She feels heat, from the other – the boy of magma. She doesn’t know why he’s there, but she can guess – she is not alone in this vacuum that Spyndle creates. There is a moment where she considers burning him, pouring lightning into his fire, splitting the earth beneath him. It is a terrible, savage jealousy, because she is a terrible, savage woman, she is poisonous, spoiled by the years.
But she does not. She can’t blame him.
But it is a waste of time, looking at him, it pulls seconds away that could be spent on this – whatever this is – and Spyndle’s voice purrs out.
That’s what ghosts do, she says, they come back.
They come back, and they haunt and leave you cold.
But Cordis is not cold, not in her proximity – she is warmed, heated by the sun reflecting off Spyndle’s skin.
“I missed you,” she says, a stupid platitude that doesn’t begin to articulate the exact pain that skitters in her bones whenever she’s not by her side, whenever her gaze is emptied of Spyndle’s gold body.
There were never words for them, for this, never words that could give it justice, give it rhyme or reason.
She forgives her for leaving. She always does.
But when Spyndle speaks to the boy – who is insignificant, can’t she see it? – Cordis’s skin flickers with lightning, for just a moment. She doesn’t breathe, for just a moment.
(She still wants to kill him.)
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me