It scurried toward them.
“Stay,” Irréelle said. “Stop. Freeze. Hold still.” She tried to remember how Miss Vesper had halted its progression. She closed her eyes, visualized Miss Vesper, imagined her voice. “Be still!” she cried, eyes opening once more.
Of course, it did not heed her command. Miss Vesper was its creator, just as she was Irréelle’s creator.
The Hand charged forward and then broke to the left. As quick as could be, it snatched the candle from the ledge and began dragging it away.
“Stop it!” Irréelle said.
Guy was already moving forward and she followed after. The Hand sped up. It wove between their feet as if it meant to trip them. It darted out of reach when they grabbed for it. At the same time as Irréelle, Guy lunged for the Hand, and they collided. Heads knocked together, limbs entwined. Their bodies thumped to the ground.
The Hand raced toward the drafty tunnel and then it was gone, the candle with it.
The light dimmed. Shadows crept closer.
Without the candle, they might never find their way from the underside of the graveyard. Although Irréelle knew the ins and outs of the tunnels, she could not imagine navigating them in complete darkness. Already, it pressed her tight, a suffocating constriction in her chest. She wondered if this slip of terror was a feeling Miss Vesper knew as well and the reason she kept far from the passages.
“Come on!” Guy clambered to his feet and pulled Irréelle up with him.
She darted ahead. They chased the dimming light into the narrowest of passageways. Everything around them, shadows and gloom.
Except Irréelle thought she caught sight of a heart carved into the dirt wall as she raced past. A silly imagining, to be sure, and one she would have dismissed, but a few feet later she spied another one, just visible in the wavering light.
Wherever was the Hand leading them?
She and Guy charged after it, through the heart-lined tunnel. “Do you think someone marked the way out?” Irréelle asked.
“Those are hearts, not arrows,” Guy huffed, winded from running.
She let his words bounce off her back, clinging to hope, and at last they entered another chamber, one larger than all the others. However, Irréelle stopped very suddenly (and Guy stumbled right into her), for she could immediately see all four walls were solid stone and dirt.
There was no sign of the Hand, though the candle rested in the dirt near her feet, shining directly upon the large, heavy object before them.
The flame flickered, illuminating an open casket. She was quite used to seeing caskets in the underside of the graveyard, so she barely noticed its presence at first. Instead, she snatched the candle from the ground and her eyes scanned the chamber in search of some small passageway she might have overlooked. That draft had come from somewhere and the hearts must lead to something.
“It’s a dead end,” she whispered.
Guy pushed past her. “There has to be a way out.” He circled the chamber once and then again.
Irréelle leaned against the wall, keeping out of Guy’s way as he circled a third time. When he passed by, his gray eyes flashed silver. He prowled like a wild animal locked in a cage, half-starved, half-mad, and desperate for escape.
And then all at once he stopped. His head snapped to the side. “The casket,” he said. Something within it had captured his attention.
She brought the candle to Guy’s side and gasped when the light fell upon the casket. They stared at it openmouthed. It had a dark wood exterior, the edges carved with a design of leaves and flowers, and a pleated black interior of what looked like the finest satin, even under a layer of dust.
“It’s empty,” he said.
Irréelle looked over her shoulder as if the missing skeleton might have sneaked up behind her, but of course nothing was there but her own shadow on the wall. “But how? Where are the bones?” Her mind spun with ideas but settled on only one. She shivered. “Could the Hand have taken them?” She listened for its scampering, but still heard nothing.
“It could have. It was fast. It could have stolen the bones if it took them one by one.” He wiggled his fingers. “But probably not. I think they were gone before we got here.”
Just the thought of the missing bones sent goose bumps across her skin. Along with the musty air and the dark corners even the candlelight would not reveal, it felt different from the other nooks in the underside that she had previously visited.
The trunk of a tree took up the far wall. The bark crackled with disease. Roots broke through the dirt, straggly ones that hung from the ceiling just as they did in the other tunnels, except here they were dark and twisted and dry as bone. One had wrapped itself around the edge of the casket, splitting the wood as it spread across the ruffled pillow.
Guy swung toward Irréelle and plucked the candle from her hand. His hair hung across his forehead, disheveled and dirty. Though he had not touched it, it blew into his eyes. The draft tousled Irréelle’s hair too, and tickled the back of her neck.
“Do you feel that?” She held up her hand, trying to gauge the direction of the breeze.
“It’s just the ghosts,” he said. “They’re always roaming.”
With the empty casket beside her and the cemetery above her, she could almost believe in ghosts, but she shook her head. “No, the draft has to be coming from somewhere.”
He frowned. “Where?” He swung the candle around, and as he did, it swept near the trunk of the tree.
“Turn around,” Irréelle said, excitement bubbling. “Turn around.”
Guy faced the tree trunk, candle aloft. Firelight fell through the decaying bark. “It’s hollow.” He spun in a circle. “It’s hollow! We’ll climb our way out.” He whooped and turned, stumbling all around the chamber in celebration.
A draft swooped down from above and trickled through the lattice of rot. Irréelle touched the bark. It was dry in places and slick with mold in others, and it left her fingertips black. She began to peel the bark away. It was thicker than she expected and broke her nails as she scratched against it.
“Help me,” she said.
But Guy spun past her, limbs jerky like a puppet on the end of its strings. He looked entirely silly, his wide smile glowing in the firelight.
“Come on,” he said, and took her filthy hand in his filthier one.
“Not now,” she said, but he turned her in a circle. Once she started, she found she did not want to stop. Her white hair flew around her shoulders. Sparks spit up from the candle in his hand, like stars streaking across a black sky. They spun and spun, and their shadows spun with them.
They laughed, and since neither of them had much occasion to smile, the unpracticed sound was disjointed and rough-edged, and all the more delightful because of its purity. It echoed around them.
Irréelle became so dizzy her feet tangled together. Only then did she slow, catching herself against the dirt wall, and only then, out of breath and the world atilt, did she think of the pigtailed girls at play. She could not believe she had spun, like they had, with such abandon.
Finally, Guy stopped his spinning as well. He staggered over to her and pushed back a lock of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. “What are we waiting for?” He grinned, as if she had been the one to grab his hand.
“Not a thing,” she said.
The oak groaned as they tore into it with their bare hands.
12
The Above Side of the Graveyard
Side by side they worked. They said not a word and focused solely on carving a hole in the tree. The dead wood splintered. The wind found the tiniest cracks in the old tree and whined down the hollow.
They did not stop until they had gouged a hole in the trunk wide enough to fit through. “You should go first,” Irréelle said. “After all, you’ve been down here much longer than I have.”
His eyes clouded over. He took a deep sigh and stepped into the hollow, his silhouette outlined in orange flame.
&
nbsp; “Hold this for me.” He thrust the candle toward Irréelle.
She crept into the tree beside him. There was just enough room for them both at the base, but the tree grew narrower as it rose.
As Guy began to climb, black flecks of wood dusted down, scuffed off by his boots. Irréelle continued to look upward anyway and shielded her eyes with her hand as best she could. “Hurry,” she said, and then imagined him tumbling down the hollow and added, “but be careful.”
His hand slipped and then caught. “I’m always careful.” His scratchy voice floated down to her.
She thought of him trapped in the tunnel and was not reassured. “Be more careful.”
Soon after, she heard the crunch of dry wood breaking. It fell in larger pieces than before and she ducked her head. We’ll soon be out, she thought, too superstitious to say the words aloud.
“Watch out,” he said from above.
Irréelle stepped back into the chamber just as debris fell down the hollow and hit the ground where she had been standing. Along with it fell a shaft of frail light.
“Come on!” Guy called. “Come up!”
She blew out the candle and then rushed into the hollow. Her fingertips were sore and full of slivers, but she reached out and took hold of the first notch she could find. Scaling the tree, she might suffer a hundred more slivers, but she would be glad to have them if only she could make it to the top.
A fourth of the way up, her fingers curled around a knot that was damp to the touch. As she pulled upward it gave way. The rot crumbled. Her hand searched for another grip, flailing until it caught hold of a rough outcropping. She clung to the tree, pressed her face right to the wood, and did not move until she regained her balance. Not once did she look down.
As she neared the top, Irréelle thought she felt something brush against her ankle and scamper up her leg, but the sensation was gone as quickly as it had come. Likely just a trick of the wind.
Fractured light poured through the opening above. She focused on that until her hand reached through the hole and grabbed hold of a raised root. She squirreled out of the tree and knelt in the grass. It stained her knees green. Behind her, the dead tree sprouted black and twisted from the earth. Long branches, dripping with moss, stretched overhead and reached for the darkening sky.
She pushed to her feet.
For the first time, atop a small hill, Irréelle stood in the above side of the graveyard. It must have mirrored the tunnels below, but she felt lost among the long stretches of grass and the meandering pathways. The gray headstones lined in perfect rows gave it a somber tone. Angels wept into their hands. Gargoyles crouched with folded wings. It was all strangely beautiful in the pre-dusk evening.
The light was more silver than gold, misty, as if it might rain. It filtered through the branches and warmed her skin and seeped into her bones. She tilted her face toward the setting sun and let it chase the chills away. All this fresh air, she sucked it into her lungs. It smelled of grass and cherry blossoms.
She peeked at Guy from the corner of her eye, giving him space to take everything in. He squinted, but seemed set on staring straight at the sun, though his eyes must have burned. His chest rose and fell as if he struggled to catch his breath.
In the light, she saw more than the dust across his face and the dirt caked in his hair. He looked strong and fragile all at once. His jaw was set in a firm, straight line, and his eyes were dark and glassy.
They stood there, in the cover of the dead oak, and watched the sun sink beneath the horizon. Above them, the sky dimpled with the first stars of the night. The gravestones turned white in the moonlight.
“It looks like I chased the sun away,” Guy said.
“Or maybe you just called to the moon.” Irréelle walked toward him.
“Are you hurt? You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.” She gave him a closed-mouth smile that was not really a smile at all.
“Okay,” Guy said. “Well, anyway … thanks. I thought I was going to be stuck in the tunnel forever, and that’s a very long time indeed.”
“I’m glad I found you,” she replied.
“Now, if only you had brought a hot bath and a hot meal along with you, it would have been a proper rescue.” He brushed his hands over his sleeves. Dirt fell from the folds and wrinkles.
“If only.” Of course, then it was all she could think about. Soaking in a tub full of bubbles, water so hot it turned her skin pink and eased the aches from her bones, followed by a potato potpie warm from the oven. Her stomach rumbled.
She wanted to return to the house at once. If she arrived with Guy, Miss Vesper would have to see she was useful, able to find someone who was missing for so long. Maybe she would trust her with the other task, whatever it might be. And maybe they could build a different relationship, the kind Irréelle had always longed for.
But as it was, Miss Vesper would take one look at them, one whiff of them, and follow through on her threat to imagine Irréelle away and burn her bones. She could not let that happen.
“We can’t present ourselves to Miss Vesper looking like this,” she said, and slapped her hands against her thighs. Dust rose from her skirt.
“I thought you ran away from her.” Guy poked his finger through a hole in his trousers, which only made it bigger.
“Yes, well, I shouldn’t have done so. I could never outrun Miss Vesper’s reach anyway.” She tensed, fearful that Miss Vesper might strike her down then and there, patience waning, at last returning Irréelle to dust for her disobedience. “It all might have been a misunderstanding. She’s probably as worried about me as she is about you.” Irréelle crossed her arms, cradling the left one against her stomach, dismayed by how false her words sounded. So wistful for the way things could have been.
He raised his eyebrow. “I suppose that’s true. She’s equally not worried about either one of us.”
“Oh, that’s a horrible thing to say.” Irréelle frowned at the truth in his words, but pressed on. “You see, she will have to forgive me when I bring you back with me.” Forgive me and accept me.
Guy shook his head. “I doubt that.” His hoarse voice came out as a whisper. “Besides, I’m never going back.”
13
Night Folds Close
She wanted to throttle him.
Her hands fell to her sides and she clenched her skirt in tight fists so he would not see them shaking. The wind whined through the branches as if in harmony with her dark mood and lashed her hair into her face. Irréelle did not bother to brush it away. “But you have to. You have to come back with me.”
“I’m not,” Guy said. “There’s no way. Not ever.” He clenched his jaw, which looked especially sharp on his long, thin face.
“But Miss Vesper needs us.” Her throat tightened up. She imagined Miss Vesper sitting in the armchair before the fireplace, alone with her insomnia, staring into the dying embers as she paged through her tiny notebook. Waiting for her sleeping serum to heavy her eyelids.
But if Irréelle was honest, it was not Miss Vesper who needed them, but Irréelle who needed Miss Vesper.
She sighed, already knowing he would not like the next thing she would say, but it weighed on her more than anything. “It’s the only thing I can think of to earn her forgiveness.”
“What do you want to go back there for?” His gravelly voice sounded more abrasive than its usual rasp. “Why do you want her forgiveness?”
Irréelle lifted her head. She looked straight at him with her muddled eyes, one green and gold and brown, the other flecked with blue. She did not fold her arms to hide their uneven lengths or straighten her shoulders to affect better posture. She knew he could not help but see her white hair and pale lashes, and every bony, crooked angle of her body. “I don’t belong anywhere else.”
This time, he was the one to look away. “Don’t say that,” he mumbled.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” She wanted him to admit it as much as she wanted him to deny it
, but of course she could not have it both ways.
“I don’t know where you belong,” he said. She lifted her chin, but he was not finished. “But you do not belong with Miss Vesper.”
“Then I don’t belong anywhere. I am not even real.” The words slipped out, the deepest, most awful fear she kept close to her heart, affirmed by Miss Vesper countless times. Remember, my dear, you do not really and truly exist. You are a figment of my imagination, tethered here by the finest thread.
And she did not know when that thread might unravel or snap.
Only Miss Vesper could make her real. Or rather, Miss Vesper’s magic. The very thought of it gave her shivers.
Guy seemed to make little of her admission. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard. You are more than real.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Only that you are more brave, more strange, and right now, more stubborn than anyone I have ever met,” he grumbled.
“Yes. I am quite aware of how strange I am. Thank you very much,” she said curtly.
She stepped out from under the moss-covered branches of the dead tree, upset even though she knew he had spoken nothing but the truth. Still, she did not want to talk to him anymore just then. She began to walk down the hill to lose her way among the tombstones. Her stride was awkward, and for once, she did not care.
“Wait.” Guy ran after her.
At first she thought he was calling after her to apologize, but when she glanced over her shoulder, the look on his face told her otherwise. His eyes were wide with surprise, not remorse.
“It’s on your dress!” His arms waved wildly.
“What?” She reached behind her. Her skin prickled, and something tugged her hair. “What is it? Get it off me!” She fumbled, trying in vain to swat at whatever it was that clung to her dress.
Guy rushed to her side and smacked her hard across the back with the flat of his hand (harder than he had to, she thought). She flinched, not from the contact, although it did hurt rather a lot, but from what he had flung to the ground.
The Bone Garden Page 6
