Donna stirred the stainless steel kettle and placed it on top of an oven mitt, a bit of wax spilling on the counter. She cursed her shaking hands. For the first time in many months, it wasn’t because of the medications. When she stopped taking them, the tremors went away, which meant she could do crafts like making candles again. She could also hear the messages from her angels—she felt so empty without Splenditello and Cantore's voices guiding her. She didn’t regret the decision. The clarity was a relief. Her current unsteadiness had a different cause, a fear she was doing everything in her power to bury.

She knew she was spending too much on wax and pigments and essential oils, but she had found other ways to save money. Instead of buying more jars, she could take cans and bottles out of her neighbors’ recycling bins and cut the tops off. She also constantly burned candles, both by her angels’ guidance and also because it allowed her to clean them out and re-use them—to make more candles, of course.

The worst part was waiting for the wax to cool down to the right temperature. If she poured it out at any hotter than 120 degrees, the candles would warp and crack. She found ways to distract herself while she waited—cutting bottles, cleaning jars, counting all of the knots in the wood panels on her walls. Anything and everything to keep herself from looking in the backyard.

In the first few days after it appeared, the memory of seeing it would rerun over and over in her mind—pudgy limbs splayed out on the ground just beyond her porch, blood leaking out of its wounds and clumping up the dirt beneath it. Glassy eyes, staring right at her. It made Donna shiver. As they both watched it, Splenditello placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “it’s not a girl, it’s a shapeshifter. See how it doesn’t rot?”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

At the moment, there were no more bottles and cans to cut. Donna gripped her thermometer, checking the wax again. 154, again, 151, again, 149. She scoffed and tossed the thermometer aside. She couldn’t concern herself with that. Her angels would reassure her. They always kept her safe, always knew best. Even when she missed her doctor’s appointments, the time somehow escaping her, they came to her side, caressing her with a kind of love she could never find anywhere else. She checked the wax again. 148, 145, 144. Too slow, always too slow.

She rearranged her jars. She rearranged them again. She ignored the back window. She checked the wicks, adjusted their clips. She counted her remaining wicks, 43, 44, 45, 46. She ignored the back window again. She paced around the house, counting her steps, 21, 22, 23, 24. She glanced at the back window. Splenditello warned her again, “don’t look, light another candle.” She lit another candle.

Cantore spoke to her this time, stern as always. “Check the thermometer again.”

122.

“That ought to be close enough,” Donna said.

“No," Cantore hissed. "It must be exactly 120.”

She groaned, checked it again. 121, again, 120.9, again, 120.8, again, 120.7. She nearly ripped her hair out.

Splenditello placed his hand on her shoulder, protective as always, and a warm feeling blossomed in her chest. “I know how you can fill the time,” he whispered. “Buy a second kettle.”