Page 71 of Brutal King

“All right.” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. Yes, going outside seems suddenly overwhelming, as if the world is too big and I might float away without the manor walls to keep me grounded. But becoming prisoner to my own fear on top of being Gideon’s captive is far more terrifying. “I’ll grab my things.”

Gideon had a few hoodies and jeans with him the last time he went to Philadelphia. I tug on the Eagles one, my blue jeans and a new pair of hiking boots that must have cost him a fortune. Then, because he’s yet to bring me coats, I take one from his closet.

“I’ll get you your own coat this week,” he says, resting against the door jamb of his bedroom, a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

“Don’t. It makes me think you don’t plan on letting me go.”

“Interesting thought.”

I follow him out, into the bright sunshine and crisp air. Damn, it’s beautiful here. If nothing else, I can say that. Were it not for my circumstances, I’d love to visit a place like this.

We go around the house and toward the edge of the trees where there’s a path I hadn’t noticed from my balcony. It goes in a long way, perhaps half a mile. Then, little by little the trees give way to a small clearing. Within, there’s a tall brick wall, too high for me to see over.

“You once told me photography is a way to tell a story. Here is one for you to capture,” Gideon says when we stop in front of an intricate iron door set in the center of a brick wall.

“Is there a garden in there?” I peek through the bars to discover that, while there are flowers within, it’s not a garden at all, but a cemetery.

He opens the door for me and extends his hand, indicating for me to enter. I do so hesitantly, my camera held firmly against my chest.

I’ve never been a fan of cemeteries, perhaps because I’ve been to them more times than I care to. First, for my mother. Then Pops. My sweet Tony. And last, Carina’s sister, Alma.

However, they are buried in a semi-enclosed part of St. Joseph’s in New York. It’s open and big, somewhere you can see all of life’s casualties. All the death.

This is different. I never imagined that the words magical and eerie could be used to describe the same place, but I can here. Sunlight filters in streams through the canopy of trees, little motes floating through them, glittering like fairies. Green moss covers most of the ground, and branches of a floral vine, perhaps honeysuckle or jasmine, have taken over the fence that surrounds five graves and the large marble Celtic cross standing guard behind them.

“I had no idea there was anything in the woods. The trees seem so dense from above,” I tell him.

“Hiding things well is a specialty of mine.” His mouth pulls up to one side as he gives me a pointed look.

“Ha. Very funny.” I move closer to the cross. “You’re Irish.”

“Born in Dublin.”

“May I?” I lift my camera in question.

He nods and I approach, the Leica already to my eye. I take a photo of the entire site, then of each individual grave.

The first headstone reads,In Memory of Stephen Grant Black. Beside him liesWendy Lynn Black, Beloved Wife and Mother. The other three remain blank.

“Who are they?” I ask, though I already know.

“My mother and father.” Gideon sets the bouquet of daisies on Wendy’s grave, his gaze unreadable as he stares at them. “The others are meant for my second and I.”

“You’re prepared,” I say.

“I suppose you can call it that,” he replies somberly.

“Does she know you have a hole set up ready for her to fall in?” I ask, unable to keep the venom from my tone.

“She asked me to so that she wouldn’t end up buried alone somewhere. It was actually her idea to have the plots set up. She says people like us don’t live to old age. That we are living on borrowed time as it is.”

“Oh.” That actually sounds kind of sad. I capture some images of the nameless graves and a chill crawls over me. “The Sinacores have a family plot too. I want to be buried there, but I hate knowing that there’s already a place waiting for me. Seems like an invitation for death.”

“I agree.”

“You said the other two are for you and your second. What about the third? Who is that for?” I walk around, getting different angles and lighting. When I look back, he’s doing that same thing he’d been doing earlier, staring off blankly, only this time, his eyes are on the tombs.

“A brother I lost, long ago.” Something about his face, the way the shadows mark the lines of it as he remains so still, seems appropriate for this place. So melancholy and so beautiful at the same time. He’s like the statues of angels placed in cemeteries. A dark, sad angel.

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