Molly Doyle

“Kiriona said, “Where is she?”
Nona didn’t know what to say. The corpse prince urged—
“Come on. Where’d she go? Where is she?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Nona miserably.
“Listen, she can be in hell for all I care, I won’t get mad,” said Kiriona. “She can be at the bottom of the sea or the bottom of space. I just need to know— where.”
When Nona didn’t answer, the corpse prince said—
“Okay. Different question. Do you love her?”
“Take a walk, Nav,” said a new voice.
It was Pyrrha, at the back of the truck, looking stretched thin and worn out. There were long, healing grazes going up both of her arms, like she’d taken a tumble since Nona had last saw her, extending up to her cheeks and on the underside of her chin and upper lip. Her hard, familiar face looked impossibly tired.
Kiriona said, “Kind of pretending to be dead here.”
“All right. We’ll take a walk. Don’t go anywhere and stop being a little shit,” said Pyrrha.
“It’s genetic,” said the corpse prince.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth