“I’m going to flay the skin from their bodies and make you a crown from their bleached and broken bones, beloved,” he promises. I know he means it. I know he’ll do it, too. I pat Wrath’s hand. “As much as I appreciate gifts, I don’t think I want to wear my parents as a crown.” “Are you sure? You would look splendid with a crown.” “Could we try something made of silver, maybe some diamonds, before we move to the medium of my parent’s fingers?”
