"Oh," says the hourglass, quietly, staring at the bodies. There is something slightly less distracted about her than there has been for a while, and it's probably because the hourglass itself, the object that is her, is tucked under her arm, the falling sand visible through the glass of her elbow.

She's still holding the hearts, one stained magenta and one shimmering yellow, one in each hand. The blood stains her fingers and wrists, but she's made of glass; her skin will be easy to wipe down.

She bobs over to where they're lying, to look at them more closely. It's strange to be holding their insides when they look as if no harm has ever come to them. If they were cut open again, would there be new hearts, cold and dead, inside? The fuchsia one, of course, she thinks, would have always been cold. But not this cold.

She looks at their faces, and then down at the hearts in her hands, and frowns.

"We should probably have a party, or something," she says. "For the corpses."