The funeral took place at midday.

Saltsbury’s preacher officiated over it, which cast a shadow over the whole event. People gossiped.

He shouldn’t be needed, they said. They whispered Kookaburra Creek had always been an independent place, where everyone knew each other and supported each other. That it was a disgrace to borrow Saltsbury’s preacher. They whispered that the whole thing was an embarrassment, both for the family and for the town and that the council should never have allowed it to happen.

Kylara stood off to the side, slightly turned away from the group. She hated the whinging. This was meant to be Ulinda’s day, not a day for politics and gossip. She hoped Ulinda’s family had not overheard what people were saying. It was unlikely. If even Kylara was hearing the gossip, everyone was. People tended to keep quiet around the girl who wasn’t allowed to keep a secret.

The grave was in a sandy spot at the edge of town, near the Scar Tree. Marcus and a few other young men had dug it yesterday. It was shallow–it wasn’t the season for rain–and rectangular, facing the direction of the setting sun. It was a symbolic gesture, signifying the transition from the realm of the living to that of the ancestors.

Kylara glanced over to the body. Ulinda was wrapped in a tight skin rug and laid gently on a bed of grass and bark. Some of her things–her jewellery, her shoes, her church clothes–were next to her. Her family was supposed to have chosen things important to her. Kylara wondered if they did. All she knew about Ulinda was she liked coaching, and Kylara did not see any pushball kit with her. Perhaps they had been burnt in the smoking ceremony last night, but she had a funny feeling they hadn’t been.

Someone was speaking. Probably the celebrant. Ulinda’s family had belonged to the church as opposed to any of the old religions, which meant Pemulabee was regulated to being an audience member instead of a speaker. Kylara was glad. He had done nothing but fuck up the investigation so far. She was grateful she didn’t need to listen to him.

The celebrant stood on a small wooden stage in front of colourful flower arrangements meant to depict scenes from Ulinda’s life. Whoever had made them had done a good job.

Kylara plucked a flower from the fence behind her and rolled the soft petals between her thumb and index finger. She was only wearing one glove today. Mostly because she only had one nice enough to wear to a funeral.

“Are you paying attention to this?” Yalmay leaned in and whispered to her boyfriend. “Because this lady is soooo boring.”

“Yalmay!” Joontah hissed, looking at her sharply, “It’s a funeral.”

“Sorry,” Yalmay shrugged, although she didn’t look particularly abashed. “I was listening before she got boring. And I’m not straining to hear boring.”

“I can hear her fine,” Kylara said.

“Me too,” Joontah added.

Yalmay pouted. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’m daydreaming or anything, I’m being respectful. It’s just I don’t think you shouldn’t be boring at a funeral. Celebrate her life instead, you know?”

“Put the fun in funeral?” Joontah suggested with a wry smile.

Yalmay grinned. She loved puns, even inappropriate ones. “Exactly!” she said.

“Funerals used to be exciting,” Kylara said dourly. She wasn’t feeling like joking right now. It wasn’t Yalmay’s fault, her sister was just incapable of being sad for more than a few minutes. “They were smaller too. Back before the town got rich, death used to not be such an aberration.” That was what Wawiriya told her, anyway. Then the town got rich off of warding. Rich people died less.

“Oh,” Yalmay said. Then, “I like the flowers though. Colourful. They’re a nice touch.”

They were pretty, Kylara thought. Not sombre at all. She wondered who had chosen them.

“What is it?” Joontah asked. “Like what are the flowers supposed to be depicting?”

“It’s her with her dog,” Yalmay said. “I was talking to her mother. She used to love the thing. Took it everywhere she went.”

Yalmay had gone and spoken to Ulinda’s mother? It shouldn’t have surprised Kylara but it did.

“Was it the family dog?” Kylara asked.

“Dunno,” Yalmay said. “I think so. Why?”

So Dhaligir’s dog then. The dog I apparently killed in the fire.

“…in this sacred moment, we come together not to mourn the passing of a life, but to celebrate a life lived,” the celebrant said.

Yalmay grinned. “See? We’re finally getting there. Celebrate a life lived? This is the happy part.”

“I dunno about that,” Joontah said.

A woman started wailing in the back. A high-pitched, pained scream that wavered between being nearly tolerable and excruciating.

Kylara sucked in a breath. “Yeah, I’m not sure we’re getting happy.”

Kylara had been to a few funerals in her life. Usually there was keening. Sometimes people joined in. Sometimes they didn’t. Kylara looked around the group, spotting a few older women staring at the ground. None of them seem inclined to join. Malyun was shuffling on her feet.

The keening continued. It might have been five seconds; it might have been five minutes–Kylara wasn’t sure–before it finally stopped. Her mother had once told her every church had a mad nun. Kylara wondered if this was theirs. Or maybe it was Saltsbury’s. Perhaps the mad nun had come with the borrowed preacher. It was true, the town didn’t do anything for itself anymore.

Kylara looked at the celebrant. Yalmay was right. She truly was boring. She had an incredibly monotone voice. And she seemed barely phased by the wailing.

Perhaps the two were coordinating, Kylara wondered. The mad nun and the dull celebrant.

It did make a certain amount of sense.

Scream through the boring parts of the speech, and be quiet through the impressive parts. If Kylara was in charge of organising funerals, that would be how she would plan it. Especially because the celebrant was young. She looked mid-twenties. Maybe she was still in training? How did someone train to speak at a funeral anyway? There wasn’t much room to fuck up. Did they have practice funerals? Maybe this was a practice funeral. When had Saltsbury ever cared about their little town?

Kylara glanced over to Yalmay, caught her eye and gave the faintest of smiles. Kylara wondered what she was thinking about.

Probably not funeral logistics, she decided. Despite her nervous joking, Yalmay would be trying hard to be respectful. She would be thinking of Ulinda.

Kylara hadn’t thought of Ulinda once.

Yalmay isn’t picturing Ulinda’s dying, helpless body every time she thinks of her like you are.

Kylara tried to think of something else. Joeys. Joeys were cute. And fluffy. Think of joeys. She screwed her eyes shut.

The worst part was that the killer was still out there. The last thing Kylara remembered about that morning was Dhaligir grabbing her wrist and flinging her into a rock. Then–nothing. Blackness.

Kylara had woken up five hours later in Imla’s house, missing a few minutes here and there but otherwise fine. Multhamurra had been sitting next to her, reading a book. He had asked her a few questions–odd stuff, questions that had nothing to do with anything–then declared she was fine and walked off without another word.

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Then he had come back about ten seconds later and clarified. Apparently, Kylara should be dead. Like, really dead. The hit had not been “a friendly tap on the head” but a major concussion. Then Multhamurra had smiled at how clever his rhyme had been, pointed at her, muttered something about how remarkable warding was and how she could heal from heaps of horrible things, and then left again. Kylara had not seen the magsman since. She wondered what he was doing. She scanned the crowd for a tall figure with long curls, but he was nowhere in sight. It made sense, she supposed. The magsman had only ever met Ulinda once and his only interaction with her family had been subduing Dhaligir after he had knocked Kylara out.

A trace of a smile skirted onto Kylara’s lips. She wondered how that had gone. Wawiriya had been sparse on the details, but picturing Dhaligir being beaten by an old man was endlessly amusing to her. It was one of the only comforts she had about that morning.

She hadn’t spoken to Dhaligir since his sister’s death. He hadn’t apologised for trying to kill her and Kylara had not asked. He was leaving in a few days anyway. That was more than enough.

He didn’t look happy to be leaving. Kylara had been watching him all day while Dhaligir had been inconspicuously not watching her. He hadn’t glanced in her direction once. He was standing in the front with his mother and father, dressed in traditional funeral attire, long flowing white robes with feathers. On his head, he was wearing a pin with a lock of hair from Ulinda. He looked sophisticated, intelligent… good-looking even.

Kylara could barely look in his direction without her anger boiling over. It was his fault.

She had had them. The killer had been within her grasp and then Dhaligir had attacked her. Even their biggest lead–the periwinkle shells she had detected on the killer while they were running away–was now worthless. Pemulabee carelessly declared they were searching for all periwinkle shells while Kylara was unconscious. The killer must have overheard and disposed of them because aside from a stack of them left at the council house, there was nothing. They must have ditched them the moment they caught wind of the pursuit. Five hours. If he had just waited five hours, they would have the killer.

Malyun had not told Kylara that that particular piece of information had been shared until after Kylara had promised to sit out the investigation until after the funeral. A few days, Malyun said to wait, a few days out of respect for the family.

Kylara was finding it a hard promise to keep. She never would have agreed if she had known that there would need to be a real investigation. She had cursed herself for not thinking properly enough over the last few days.

Someone was singing now. The council had sought volunteers—anyone in town with singing, dancing, or musical abilities. Hundreds signed up, even those who had never played before. Kylara had overheard Malyun complaining about how hard it was to sort through all the responses to get to the people who could show a real display of talent.

“I don’t understand the words,” Kylara said.

“It’s not Koulan,” Yalmay said. She was closing her eyes. “My cousin,” Yalmay translated. “You were our strength. You were all we had.” She opened her eyes. “It’s Janeyca singing.”

It was beautiful.

To be honest, everything about the funeral was beautiful. The decorations, the stage, the platform Ulinda was laid on–they were all immaculate. Everyone had come together on such short notice to make it work. Never mind the fact they were using Saltsbury’s preacher–they had made do.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like losing a sister,” Yalmay said.

Kylara looked at her sister to ask her what kind of a question was that, but Yalmay wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at Joontah.

“Yeah,” Joontah said quietly. He was staring at Janeyca, mumbling the words of the song. “It would be like cutting off a limb.”

It would be a lot worse than that, Kylara thought. I lost a limb. I can’t imagine losing a sister.

SNAP!

There was a disturbance somewhere in the crowd, a lot of pushing, and a few startled gasps. The singing stopped. Yalmay and Joontah exchanged a glance then looked at Kylara, who just shrugged.

Yalmay shrugged back and then hopped on her toes a few times. “Yeah nah I can’t see a thing.” She glanced between Joontah and Kylara. “Well?” she accused. “You’re both taller.”

“I don’t know,” Kylara said. She stood on her toes, but her view was still obstructed by a sea of moving heads. All she could see was that it was moving to the front.

“Someone’s trying to push to the front,” Joontah said after a moment. “I can’t see who.”

The celebrant stepped forward. “Please, if you can keep quiet,” she said, voice faltering. She glanced nervously at the preacher, who stepped forward.

“Everyone, this is a time for respect and reflection. I implore you to consider this when–”

“I want to speak!”

Kylara craned her head higher. She recognised that voice. “It’s Lenah,” she whispered to Yalmay.

Yalmay’s eyes widened. “The Wanderer?”

“I want to speak, let me through!”

There was more shoving and a few strangled cries of pain. Then Lenah pushed past Wawiriya and, away from the group, started sprinting to the small wooden stage. The stage Ulinda was resting on.

“Stop her!” Wawiriya shouted.

Janeyca, who was standing in the front next to her grandmother and the other singers, quickly reacted. She dove and grabbed Lenah by the ankle. The Wanderer frantically squirmed, kicking and yelling and stomping. Janeyca held her for a few seconds before Lenah slipped out of her grasp. The two women separated with enough force that both nearly lost their balance with the recoil. Lenah stumbled perilously close to Ulinda's lifeless body. Janeyca knocked into Wawiriya.

“Ow,” Joontah winced.

“That looked like it hurt,” Yalmay agreed.

“What is she doing?” Kylara muttered. What kind of person interrupted a funeral? Even for a Wanderer affected by the Snap, this was low.

Lenah jumped on the raised platform, her breath coming in heavy gasps. “I want to say something,” she said. She took a second to catch her breath. All whispers hushed. “I have something to say.”

The preacher from Saltsbury stepped slightly over. Kylara could see the exact moment he got a good look at Lenah’s face and realised she was a Wanderer. He looked confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know–are they allowed here?” he asked. He glanced at the crowd hesitantly.

“Lenah,” Wawiriya said sharply, “now is not the time. Get down.” The last word was almost snarled.

Lenah shook her head frantically, hair whipping around her face. “No,” she said. “I saw her, in the woods. I saw what she was trying to do! I need to say something! Stop her!” She jumped up and down a few times. The small wooden platform creaked perilously. When she stopped, she pointed at Kylara.

What?

A hush fell over the crowd. Yalmay shifted uncomfortably and gripped Kylara’s hand, moving slightly between Kylara and the rest of the group.

“Me?” Kylara said.

Lenah just stared, unmoving.

What did I do?

Everyone already knew she was the one who found the body, maybe Lenah was just confused. Wanderers often got confused.

“She didn’t do anything,” Yalmay said, stepping in front of Kylara. “She said so. It all happened before she got there.”

Lenah shook her head frantically. “No,” she said, still pointing. “It’s her. Her!”

Yalmay’s eyes widened. “Me?”

She sounded so surprised Kylara looked around for someone standing behind them. But it was just them and Joontah.

“By the Desert,” Lenah said.

More shuffles from the crowd. Interrupting a funeral was one thing. Interrupting to talk about the Desert was another. People didn’t speak of the Desert. People didn’t want to remember it existed.

“She’s not right,” Wawiriya said, looking at Yalmay’s shocked face. “Lenah, stop this nonsense.”

Lenah still hadn’t moved her finger. Kylara glanced behind them again. No one was there. She grabbed Yalmay’s hand and looked at both her and Joontah. “Come on,” she said, pulling her sister with her a few steps to the right. Joontah followed after a second of hesitation.

Kylara looked back. Lenah remained pointing at the now empty spot of ground. “I don’t think she is talking about us,” Kylara said. Some tension eased off Yalmay’s shoulders.

“By the Desert!” Lenah said. She took a step back quickly, almost like a nervous twitch. “No,” she said, falling to the ground. “In the Desert. It was in the Desert.”

“What did you see?” Pemulabee said. The council member had stepped out in front of Wawiriya. “What was she doing?”

“She was there,” Lenah insisted, now pointing at nothing. “I have something to say.”

“You can say it,” Pemulabee said. He looked over to Kylara and Yalmay. “You won’t get punished for it.”

“She was there,” Lenah repeated, using a slightly different intonation. “She was there,” she said again, sounding frustrated. She stopped pointing.

Joontah had moved in front of them now, blocking the view of the crowd. Kylara was gripping her sister’s hand. Yalmay kept glancing back and forth between Lenah and Kylara, looking both confused and nervous.

“She was there.”

“Sister?” Lenah’s brother, Karryne asked. Kylara wondered when he had appeared. Frankly, she was surprised the Wanderer siblings had been invited in the first place.

Karryne slowly stepped up to the platform, getting closer to her until eventually grabbed her hand. Lenah smiled as her brother held his arm in place. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Lenah shook her head yes. “She was there,” she said, a bit enthusiastically, almost hopefully. “She was there.”

It's like those are the only words she is capable of saying. Like she forgot how to say anything else–

Oh, Kylara realised.

They said her great-uncle had wandered into the Desert as a child. His mother had refused to follow him, calling for her little boy to come back to the border. When he eventually did, he had changed. He had not spoken right for weeks. When he had, it had been confused and not the same. The Desert corrupted people. It corrupted their thoughts. It corrupted their brain.

“Lenah,” Kylara said loudly, speaking so the crowd could hear, “when you said, she, do you mean you? Did you go into the Desert?”

She could almost feel the collective intake of breath.

Lenah frowned but gave no response. She seemed to be thinking, but it was hard to tell with Wanderers sometimes. They were hard to read.

Kylara glanced at the other Wanderers. Karryne, Lenah’s brother, was looking at her strangely. Almost affectionately. Wawiriya looked annoyed more than anything.

“Did you go into the Desert, Lenah?” Karryne asked.

“I think we should take her.”

Kylara swung around to see Joontah holding up his hand. He radiated a surprising amount of authority. He looked at Kylara who, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

“We’ll take her,” she said.