Chapter 77

Mostly angels. She collects them, says they’re keeping watch over us, keeping us safe. Ceramic angels she’s found in alleys, with chipped or broken wings; saints’ medals and rag dolls with sewn-on wings and pictures she’s torn from books. Angels everywhere, they stare at me with lifeless eyes as I step into the attic space.

I should keep one of them in the closet downstairs to protect me from McBane. If only I believed it’d work.

Folding her legs beneath her, Delia sinks to her mattress, her skirts blossoming out around her like the petals of a wild rose. She grabs her pillow, picks at the ticking that’s coming through the cover, and frowns at it like she’s waiting for me to start.

Sitting down beside her, I touch her knee. “I’m sorry.”

She pouts harder, if that’s possible, but she sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and says in a tiny voice, “It’s okay. It was a mean thing to say.”