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Cytherea’s body lies supine upon its altar. Pyrrha leans down, draws it up, and gazes into its limpid eyes. It had not felt like Cytherea’s absent soul when she had first encountered it. On closer inspection, the body is occupied by someone she knows dearly.
The eyes harden and narrow as she gazes into them. The mouth opens in a snarl.
“Fancy seeing you here, commander,” pyrrah says, and presses her lips to the corpse’s.
“Pity you aren’t dead yet,” Wake replies in a voice not quite her own, and returns the kiss with her stolen mouth. It isn’t quite as Pyrrha remembers it. She tastes of aldehydes, her touch too cold. But it’s Wake’s kiss, despite all that, and Pyrrha has been starved for two decades.
Pyrrha hears a gasp from near the door. It must be the Ninth child, for the others would have spoken in reprimand or surprise at finding her here. “Go away,” she murmurs, Gideon’s voice carrying without effort. The door closes softly, and she and Wake continue to kiss.