Morrígan placed the bottles and vials inside a glass cabinet beside the bed, locking the tiny doors. “Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said. “Anyway, I better get back to my studies, Darragh. There might be some scarring there, so try not to touch it for the next few days.”

Darragh looked down at his hand, eyes opened wide in amazement. “Wow, that was fast! Thanks, Morrígan!”

He took a step towards her, stuffing his newly healed hand into his trouser pocket. He shuffled for a bit, as if in hesitation, and then finally pulled out a long silver chain. Staring at his feet, he held the chain out to her.

His face turned red as he stammered. “I… I know it’s not much, and I know you and Yarlaith don’t normally ask for anything… but I wanted you to have this.”

Oh, what now? Morrígan took the chain in her own hand. The links were heavy, but delicate and intricately designed with silver inlays of swirls and spirals. At the end hung a small pendant of three interlocking circles, each dotted with tiny stones of blue, red, and gold.

“It’s the symbol of the Trinity,” said Darragh, stating the obvious as usual. “It used to be my mother’s, before she left.”

Although she was eager to return to her uncle, Morrígan found herself transfixed on the necklace.

It used to be his mother’s? She had never really given much thought as to why Darragh lived with his father.

“Darragh, what happened to your mother?”

The boy looked away, the colour fading from his chubby red cheeks. “I don’t know. I never knew.” He paused, eyes glancing past hers. “One day, when I was little, I came home from my reading lesson with your uncle, but when I went to look for my ma’ in the house, she was just gone. I found my da’, alone in their bedroom, crying and drunk, and nothing he said made much sense. He just kept saying that it’d just be the two of us. Then it was just up to us to look after the shop, and I’ve never heard anything else about her since.”

Morrígan’s first reaction was to sneer, to say, Oh, at least your mother isn’t dead, but she stopped herself. Ever since her own mother died, she had thought her own lot was far worse than anyone else’s. Sorcha’s mother had died peacefully, and Taigdh’s parents were just off with his grandmother in Point Grey. Their grief and sadness couldn’t possibly compare to hers, who still had to live with the image of the mountain troll etched into her mind.

But Darragh’s situation was different. Worse, even. His mother didn’t get sick. His mother wasn’t murdered. She had made the sober, calculated decision to abandon her husband and son. And somehow that seemed a far crueller fate than being smashed against the ground by a blood-crazed beast of the Glenn. Morrígan’s mother was just up in the plains of Tierna Meall, waiting for her, as the others would say, but what about Darragh’s? Sure, she could be dead somewhere too. But what if she had just moved on? What if she was somewhere else with a new lover, living a happy life without sparing a thought for the little boy she had left without saying goodbye?

Morrígan tried to picture herself in Darragh’s shoes, but she couldn’t. Instead, something stirred in the back of her mind. It no longer seemed so bad to be left without parents, as long as she remembered that her mother always loved her. Her memory drifted back to the words of the Simian after her mother’s funeral: As long as you remember your mother, a piece of her will live forever. Looking back, it seemed like an eternity ago. Before Mrs. Mhurichú got sick. Before the mages came. Before she found out about her uncle’s caves—

Her gaze flashed towards the trap door in her uncle’s study. For just a moment, she had forgotten that down there, her mother was finally ready to be brought back from the dead.

“Sorry, Darragh, but I really have to go. Thanks for the gift.”

And she was gone, leaving the butcher’s son behind the firmly shut door to the study. The key was already in place, and she carefully twisted it, locking the door without making a sound. As soon as she heard Darragh leave, she descended down into the damp, bloody caves.

Once her feet touched the ground, it all came back to her. The hard work she and Yarlaith had gone through, the hours she had put in, down in the darkness, researching, studying, experimenting…. All it took was a stupid necklace to distract her from the fact that they were on the verge of changing the world. With a spring in her step, she made her way to her uncle’s chamber.

As she turned the final corner and saw her mother laid out in the same spot she had been in all year, the words of the butcher’s son were entirely forgotten.

This was what it meant to conquer death, to take control of the Lord’s gift, to wield more power than the Gods themselves.

Yarlaith was busy shuffling through pages of notes on his desk. Beside them, the tiny Simian weapon lay dismantled. It was a simple device, and elegant in its design. Yarlaith had been fascinated with its mechanisms when Morrígan first presented it to him. With the pull of a switch, it caused a tiny flint hammer on its surface to strike a tiny flint anvil, creating a spark in the same manner as a Pyromancer’s rings. However, instead of using magic to manipulate and expand the flame, the spark ignited a strange powder inside the device, causing a small explosion that expelled whatever else was inside the chamber. When Morrígan had found it, there was just one little metal bead there, and just enough powder for one shot. Yarlaith had been thrilled with his findings, but Morrígan was unimpressed.

One weapon, one shot. Even our crossbows are more efficient.

The Crown had nothing to worry about, Morrígan reckoned, for Simian technology was far from ever competing with their magic.

“You’re late,” said Yarlaith. He held an envelope over a candle, letting its flame devour the paper.

“What’s that?” asked Morrígan. The envelope was addressed to Yarlaith, written in a crooked scrawl.

Her uncle closed his eyes tightly in response. “A letter… from the Academy. They wanted an update on my work, but its best that I pretend it never arrived.”

Morrígan watched as he turned the letter to ash.

If he wants to pretend it never arrived, then why bother burning it?

Part of her wanted to pry further, but she had more important things on her mind. “I’m ready, Yarlaith. I’m ready to bring back Mother.”

The healer glanced up at Morrígan. For half a second, she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes.

“We only have one chance at this, Morrígan.” Yarlaith extinguished the candle and stood. “We can’t turn back now.”

We, he kept saying, as if they were a team. Morrígan knew all the spells, all about the Nature of Necromancy, but Yarlaith was the one who called the shots, no matter how many times he used the word “we.”

Morrígan slowly stepped back as Yarlaith paced around her mother. White robes, mottled and damp, swung in heavy strides as he walked. When he reached the head of the slab, he paused and turned, eyeing Morrígan from over his foggy glasses. His hands shook; his brow furrowed. Slowly, the old man placed his hands on the stone. He took a deep breath, turned his head upwards, and closed his eyes.

Then there was silence. Not even the rats stirred. The trickling of running water all around them seemed to have stopped, as if the whole world had paused to witness the end of death.

Morrígan knew what her uncle’s mind was going through behind those closed eyes. She knew that he was focusing on every part of the dead woman’s body, from where her muscles were bound to bones, to the blood that ran through her veins. Yarlaith seemed much older now than he had before, back when Morrígan had last seen him in the light of day.

His lips pursed, moving slightly in whisper. His brow narrowed further, and his eyes began to twitch, as if in a dream. Then, his body jerked.

A long, low moan escaped his mouth. It rang through the caves with a chesty rumble.

He’s done it! He’s grasped her!

Morrígan glanced down at her mother. She still lay motionless under the veil of her funeral garb.

Is it not working?

She looked back at her uncle. A frown crossed his creased, wrinkled face. He began to shake his head, bringing his hands up to cover his ears.

Then her mother rose, slowly sitting upright on the stone slab.

It was a moment Morrígan had longed for every day and dreamed about every night. Her mother was there, eyes open, alive, and looking at her daughter for the first time in almost a year. Her eyes, though cold and dead, were as deep and as green as Morrígan remembered. Her skin, once porcelain and pale with tiny freckles, now sagged loose and grey under her cheekbones. She had been preserved through alchemy, but the months in the cave had taken their toll on her appearance. Some dust had collected on her white funeral gown, but to Morrígan, she still looked as beautiful as a mid-summer’s bride.

“Mother… are you there?” Morrígan took a step closer. The dead women slowly twisted her lower body around, bringing her limp legs to hang off the side of the slab. She balanced herself with hands gloved in white silk and gave a gentle push until she stood on two feet.

Morrígan glanced back at her uncle, still in a trance with eyes closed and ears covered. In front of him, Morrígan’s mother stood hunched. She turned and looked right at Morrígan, then raised a hand towards her daughter and opened her mouth to speak.

But only a low groan escaped her twisted lips.

“Uhhhhh….”

“Mother.” Morrígan took a step closer, bringing a hand up to touch her mother’s cheek. “It’s me. Do you remember?”

“Morrrrr….”

“Yes! Morry. Your little Morry.”

As Morrígan touched her mother’s face, the dead woman’s head drooped crookedly to the side, hanging from where her neck was broken. From there, a thick bone emerged, pressing against her skin. Her eyes, still fixed forwards, now stared down at the floor.