Autor floats down to her, and wraps his arms about her shoulders, using her as an anchor. He rests his nose in the crook of her neck, seeking the comforting scents of rose oil and cloves which linger under the nauseating rot.

"How did it happen?" he demands, though his anger cools as soon as he says it, and the fight goes out of him with a noisy breath. "Why are you dead?"