She knows her family the way others know fictional characters in a story. Neither quite felt real to her, as she saw the tales unfold (her mother, gold and pristine, a wicked woman redeemed, in the end; and her father, dark and orange-eyed, sinner to the end). She knows the history, carries it in her, but they never felt real.
More real, perhaps, was the ghost-mother, the dead-not-dead woman in the afterlife. Gail, who did not speak overmuch of her history, but had loved her and had found a way to bring Graveling forth into a world she had never expected to live in.
She watches the girl with wide eyes, notes the flourish of color at her legs and mane. She notes her wholeness, too, but draws her rotting head high and tries to smile.
“Hi, Lirren,” she says. She’d never been shy, there amongst the ghosts, but this was a strange new world and she is thrown by it, “I’m Graveling. This is Ramiel. He’s magic.”
(He’s not, not in the way the phrase is used here, but she thinks him so – the ghost king is the one who brought her forth, who surpassed realms to make her real, all at Gail’s bequest.)
“You’re very pretty,” she says, some of the boldness returning, “I like your color.”
.
graveling
the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out