Irréelle’s bones would not lie to her.
Miss Vesper’s head reared back. The light caught her eyes, and they flashed. “Of course he’s there. Where else would he be?”
Irréelle had sensed him the very morning she picked tulips for Miss Vesper but had not even realized a set of bones rested so close. Irréelle’s eyes tore over the yard and all the trees within it.
Her bones guided her straight to the little stepping stone path she had spied from the attic window. Grass grew long over the stones and many were cracked with age, but all at once Irréelle realized why they had reminded her of the underside of the graveyard.
Like the tunnel wending toward Miss Vesper’s casket, hearts lined the way.
Irréelle faltered. If she went forward, she would be giving Miss Vesper everything she wanted and did not deserve. But that was not Irréelle’s judgment to make, and it was not the reason for her hesitation.
In that moment, she paused so it could sink in, the fact that Miss Vesper would never magic her real, that Irréelle would never unravel the formulas in Dr. Hauser’s journals.
I can be nothing more than I already am, she thought.
“I will bring you to the unmarked grave, but you mustn’t harm Guy and Lass,” Irréelle said solemnly. Freeing her friends, whom she loved even more than the idea of being made real, was what she wanted most.
“Yes, yes. Whatever you want,” Miss Vesper said, edging closer.
“Promise.” Irréelle would not let Miss Vesper trick her this time. “You must promise on Dr. Hauser’s grave.”
Miss Vesper flicked her hand, as if the fates of Guy and Lass were of little importance. “I promise on my most beloved.” The words, even spiked with Miss Vesper’s harsh tongue, rang true.
Turning, Irréelle followed the hearts beneath her feet and the one pounding in her chest. Miss Vesper stepped stone to stone after her.
At the end of the path, Irréelle stopped. There, a hawthorn grew willowy and slim, younger than the others in the yard. Its branches were full, the leaves summer-green and shiny. All the flowers were tiny and white, half-closed and waiting for the sunshine. An unruly lilac bush grew around it.
She shoved at the branches to get closer to the trunk. All the while, her bones hummed.
“Stay away from there,” Miss Vesper said.
“Is this your tree?” Irréelle asked, but she knew it must be.
“We planted it before the wedding. Something to grow with us. What does that matter now?” Miss Vesper hissed as she approached.
At first Irréelle saw nothing, only a tree like any other, and she feared she had made a horrible mistake. Then she noticed a marking in the bark. It was distorted by growth and aged by the weather and all but hidden behind the lilacs. Irréelle pulled back the leaves to get a closer look.
A heart. And within it, someone had carved the initials N.M.H. ♥ A.M.V.
“He’s here,” Irréelle said.
32
A True Heart
Irréelle swelled with both excitement and dread.
Miss Vesper came toward the tree, so gently she seemed to float. Her eyes locked on the engraving. At first, she did not seem to recognize what it said, or else disbelief struck her mute.
“An unmarked grave that is very clearly marked,” Irréelle whispered. “He marked the tree over your grave too, in just this way.”
Miss Vesper pushed Irréelle out of the way, but half-heartedly. Everything about her wilted, limbs like petals that wanted to fall away. Her head tipped to the side. She reached out, as if the air was dense and it took all her strength to pass through it. Her hand touched the wood. Miss Vesper gasped. The air snapped. Something stirred in Irréelle’s bones.
“All this time,” Miss Vesper said. “All this time my dear love was here. Here, resting beside me.”
Irréelle swallowed, keeping quiet, backing away. One wrong word and she might still end up at the bottom of the grave, and if that happened, there would be no one left to help Guy and Lass. They would all be doomed, despite Miss Vesper’s sacred promise.
Miss Vesper’s gaze fell to the grass around the tree. Below the encroaching lilac bush, it was flat like the rest of the yard. Nothing to tell what lay beneath. No headstone, no marker. Only the inscription on the tree.
Ever so gently, Miss Vesper used her magic to part the grass and sift the dirt. It swirled in the air, graceful and fine, like dark snowflakes falling upside down, gravity reversed. The gold-and-purple dawn filtered through the leaves. In the odd light, Miss Vesper looked otherworldly, skin cast gray, the veins in her cheeks twisting like the finest roots. They grew longer, curling across her jaw.
She held her hands close to her heart. The tips of her fingers strummed the air. Another layer of dirt swept skyward, an orbit of little planets.
Irréelle took another step back, quiet as could be. Her skin ran with static. Heat bubbled in her core, in her marrow and cinnamon blood. There was a thread, there was a tether, and, knowingly or not, Miss Vesper plucked it. Something in her chest pulled taut.
If she let herself, Irréelle thought she might be able to spin into the air like a mote of dust. Or fracture into a million particles. She clenched her teeth and held her stomach tight.
The dirt shifted faster, swirling, whirling, exposing bone. Against the dark earth, it gleamed.
Miss Vesper’s hands stilled. Perhaps she had expected to find Nicholas Montgomery Hauser perfect and whole; perhaps she had not expected to find him at all.
She let out a breath and lifted the rest of the dirt away from the bones. The grave was shallow; the skeleton was dressed in a once-fine suit.
In all her time in the underside of the graveyard, Irréelle had seen many skeletons, but she had never seen one quite so sorrowful. Its eye sockets were more oval than round, its bottom jaw was unhinged from the top, and it smelled, not like rot, but like rain.
Miss Vesper trembled. “You should never have brought me to life unless you were still in it.”
The skeleton said not a word.
“Nicholas,” Miss Vesper said. “Wake.”
The skeleton moved not an inch.
Miss Vesper’s hands reached out like white spiders, knuckles bent, fingers twitching. “Breathe,” she said. The air gasped, swirling around the hawthorn and shaking loose petals. “Breathe of the wind and with it soar fair skies.”
Irréelle recognized the line from the poem Lass had found. Could it be they were not a goodbye, but instead the very words used to give Miss Vesper life? Like a magical incantation? What of the second line, then?
Slowly, slowly, the skeleton rose. Its skull lolled to the side.
But there was no spirit in those bones. Irréelle felt only its desire for slumber. It had no life, no flesh to return to, for all those years ago it had given everything it had to resurrect Miss Vesper.
A twisted laugh fell from Miss Vesper’s too-wide mouth, the skin stretched so thin on her face her jaw shone through, bone-white and sharp. Her hair drained of color, glinting silver.
“Take of the life you have given me. Take it for your own,” Miss Vesper said. Her body strained, as if she was doing all she could to pour her very soul into the upright skeleton. The bones rattled and shook.
Irréelle did not mean to, but she must have made some small sound, for Miss Vesper turned to her then.
“You are tethered to me. I will take from you what I have given.” Her cheekbones protruded as if they might break free of her skin. “And when I have brought back my own dear love, you will be no more. You will return to dust and bone.” She said the last words in a throaty growl. “All three of you.”
“No!” Irréelle leapt forward. “You promised not to harm Guy and Lass.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt,” Miss Vesper said. A smile sliced across her gaunt face. “Unless they struggle.”
Threads of energy streaked through the air like lightning. They glowed midnight blue, flung out by Miss Vesper, and gold wound through them,
a softer, gentler magic that must have come from the bones of Nicholas Hauser.
Irréelle slipped away from their reach, which poked and snapped with static. Miss Vesper grasped for the particles of bone dust and imagination she had gifted Irréelle. Something fluttered in Irréelle’s chest, a fragile thing at the very center of her being that she felt more fully than she ever had before. She did not want to let it go.
Instead of backing up, Irréelle darted forward.
She thought of Guy and of Lass, and the light they carried within them. She even thought of the Hand. It was tethered to Lass, but it was also a creature all its own, full of spirit. Irréelle could not see herself as clearly, whether something in her shone that bright or not. But she could feel, deep down, a vibration that was hers alone, unlike any other.
This will not be our end, she had promised Guy, and she meant to keep her promise.
Irréelle had no magic, but she had purpose. On mismatched legs, she ran straight through the coiling mass of Miss Vesper’s power. It raked through her, intrusive and searching.
Miss Vesper lifted her arm as if to ward off Irréelle’s attack, but Irréelle flew past her. She collided with the skeleton, which twitched and jerked under Miss Vesper’s command, and Irréelle tumbled with it into the open grave.
“I’m sorry. I hope I have not damaged you.” She untangled her limbs from the bones. “If you permit me, I will return you to your grave.” Ever so gently, she straightened the skull, hoping it rested more comfortably.
“Don’t touch him!” Miss Vesper dropped to her knees in the grass and shoved Irréelle out of the shallow grave. When her eyes fell on the skeleton, her face softened. She caressed the side of his skull as if she saw Dr. Hauser full of life.
Behind Miss Vesper’s back, Irréelle scooped up a fistful of dirt. She sprinkled it in the grave and listened to the bones’ quiet thrum. They were so very tired and wanted only to rest. A golden thread of light pulsed. Clods of dirt lifted from the ground, following Irréelle’s lead, and began to fill the grave.
“What’s happening?” Miss Vesper’s head snapped up. She raised her hands, but perhaps she had grown too weak from all the magic she had called, for the earth continued to fall atop her and the skeleton.
“He’s given his life for you,” Irréelle said. “I don’t think he will allow you to give it back.”
“He must,” Miss Vesper said, but the dirt only fell faster, clumping in her hair, covering her ankles. She swatted it from her eyes.
“He wanted you to have it.” However, Irréelle did not think he would have liked how Miss Vesper chose to live it. Irréelle climbed to her feet, scrambling away.
“Don’t leave me alone, Nicholas. Breathe,” Miss Vesper said, the very word that brought the Hand to life. “Breathe of the wind—”
The skeleton lifted one bony hand.
What could the second line of the poem mean? Irréelle thought again. It flashed through her head. Hush still the night and rest evermore thine eyes. If it was not a goodbye (for he had written thine eyes, not mine eyes, she realized), and if the first line gave life—then the last line must take it.
“Hush,” Irréelle said. Her breath shaky, the rest of the words caught in her throat.
She cared for Miss Vesper, even still. If these words cast Miss Vesper to her grave, if they allowed her to rest in peace at last, it would be for love, not revenge. The only way possible for the magic to work.
Recited by a true heart, love blooms welcome and love gentles farewell.
Irréelle’s voice rang softly, like a bell. “Hush still the night and rest evermore thine eyes.”
Miss Vesper’s limbs trembled and quaked. She collapsed beside the skeleton and curled on her side. Her skin paled, cheekbones sharp in her narrow face, spider veins spreading over her neck and beneath the collar of her dress. Black lines slithered down the tops of her hands. She closed her eyes.
The dirt swelled and stormed. The air tingled with electricity. Irréelle’s skin rippled. Her rib cage pinched tight, oxygen forced out of her lungs. Something snapped, loud and sharp like a thunderclap. It reverberated in her chest. The storm cloud of dirt fell upon Miss Vesper and her dear love, burying them close together.
Irréelle exhaled. She stared at the ground.
She had not even told Miss Vesper goodbye.
The sky brightened another shade, purple turning pink, gold edged with blue. Irréelle would very much miss the sunrise and all of the other whispers of magic in the world, Guy and Lass most of all, but she had done what she needed to save them. Or at least offer them a peaceful ending. Miss Vesper could no longer hurt them.
Irréelle’s breath felt thin, her head light. She tilted her face to the horizon and waited for her bones to hush, evermore returned to dust.
33
Strange and Incredible
Sunlight kissed Irréelle good morning. It warmed her skin; it sank into her bones.
She did not turn to dust and blow away.
Her heart skipped fast and her legs wanted to do the same, reveling in the fact that she was alive. She hugged herself, every odd angle so familiar and shaped just right.
A clod of dirt hit her crooked spine.
Irréelle smiled. Earlier, something deep within her had fluttered. Now it thrummed. Something that had been there all along, only she had not been able to recognize it.
Another clump of dirt fell at her feet and broke apart. She swung toward the three open graves and limped toward the closest one. Dirt spit out of the grave and arced into the air. Still smiling, she leaned her head over the hole.
At the bottom stood Lass, knees bent, left arm up, a hunk of dirt in her fist. She was already launching the dirt when Irréelle popped her face over the side of the grave, so there was no time to stop her arm’s progress. Irréelle jumped out of the way.
Lass bounced on her heels. “What’s going on up there? Did I hit her? Did one of my dirt bombs save you?”
“Something like that,” Irréelle said.
Guy stood there too, of course. He was coughing and spitting on the ground. The dirt fell damp and dark from his mouth. When Irréelle met his eyes he grinned wide, showing off teeth caked with mud. “Did I mess up my smile?”
“Not one bit,” Irréelle said.
“What happened?” Guy asked. He scraped at his teeth with two fingers.
“There’s time for that later. Help us out of here before anything else.” Lass squinted into the sun as it poked higher in the sky.
“I’ll be right back.” Irréelle found an old ladder propped against the wall in the basement. It was missing one rung and another was almost in splinters, and she would not have used it in other circumstances, but it was the only ladder available and would have to do. She lugged it up the stairs and outside.
Lass climbed out of the grave with only one brief comment about the appalling condition of the ladder, and Guy, who followed right behind her, said nothing about it at all.
When they both reached the top, they scanned the yard for Miss Vesper. Their gazes fell on the mound of fresh-turned dirt beneath the hawthorn tree.
“Is that where the unmarked grave has always been?” Guy asked.
“Yes. And now it’s Miss Vesper’s grave as well.” She would have to show them the newspaper clipping and explain the poem and tell them everything else Miss Vesper had said, but later.
“Is she gone, like really for sure gone? And buried nice and snug?” Lass asked.
Irréelle’s throat burned. “Yes.”
They nodded solemnly, all three of them watching the unmarked grave as if Miss Vesper might burst through the dirt. A leaf blew off one of the branches and landed on the mound.
Guy placed a hand on Irréelle’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”
They turned away from the grave, walking past Irréelle’s boots still stuck in the ground and the crumbling fire pit where the fire had gone out. When they entered the house, they immediately heard something banging.
“What’s that?” Guy asked.
“The Hand!” Irréelle said.
Lass was already running ahead, following the sound to its source. They found her in the dining room. In the china cabinet, the Hand knocked against the glass. As Lass approached, it stopped and pressed the pads of its fingers to the door. She unlatched the bolt.
“There you are.” The Hand leapt for her shoulder. “Did Miss Vesper lock you in there?” Whatever gesture the Hand made, Lass seemed to understand. She nodded. “That’s terrible.”
Irréelle looked around the dining room, at the chandelier dripping with candles and the sturdy wooden table and the upholstered silver chairs that were as fancy as thrones. “We need to have a proper meal.”
“A feast,” Guy said.
“A celebration,” Lass said. “But first…”
“A bath,” Irréelle finished.
Each in turn, they bathed. (Guy went last and took the longest of all.) Skin scrubbed raw and clothing changed, they gathered in the kitchen.
“What’s there to eat?” Guy asked.
Irréelle and Lass had already been through the cupboards and the pantry. “Potatoes,” they said together. The basement was overflowing with them.
“What else?”
“Maybe there are enough ingredients to make bread.” Irréelle heaved a bag of flour to the counter.
“And?”
“More potatoes,” Lass said.
And then they proceeded to name all the different ways to cook a potato and got to work.
“Baked potatoes.”
“Mashed potatoes.”
“Potato potpie.”
“Boiled potatoes.”
“Potato soup.”
“Potato cakes.”
They talked as they baked and fried and boiled. Irréelle did not think any of them knew exactly what they were doing, but they did their best and managed not to burn anything except for the potato cakes. (And those, Irréelle thought, Guy burned on purpose. Although he bemoaned the blackened bits, he gobbled down every last one as he stood at the stove.)
The Bone Garden Page 16
