and she was thirteen. When she found me tolerable and showered me with attention. I want to be sisters again."

I couldn't help but think about how briefly I was a sister too. Matias, who lived for fifteen days, was robbed of having hopes and dreams. They took him from me, and they took away memories I could have had. They left me with nothing.

The reminiscent memories kept the souls going, few began to speak about their loved ones. The mood was a mix of sorrow and freeing bliss for remembering the life they once lived. They looked happy. A sting of jealousy crawled in my throat, how lucky they were to go with their loved ones while I couldn't yet, because it wasn't right to end my life. I should get to choose when I'll die. Death will not decide for me, it is my life.

Those thoughts slipped away into the murky waters of my mind as the spirits did. The souls talked, and I listened. Still, they were a couple who walked with wariness and spoke with hesitation.

Marcus, one of the souls, was pulling the drawers open as he arranged necklaces and earrings trying to figure out which one went best with. He spoke about his father being terrible at fishing. He accidentally caught Marcus' cheek by the hook. He ended up needing stitches but he smiled at the memory. Few giggled.

He then said, "I don't know where I am going after today, but I hope there is a lake. My father promised me he would be there with cooked fish. Being dead has made me hungrier. I hope we never run out of fish." He was anxious to see him.

Beth sprayed my face, and Maggie added the last layer of black nail polish to my pinkie. The older woman, who kept her silence was done too but before I could see myself in the mirror she spun the chair. "Not yet. You must put on your dress." She swiftly turned and I begrudgingly followed her.

I passed Dilara who was almost done as well. I caught a quick glimpse and she looked stunning. The dress racks were pushed through the walk-in closet. It was spacious with a tilting full-length mirror in the center and tall wooden cabinets built into the walls. An amethyst and obsidian necklace and earrings set was luxuriously arranged. Cut into stars and deeply enriched by the dark purple color.

The older woman opened a double compartment door and reached for a concealed dress. I frowned, looking at the racks of dresses. "I thought I was going to wear one of these dresses."

She walked back over, carrying the unseen dress. "None of those will work for you."

I crossed my arms. "I highly doubt it." She acted strangely, and yet, her quietness and rude remarks felt familiar. "If you are trying to sabotage me by making me wear a ridiculous dress it won't work. My grandmother often told me I made rags look like silk." More like spider silk.

"I'm glad to know she fed your confidence as all devoted grandmothers do." She carefully revealed the dress as she unzipped it. Ruffles poured out like a waterfall of blue and purple. Black sheer lace was layered over it. The upper part of the dress was shaped into a corset and had a squared neckline with long sleeves. It was embroidered with beaded shaped-stars in black. It was ethereal.

The old woman placed the dress on my arms. "Everyone can be pretty. Not everyone can be powerful." And she turned away, waiting for me. I took off the robe I wore and slipped into the dress. She was certainly an unsettling old woman.

"What's your name?" I said as I pushed my arm into one of the sleeves. Her feet shuffled toward me and felt her cool fingers as she pulled the strings tightening my waist. "Stop frowning, you'll wrinkle your beauty."

I scowled. "I'll do as I want." She picked up the necklace and enclosed it around my neck. "Are you going to tell me your name?" I asked.

"If I tell you my name, will you cry for me?" There was a hint of mockery. Before she could put my earrings on, I swiftly turned and took them from her hand. "You think you are worth my tears? You died long ago, your mourning period has passed." I snapped.

If she didn't want to tell me her name, then all she had to do was not tell me. The old woman with fraying gray streaks in her hair did not look surprised or hurt. Her lips were slightly curved. "Good girl. Know your value." Why this old ghost was trying to give me a headache was unknown but I felt as if I knew her.

I rolled my eyes and finally, faced the mirror.

My eyes were darkened with eyeshadow and shimmer specs of glitter. The rest of my features were sharpened and my lips were a gloss of berries. My hair had curled and styled in an updo, but a few strands of hair were left out to frame my face. My lunares still were there, my skin didn't look sickly or my hair dull. But something was bothering me—the necklace or my throat was suffocating me—then I realized what was making my heart hurt.

I looked like my mother. I hadn't expected to see her. The image of her dying constantly played in my head as if it were a frozen picture. It took away everything that made my mother, my mother. She was resilient despite the tears she cried, she was stronger than me. She was not afraid of herself. She was the true definition of confidence. Never once had I seen the spirits break her.

They never broke her.

Tears welled up and I forced myself to look at the ceiling, I couldn't ruin Beth's precious work.

"You look like a queen." The older woman praised but I laughed curtly as the lump in my throat was pushed down. She was a horrible comedian. I was an imposter at best, the dress and jewels helped me look the part but I had no qualities of a queen. From all that I have learned about my mother's and father's families, they knew how to survive. They knew how to fight. I could barely handle a day with myself.

I hugged my waist and looked over toward the black rhinestone heels. "Have seen queens cry?" That is all I could say.

There was a pause, and she placed her hand on my shoulder. I met her gaze as I met a distant well-lived life, like a reflection in the water. The spirits murmured intangible words, drifting back and forth with ease. 

"No, but you're the first to do so in public. You're forgetting most queens don't have the power you have. Your tears come from the sea, and if anybody knew better they would not make you cry." I lifted a brow. "You do not have the luxury to look down. The crown is too heavy for it to fall. And expensive. Look ahead, Crier." She said, fiercely.

I knew her from somewhere, and if I could see her real face and real voice, I would know.

Instead, I said, "Why are you telling me this?" Why do you feel familiar?

She slipped her hand from my shoulder and neatly folded her hands. "Because I see your hunger for blood. You're The Vengeful Queen not The Queen of Tears."

My tears were a warning, for what would come.

"You have power. Now, go be powerful."