“Of course we can’t take them,” Redana says, busy in the dark. “You can’t take anything [i]from[/i] Hades. You have to bargain for it, or experience it.”

Out she comes with two of their prizes, which had been buried underneath all the sharks. A writing stylus with a treble clef as a counterbalance, doubtless made in honor of Apollo’s blessing upon those who write beautifully. A collection of sheets, bound in yellow and pierced by metal rings, each one of them cool and crisp. With one in either hand, she sits down (in front of a perfectly good bench) beneath the four dresses.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t see me in them,” she adds. She’s always like this, isn’t she? The yellow cover folds back with a sigh, and she rests the stylus against the virginal page, white as the moon.

She’s not a good artist, but she tries. She’s a better designer than Bella might remember, however. She’s had over a year to practice with her own clothes, a year alone without a maid to look after the particulars. And halfway through her first sketch of the athletic gear, she glances up and pats the ground next to her.

Not a command. An invitation. A way to tell Bella that she’s welcome to come and rest her head and help her with the design work. These relics might not be usable after so long, but that doesn’t mean two girls can’t remake them with modern materials, modern adjustments, and carry the meaning of them across the Rift.

All context for them has been lost, and yet they’re still here. Redana doesn’t have the thought formulated that clearly, but the shadow of it is over her fingers as she works and perched on the tip of her tongue as it parts her lips. What was there can be found, or made new. Even here, in death, there’s something worth interpreting.

Won’t you join her?