“You may close the door,” he said to Citra’s mother, who did so, although Citra could see how difficult it was for her. Whatever the scythe’s purpose here, he would not see her crumble.

They were betraying her by wobbling, so she forced fortitude to her legs, tightening her muscles. She tried not to let her knees buckle beneath her. He pulled off his hood to reveal neatly cut gray hair, a mournful face red-cheeked from the chilly day, and dark eyes that seemed themselves almost to be weapons.

But none of this changed the fact of who and what he was. This scythe’s ivory robe was pleasant, and far enough from true white not to assault the eye with its brightness. The color of the robe often said a lot about a scythe’s personality. The unique style of scythes’ robes, regardless of the fabric and color, made them easy to spot in public, which made them easy to avoid-if avoidance was what a person wanted.

They looked like the rich, flowing robes of Renaissance angels, both heavy yet lighter than air. Some scythe robes were bright, some more muted. Luminous and enlightened, they were acknowledged as the very best of humanity-which is why they were chosen for the job. Black was an absence of light, and scythes were the opposite. A scythe, Citra knew, could choose the color of his or her robe-every color except for black, for it was considered inappropriate for their job. His multilayered robe was smooth ivory linen, and although it reached so low as to dust the floor, there was not a spot of dirt on it anywhere. He stepped over the threshold, his soft slipper-like shoes making no sound on the parquet floor. “Yes, yes of course, come in.” Citra’s mother stepped aside to allow him entry-as if she were the visitor and not the other way around. Citra knew before she even saw him that it was a scythe. Resonant and inevitable, like the dull toll of an iron bell, confident in the ability of its peal to reach all those who needed reaching. The visitor’s tone of voice gave him away. As if, were she tipped over, she would fall to the floor and shatter. What she saw was how her mother stood there, suddenly immobile, as if her veins had solidified within her. Citra didn’t see the visitor, as he was, at first, hidden from her view by the door when it opened. They showed up, did their unpleasant business, and were gone. Perhaps the universe should have deigned to provide such warnings, but scythes were no more supernatural than tax collectors in the grand scheme of things. Guests were frequent at the Terranovas’ apartment, so when the doorbell rang, there was no sense of foreboding-no dimming of the sun, no foreshadowing of the arrival of death at their door. Citra was at the dining room table, slaving over a particularly difficult algebra problem, shuffling variables, unable to solve for X or Y, when this new and far more pernicious variable entered her life’s equation. The scythe arrived late on a cold November afternoon.

Scythe 2 book