Grief was a bruise on her heart, but her heart was still capable of doing other things. Depression, on the other hand . . . depression lied. Depression was that little lizard voice at the back of her consciousness that was always quick to cut her down and remind her of her shortcomings. Depression was losing half a week to her bed, believing the hateful, poisonous things Ilea said, that she wasn’t a good enough witch, a good enough sister, a good enough daughter. Depression was a blanket that cocooned her, but when the melancholy passed, it left her body writhing like an exposed nerve, and she
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