Nothing had ever been out of Enoch's reach, not really. At his parents' funeral home, he would practice on corpses every night until he got them just the way he wanted them. They wouldn't be alive, not really, but they would be close enough and really, what did he care as long as they were interesting and did what he wanted?
But Olive was, he knew that now as he looked down at her frost-dusted skin and closed eyes. That's when the fervent, desperate hope fluttered in his mind –I could bring her back.
It would be easy –her body, frozen as it was, would be in perfect condition by the time he could set up his lab again. He had at least dozens of hearts suitable for a girl her size. He could get her walking and talking again –but she wouldn't be Olive. Not really. She'd be a poor imitation, a shadow puppet, limited to doing whatever Enoch told her –like she didn't already, the shameful voice in the back of his head told him. When he looked down at her he was already running through calculations –how quickly he could get her to his lab before the body started to spoil, if the way she died would interfere with her reanimation, but he was interrupted again by the same voice.
She wouldn't want that.
He knew that was true. Olive, beautiful Olive, full of life, couldn't –shouldn't –be brought back as his puppet. She was too good for that, too bright.
He'd kissed her before, but it had been an accident, some fifty-odd years ago. He'd been reaching for something behind her, she'd moved, and their lips had touched. It was an accident, they both understood that, and neither of them spoke about it again, but her lips had been warm, so warm –which made sense in retrospect –but when he kissed her now, her lips were cold, and that was when the necromancer finally understood death.
It felt like an eternity until she opened her eyes, some of the pallor returning to her face, and smiled. "You never realized what?"
