Opal sat alone, in the room she’d once shared with Margery, and waited. Sleeping was much harder without the girl Opal thought of as her sister, and every time her aunt looked at her she knew the older woman wished it had been Margery who survived. There were times, normally late at night, when Opal wished it had been Margery too, even though she was grateful be alive. Her ability meant she could at least still talk to Margery, unlike her aunt. Everyone looked at the family differently, because they all knew Margery died blooming. “It’s not your fault,” Margery appeared on the bed next to Opal. “There was nothing…