I couldn't hear what Livia was saying. I saw her lips moving as she tried to tell me the story of Margaret the grave keeper. But the sound didn't reach my ears. Instead, teal sparks surrounded her. At first, they followed her rag as she wiped it across the counter. Little sparks dancing behind the dirty cloth. Then they peeked out from behind her. They fluttered from her eyelashes as she blinked and scattered like dust as she moved. Before I knew it, she was consumed by them, as was the rest of the room.

For a moment, I began to panic, freezing, then nearly bolting as I thought I had found another mage involved in the loop. In all the death. But as my eyes darted around me in desperation, I realized it wasn't anything she was casting. I was in a room I had seen before, but not often. The false reality surrounding me had hit me before and I hadn't even realized it. I had seen... things for a long time. Visions of my old home and my old friends, all turning on me. I had seen those hateful eyes, glaring down on me whenever I used magic beyond an apprentice. I had grown used to it.

The first time this spell had affected me, I'd thought it was that. A horrible memory coming to life. As it happened, I realized that wasn't it at all. It had been the actual events of my past, playing out in front of me. This time, when it cast again and I found myself in Margaret's home, surrounded by a family of four, it was clear. A spell was showing me the past. So I knew I wasn't being suddenly attacked by Livia. Because this was a a spell centered around time, and there was only one time mage. I didn't know how I had cast it, but I could feel the warmth of my own aura in the spell, like a familiar pillow or my favorite spot on the couch. I was doing this.

"Melody, go to bed. I will make dinner," a weary-looking man insisted and I jumped. Neither he nor the pale, gaunt woman he was talking to noticed my reaction, however.

"It's alright momma," the younger of two girls chimed in. "I'll make sure he doesn't ruin it!"

The gaunt woman, the mother, didn't reply right away. She glared at the man I assumed was her husband instead. "I can't lie there any longer Charo," she protested. "We both know-" she started before glancing at her daughters. "Margaret, will you help your sister with the laundry please?" she asked. I looked at the younger girl again and realized, yes, I did recognize her. Already I could see the start of the hopeless passion that would someday permanently paint the grave keeper's face. She was young and full of life. But someday, she would kill me. Over, and over, as painfully as she could.

But not yet. "Come on Margie," the older girl said, holding one hand out to her little sister. She had a familiar sharpness to her jaw as well, but I couldn't place it.

"But the Laundry won't be dry for hours!" Margaret complained to her sister's chagrin.

"Margie, Mom and Dad want to talk. She just doesn't want to hurt our feelings. Come on, I'll show you a new trick I learned," the older girl insisted. She looked back and forth between her mom and sister and pouted, before taking her sister's hand.

"Mom and Dad always need to talk about something. I wanted to help cook!" she complained as her sister dragged her away.

"Thank you, Scylla," Melody said as her daughters disappeared into the next room. Then she looked at her husband with a furious scowl. "Charo. We both know I don't have long left. The doctors can't do anything, and we couldn't afford it if they did. What I do now is all I have left. I don't want to waste away in that bed until there is nothing left! There is no life in that bed. In that bed, I am nothing more than an empty husk. I need you to let go. I need you to let me spend the time I have with dignity! With my husband and my girls! Not alone, in the quiet and dark. Please, Charo. I just want to cook dinner for my girls. I just want my life to end with a little dignity. Can you... can you understand that?" she pleaded.

Her husband, Charo, looked furious. Then, he looked heartbroken. Then, he looked resigned. "Yes," he agreed, "I can understand that." At that, he handed her a wooden spoon which she gratefully accepted and began to stir a red soup on the stovetop.

The scene melted around me like paint, swirling together, losing the definition of shape and color as it did. But the spell wasn't over. It spun and sparked around me, until I found myself in the same room, this time with the curtains drawn and the beams of sun absent from the cracks behind them. Only two people occupied the space then. Margaret, sitting at the table with her hands folded in her lap and her head hanging low. Her father sat on the table and looked down on her.

"I spoke to your mother again this evening," he was saying and Margaret bit her lip. "Do you still want to do daddy's job, when you are older?" he asked. The girl nodded vigorously, but water was building in her eyes. "That's a good girl. I'm so proud of you. I am so proud that you want to be just like your dad when you grow up. It's very mature of you; you have always been so mature for your age," he soothed. "Do you remember what my job is? What your job will be, someday?"

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Margaret nodded. "Yes, Pappa. Your job is to take care of people. So when they go away, they can trust you with their... their bodies. So they can sleep in dignity, right?" she answered and Charo patted her head with pride.

"That's right sweetheart. I make sure people can rest in dignity. That's why I wanted to talk to you tonight. Because... I spoke to your mother earlier. Do you know what she said to me?" He asked and Margaret shook her head. "Really? Because you look like you might know. You seem awfully sad tonight. You didn't listen through the wall?" he accused. Margaret shook her head more insistently.

"No, papa, I really don't know! Scylla wouldn't let me listen in!" she insisted and her father looked down on her, her shoulders slumping under his judgment like it was a physical force.

"Your father isn't a Liar, Margaret. Don't you want to be just like your father? Tell the truth now." he reprimanded and Margaret shuddered.

"Mo-" she paused, a choke in her voice catching the word before it could escape. She folded her arms, gripping each of her forceps in clenched fingers. "Momma said she... she said she didn't have long left. That the doctors couldn't help... I- I stopped listening there. I didn't want to hear anymore! I didn't listen anymore, I swear!" she promised, sorrow trying to throttle her before she could get it all out. Charo nodded solemnly.

"I believe you, sweetheart. I believe you. But she wasn't done talking there, she had more to say. Do you want to hear what else she had to say?" he asked. She shook her head furiously, unable to answer audibly, but desperate to communicate her dissent. "Well, that's disappointing, Margie. I thought you were so mature for your age. I was so proud of you. I thought you would be ready to hear this. Well, I understand. You are just a little girl, after all. Still, it's disappointing." He began to stand as his daughter tensed up. He moved slowly, deliberately, giving her a chance to change her mind.

He stood. He took a step, paused, and then took another. Margaret reached out one hand and gripped the bottom of his shirt. "Okay, Papa. I want to hear the rest," she agreed, and he gave her a gentle smile.

"That's a good girl. I'm so proud of the woman you have grown up to be," he patted her head as she beamed under his praise. "Well, I spoke to your Mom earlier. And she said... she said she felt like an empty husk. Hollow. She didn't just say she was dying, Margie. She said she was dying without dignity," he explained. Margaret's lip quivered in fear as he continued to speak. "And what does your daddy do, sweetheart? What do you want to do when you grow up? That even your big sister can't do?"

Margaret looked up at him with wide eyes. "I... I don't..." she trailed and he clenched his fist, pressing it into the table.

"You just answered this, Margaret. Please, don't disappoint me again," he insisted. Tears started running down her face, but she answered anyway.

"Papa... Papa makes sure people can sleep... with dignity..." she answered hesitantly.

"That's right, sweetheart. And your momma knows that. So, what do you think she was asking when she told me she felt hollow? Empty? When she said she felt she had lost her dignity?" He asked. Margaret shook her head in denial but Charo put one hand on it, holding it in place. "Answer the question, Margie," he demanded.

"She... she wants to go away... to sleep..." Margaret whispered, and her father nodded.

"That's right sweetheart. And that means Daddy needs to do his job. His kindness. They do call it a gift, you know? A gift from a beautiful moon goddess. That's who we are, you know. Angels of a goddess. That's who I am, and who you will be someday too. But it's hard to do, especially when you really care about someone. But... that's why we do it. Because we care. And, Margie, you need to be ready when that time comes. That's why... That's why I want you to come with me, this time," he said. Margaret looked at her father in horror and opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first. "So, are you going to be like your Dad? Are you going to make me proud, show me how grown-up you are?"

Her protests died on her lips. She moved her hands to the bottom of her own sweater and gripped it, then nodded. She couldn't get any words out. He just patted her, and turned toward a dark room, picking up a pillow as he did. Margaret didn't follow right away, so he paused and looked at his daughter with sad disdain. Crumpling under its weight, she finally stood and hesitantly followed her father. I followed the two as well. He opened the old door slowly, trying to minimize the creaking and held one finger up to his lips.

His wife slept in bed, her face bathed in a warm candlelight. Charo approached as Margaret stayed in the doorway, watching with her best approximation of resolution. It didn't fool me. I saw the fear. I saw the desperation to make her father proud. I saw the horror, and above all else, the pain. The agony of doing something to fill the role of someone she admired. Of wearing the cloak of her father's persona, and letting someone get hurt so she she could try and grow into it.

I didn't have the stomach to watch what her father did. I could hear it, a little. The feeble struggling. But more than anything, I saw it in Margaret's eyes. I saw her mother die before her as she stood motionless. I saw the determination, trying desperately to hide the agony. She was too young for this. Not that anyone could ever be old enough, but still. She was too young. I watched the shift in her expression as she tried to strangle her own horror. I saw her fingernails leaving marks on her hands as she tried to prove to her father that she could be like him. That she was just as mature as he always said. And I saw as, at the same moment, Margie and her mother died.