Truth be told, she has grown fond of the ghosts. Though they never speak of it, she knows that her brother and sister feel them, too, and she suspects they feel the same. Why the spirits stalk them, none of them can be sure, but when it came to the three of them, so little made sense.
No, that isn't right.
Only the three of them made sense.
Only when they are together, touching, reveling, thick blood dripping down her brother's chest, her hand tangled in her sister's hair, magic swirling around them like a sandstorm- only then does their tangled web even begin to straighten for her.
They play their games with the mortals- she watches her sister, popping candies into the Thane of Fife's mouth, her brother arrives at a banquet with hair dripping wet, smiling as though he is not distressed (though she knows that he is- she feels it in his jaw when he kisses her).
Games are played, they twist the fates of the men who hunger for power, but when all is done she is sated with merely the sight of the other two, with her brother's hand gently caressing the smooth skin of her head, his fingers dwelling on a scar where she has managed to nick herself with the razor. With her beautiful sister, who could have whatever man or woman she wished- perhaps even more easily than her siblings, and who returned to the two of them without fail. They three were linked. How, she could not say, but it felt the same to her as magic- the fire and spark and the sensation of something sweet and intoxicating in her lungs.
The ghosts help her, sometimes. Little things- rinsing the blood from her back, watching over her as she moves through the trees. She never asks her brother and sister if the spirits do the same for them.
And then they do it again.
And still again.
Some scarcely need her prompting, they hover near her, ready to pull the towel from her dripping hands, moving out of her way as though they know where she is going.
The king dies and he lives, lives and dies.
She wonders if anyone else notices that they have done this before.