The Bone Garden Page 8

  “I know. It makes my head ache just thinking about it. And I had a lot of time to think.”

  She rubbed her temples. “Did you come up with anything, then? Any ideas?”

  “No. Nothing. I’ve looked everywhere and never found it. Or maybe I have and just didn’t realize it. Sometimes I think she sent me out knowing I would fail.” Guy continued to dig his heel into the dirt.

  Her head snapped up. “I think this task is something very important to her. Something she entrusted to you.” And not to me, she thought, not without a little envy.

  Guy bent down and stuck his fingers into the small hole he had made in the ground. “Her mistake, then.”

  “Help me find it.”

  “Got it,” he said, but he was not responding to Irréelle. He pulled a worm out of the soil. Pinched between two of his fingers, it squirmed.

  “Don’t!” she said. Her stomach clenched tight.

  He dropped the worm into his open mouth and swallowed. “Want one?”

  “That’s disgusting. No, thank you.” She sat on the bench, turning away from Guy before he gobbled up another worm. Her left foot touched the dirt, her right foot dangled just above it. “Will you help me or won’t you?”

  Guy stood up. His bones creaked as he walked over to the other bench and sat down. They faced each other. “And what if you find what she wants? What will she need you for then?”

  Irréelle had not thought of it, and another worry bloomed alongside all the others, but she did not show it. “She’ll still need bone dust, won’t she? I’m mostly good at collecting that.” Only the idea of spending her days in the underside of the graveyard no longer appealed to her. All she could think about was having a life beyond those dark passages.

  She chewed her lip. It would have to be a trade of sorts. If only Irréelle could lead Miss Vesper to the unmarked grave, she would ask Miss Vesper for a magical bone dust blend in return. One that would make her real.

  It no longer seemed like a fanciful dream. Almost, almost, she believed it possible.

  “Please,” she said.

  Guy considered. “I’ll help you. But after that, I’m leaving.”

  “Where will you go?” Irréelle felt a pang in her chest.

  “No idea.” He lay back on the bench, one leg bent, one leg hanging over the side. He draped his arm across his eyes and yawned. “But you should come with me. Don’t go back to Miss Vesper.”

  Irréelle considered for a moment, imagining the adventures she and Guy would have beyond Miss Vesper’s house, beyond the graveyard, beyond the only little world they had ever known. She did not want to tell him it was hopeless. One day, Miss Vesper would simply sever the tether and imagine them away. It was precisely the reason they needed to come to an accord.

  “Guy? What makes her think there is an unmarked grave?” she asked instead of answering.

  He yawned again. “She said she feels it in her bones.”

  Irréelle nodded (even though Guy could not see her with his arm over his eyes), as she thought it reasonable that bones could tell such secrets. After all, she too felt their pull in the underside of the graveyard, all the stories and emotions humming through them. “Whose grave is it? Do you know?”

  “Don’t know.” He rolled to his side, turning his back to her. “Now let me rest for a few minutes. Or a few days. My head hurts.”

  She was surprised he had admitted it, so only said, “Okay.” She pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. Although she was tired too, exhausted actually, there was no way she could sleep. She wanted to run into the graveyard and begin the search at once. Of course, she had no idea where to start or what to look for. Why was this unmarked grave so important to Miss Vesper?

  Irréelle fidgeted on the bench, not sure how long Guy needed to rest, and not sure what to do to occupy the time. She ran her fingers over the cold stone where someone had long ago engraved a dedication. Moonlight leaked through the wisteria vines and it provided just enough light to see by.

  In memory of Aurora Anna Calhoun. No matter where you wander, you reside in my heart.

  The letters were worn down by the elements. She traced their edges again, trying to imagine what it would be like to be so well loved. The way N.M.H. must have loved Miss Vesper, enough to defy death. Suddenly, she felt very empty inside.

  She stood up, averting her eyes from the bench, and looked through the vines again. Although it was dark, the night did not compare to the absolute blackout of the tunnels without a candle, so she could see quite well in the above side of the graveyard. The moon had risen higher in the sky. It drenched the tombstones with silvery light. There was no sign of the watchman on the path, and there was no sign of the Hand.

  Yet she suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching her. (Not Guy, for he was still snoring behind her.) Her skin tingled with gooseflesh. For all she knew, the Hand was tip-fingering closer, crouched low in the grass, hidden in the shadow of a tombstone. Or else the watchman, who must have known every inch of the cemetery, had dimmed his light and sneaked closer, one hand out ready to turn her to stone.

  Part of her wanted to retreat to the corner of the arbor and wait for Guy to wake, but another part of her, the part that remembered the feeling she had when Guy called her brave (and stubborn), did not want to sit still any longer. She took a bold step through the arch.

  Ahead, an owl hooted. Irréelle looked up, up, up. Atop one of the tallest branches of a nearby tree, the owl observed the cemetery. It spread its wings and rose into the air, screeching as it dove. She raised her arms, but it sought smaller prey. It swooped toward the ground and then lifted up with powerful wings, something small and brown in its clutches.

  Irréelle thought the little animal was done for, but somehow it twisted free of the owl’s claws and dropped a very long way to the ground. The owl circled above. Irréelle ran over to where the animal had fallen. The owl circled again, and she waved her arms, hoping to scare it off. It screeched one last time over its lost prey and flew away.

  She crouched down and cautiously parted the grass, afraid the poor animal was dead. Only it was not an animal at all. Again it was the Hand.

  It lay very still. Its bent fingers curled into its palm and it was streaked red with blood where the owl’s talons had nicked it. For all the trouble it had caused, she could not leave it there, wounded and alone.

  She scooped it into her skirt and dabbed at the cut with the cleanest part of her hem. Once she wiped the blood away, the cut was actually quite small. However, she still could not tell how badly it was hurt (or if it was dead, which she did not want to consider), as it lay in her lap unmoving.

  And then it gave a little twitch. Maybe it was only playing dead, she thought.

  “It’s okay.” She spoke in the same soft tone she used with the skeletons when gathering bone dust. “The owl’s gone.”

  There was no way to know if the Hand understood, but it tucked its fingers together instead of darting away or scratching at her face, which was an improvement over its previous behavior. She slipped the Hand into the pocket of her dress and went to wake Guy. Whether he needed more rest or not, she could not wait any longer.

  When she reached the arbor, she pushed back the vines and stepped through the arch. A strangled breath escaped from between her lips.

  Guy lay in the same position on the bench, still as could be, turned to stone by the watchman.

  17

  N.M.H.

  Guy’s skin was gray, his body unmoving.

  Irréelle slipped closer. Her heart pounded in double time to her timid steps. She should not have left him alone while he slept. It was her fault the watchman had found him while he was so vulnerable. It was her fault Guy had turned to stone.

  She leaned over him. “Oh, Guy,” she whispered, her throat raw with unshed tears.

  A great snore shattered the quiet.

  Irréelle shrieked and Guy shot upright. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?” Wild-eyed, he look
ed all around, finally focusing on Irréelle.

  Her cheeks flushed with heat. “I thought … I thought the watchman had turned you to stone.” However, upon closer inspection, she realized his gray skin was more a matter of dirt and moonlight than graveyard granite.

  “I’d never let him get close enough.”

  In relief, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Before she could wipe it away, the Hand darted out of her pocket, crept up her arm, and then, perched on her shoulder, it brushed the tear from her face. She blinked at the Hand.

  Guy jumped at the sight of it. “Did that just crawl out of your pocket?” He shifted from foot to foot, hands out, preparing to make a grab for it if it leapt to the ground.

  “Yes. It was resting.”

  He seemed torn about whether to leave it be or to smack it from Irréelle’s shoulder. When it made no move to attack or flee, he held his index finger out toward it, much like he would approach a dog to prevent getting bitten, allowing the animal to smell him before scratching it behind the ears or rubbing its belly.

  Irréelle sniffed. “Careful, it’s hurt. An owl tried to eat it for supper.”

  Guy’s eyes widened. He withdrew his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of his pants. Two of his fingers poked out the hole in the bottom.

  “I saved it and now it seems to be playing nice.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the Hand lift its fingers from her shoulder and curl like a claw. Before she could stop it, the Hand reached out. Her head jerked to the side and she grimaced. The Hand combed its fingers through a snarl in Irréelle’s white hair. Though it was not overly gentle, she bit her tongue and let it work out the knot to show her own good faith toward bettering the relationship.

  Guy watched it skeptically. “Are you sure you can trust it?”

  The Hand paused as if offended by the question, so she responded hastily in the affirmative. “Yes, yes, I’m sure.” But of course, she was not sure at all.

  He raised an eyebrow but said no more about it.

  The Hand raked its fingers through another tangle until the strands of hair were more or less smooth. Then it scurried down her arm and tucked itself back into her pocket. She patted it in thanks.

  “Well, since I haven’t turned to stone,” Guy said, smiling while Irréelle rolled her eyes, “we may as well begin our search for the unmarked grave.”

  “That is very clearly marked,” Irréelle added.

  They walked over to the archway and peered out at the graveyard through the web of vines. All was quiet. Guy stepped out first, and Irréelle followed. The moon glowed directly overhead in the one cloudless slip of sky. While its soft light allowed them to see quite well, it also made it easier to be seen.

  Irréelle looked left and right down the stony path. “Where do you suppose the watchman is?”

  “He could be anywhere.” Guy turned down the first row of tombstones. “So we’ll keep clear of the path. And we’ll start in the place I left off.”

  “What should I be looking for?”

  “I don’t really know. Anything irregular. Something out of place.”

  But there was so much ground to cover, too much to explore before sunrise. It would take weeks to properly search the cemetery. Maybe months, if she had no better luck than Guy had. The task felt suddenly overwhelming.

  “Isn’t it all rather strange?” she asked as they passed an enormous gravestone topped with a single stone crow on one side and a much smaller gravestone wrapped in iron briars on the other.

  “I suppose.” Guy’s eyes were downturned, as if he might stumble across the unmarked grave.

  “Why would there be a grave without a headstone?”

  “Maybe we’re looking for a criminal. Someone dishonorable.”

  “Miss Vesper would not be trying to find the grave of a criminal.”

  “Are you so sure?” Guy glanced over his shoulder at Irréelle.

  She was no longer sure of anything. They lapsed into silence. She gazed at each headstone they passed, taking note that they were all marked, not that she had expected otherwise.

  As they continued to wander through the graveyard, Irréelle tried to imagine she was on the underside, and by doing so she began to orient herself as if she were walking through the tunnels. Up and down the rows they went, until they had reached the far west side, just where she imagined the oldest tunnel to be. To the southeast, beyond the fence that surrounded the entire cemetery, was Miss Vesper’s house, snug among its neighbors. To the northeast was the dead oak and Miss Vesper’s grave, separate from all the others. And empty.

  “Here’s where we should start.” Guy stopped between two headstones. One was topped with a stone wreath, the other with a statue of a robed figure, head bowed. Irréelle wondered if the figure had once been real, but then shook the thought away.

  “One thing first.” She chewed on her lip. “What do you think happened to N.M.H.? If he brought Miss Vesper to life, why is she all alone?”

  Gray clouds blotted out the moon. They moved quickly and cast shadows across Guy’s face. He swiped one finger across his throat as if it were a knife cutting into skin. “He’s probably at the bottom of the unmarked grave.”

  She gaped at him, horrified he could believe such a thing. “You think Miss Vesper killed him?”

  Guy narrowed his eyes. They darkened like a coming storm. “It’s exactly the type of thing she would do. She has no heart.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Irréelle insisted. She remembered the heart that someone had carved around the initials. “Not if she loved him.”

  “She doesn’t love anyone.” Guy’s mouth twisted into a frown.

  A lump formed in her throat, a reminder of all she was missing. If she did not already know how much Guy despised Miss Vesper and cared nothing for her approval, she might have thought his feelings were hurt.

  “She probably can’t remember where she buried him and sent us on this goose chase to find his grave and stop him from haunting her.”

  Irréelle did not want to argue anymore, so she did not remind him that there were no such things as ghosts.

  She turned it around and around in her mind: who N.M.H. might be, if he rested at the bottom of the unmarked grave, whether or not Miss Vesper loved him. And more than anything, she wondered how Miss Vesper had passed through the veil from death to life.

  She let these thoughts simmer as she walked along, listening to the bones buried deep in the earth. She was so familiar with them from all her time in the underside of the graveyard that she recognized their unique vibrations, as though some connection existed within her, binding her to the dead. But none of the bones called to her or whispered solemnly. They all seemed quite at peace, resting where they were meant to rest.

  She was glad for that, of course, but it also made her uneasy. What if N.M.H. was not buried here at all?

  Irréelle clenched her fists, refusing to consider that possibility. She rounded on the closest headstone, scouring it with her eyes as if the bones might reach through dirt and scratch a map to the unmarked grave on its surface.

  But of course, all she saw were the weather-worn letters carved long ago, set in remembrance of a kind soul, gone too soon. The epitaph could have been written for almost anyone, too vague to be of any help.

  Irréelle scanned the gravestone beside it with equal intent. And then all the rest in the row. Some inscriptions were plain but heartfelt. Others praised the good deeds of the deceased or the manner of their fine work, such as the soft-hearted baker and the nimble-fingered locksmith.

  And though it was almost like reacquainting with old friends, the more headstones she surveyed, the more hopeless her task seemed. Guy appeared to be faring no better, grumbling as he marched along.

  She let out a shaky sigh but pushed on to the next one. With the clouds darkening the sky and the crumbling of the old gravestone, Irréelle had to lean very close to read the inscription. It was simple and sweet in its brevity, and she did not think much of the words until
she read the one beside it, etched in the same slanted script.

  Beneath her feet the bones hummed in perfect synchrony.

  Irréelle’s heart galloped in her chest. “Guy,” she whisper-hissed, wanting his attention, but ever mindful of the watchman, wherever he roamed. Guy turned away from the stone he had been inspecting and jogged over to her side.

  “Look here.” She waved her arm toward the graves. The markers were so closely spaced that the stones almost kissed.

  “We’re looking for one grave, not two,” Guy said, as if she needed a reminder.

  Before he could shrug away her excitement, she dragged him closer. Maybe he would feel the interwoven pulse of the underground bones.

  He looked from one marker to the other and then his eyebrows shot up in understanding. “Lovebirds?”

  “Yes,” Irréelle said. “Maybe in just this way, N.M.H. buried himself by Miss Vesper.”

  They grinned at each other and then at the gravestones.

  Beside the crooked marker for a most devoted husband leaned its mirror image for his most beloved wife. Whether married or otherwise, those in love lay side by side, unwilling to let death keep them apart.

  N.M.H. would not be tucked away in the cemetery, a stranger among the bones. He would rest by Miss Vesper (or at least, by her plot beneath the oak) without thought or worry that he might remain forever nameless in an unmarked grave.

  For all the love Miss Vesper had denied her, Irréelle still warmed inside that someone could care so much for another. Something far beyond words.

  Like friendship, Irréelle realized. She did not need Guy to declare they were friends. It was enough that he stood beside her. The knowing, the feeling of friendship and love mattered most of all.

  “Come on,” Guy said, tearing away.

  They were halfway down the row, running back toward the hill, when Irréelle stiffened. The tiny white hairs on her arms stood up. “Do you feel that?”

  “What?” Guy’s mouth formed the word, but a clap of thunder drowned out his voice.