Harrow does not laugh. But she does smile, an authentic, unmistakable smile, and not about killing something.

She touches the skull like a benediction, and it stumps back up the stairs. Behind them, receding skittering sounds as the bones return to their shelves and mosaics. "She played here too, as a child. And heard generations of children playing--and longed. Your words, and no doubt my presence, drove her to take finally action."

Harrow wavers, and sits suddenly on a step, rubbing her thumbs on her temples. The right leaves smears of blood. "Lady Ingress, only you could wake a revenant motivated not by rage but by a longing for fun."