Page 19 of Blackwicket
Disbelief furrowed my brows, and I ceased lingering on the walk, setting on my way with greater haste. If I could be sure of one thing, if I’d ever belonged here, I didn’t now.
There was something wrong in Nightglass, somethingunfamiliar and crooked. I yearned for my sister, wishing I could ask her about all that had happened to alter this town, turning it into a strange world that barely mimicked the home I’d once known, making it as foreign to me as the moon.
The crowd thinned the farther I ventured, and when I turned down the street along the western edge of the Nightglass estate, I became the only pedestrian. I paused at the corner, contemplating the town jewel in its muted winter colors: white stone and brown gardens dusted with snow, dormant for the season. These lawns extended to the rear of the house, where the banquet room was visible, its many windows reflecting the last rays of daylight. Gray smoke billowed from the chimneys high above, and below, a bevy of stone balustrades and terraces, vines clinging like spiderwebs, bare of their greenery. Although my view was limited, I noticed movement inside the glass-encased hall, the warm illumination of lights. It was no business of mine what went on in that house, wrapped in its veneer of virtue, and I turned away.
The estate cast a shadow over this street, making the temperature nearly unbearable. As I pulled the collar of my coat close to my cheeks, I continued down a lane lined with neglected municipal buildings overlooked during the town’s renovation: a modest city hall and post office, along with a small library wedged between them as a mere afterthought, deserted. Past a narrow alley, partially obscured by the crooked trunk of an oak tree planted to create a sense of separation from sorrows, stood the Nightglass morgue.
I opened the modest door marked with simple gold lettering: “Farvem Funeral Home.” It seemed Mr. Farvem, the undertaker, still owned the place. I recalled little of him, except that he had a grandson who’d thrown dirt in my eyes and called me a whore when I was eleven. My instincts urged me to flinchaway, but I stepped resolutely inside, enveloped by dim light and dark wood paneling. A bell chimed, but the thick carpeting dampened the sound, leaving nothing but a faint echo of its ring in my ears. The stillness was absolute, and in it, I was free to imagine the cries of children, mothers, lovers, and friends seeping from walls that had so dutifully collected them. My vision narrowed, heartbeat hammering as though driving nails into a coffin.
“Ma’am? Are you alright?”
In the midst of my turmoil, an elderly man had materialized out of nowhere, or perhaps he’d been there all along and my panic had made me blind to him. He was sturdy, with a low center of gravity, standing barely an inch taller than I. There was a swath of thick silver hair at his temple, hardly thinning, and his face, softened by years and the wisdom his profession afforded him, was kindly, watery green eyes keen.
“Mr. Farvem?” I asked weakly, taken aback by how well the undertaker appeared for a man who must be in his ninth decade. A pointless thought penetrated my mental fog, helping ground me: perhaps I’d misremembered him to be older than he was, my child mind viewing adulthood as one long stretch of old age.
“You’re pale, and I’m worried you’re going to take a tumble. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to an overstuffed armchair. Repulsion rose, strange and immediate, and I took a step away from it. The spongy cushions looked too ready to welcome grievers, too eager for them to sink deep in their misery. To distract myself from feeling woozy, I considered making a joke about how my pallid complexion was entirely natural, but my voice found a sticking place where tears gathered in my throat. Still, the shift in thoughts did the trick, and the gray haze of panic lifted its hand an inch. Fainting in the front hall of this funeral parlor wouldn’t do me any favors.
“I’ve come…” The words finally formed, though they were tattered at the edges, and I was forced to clear my throat. The genuine sympathy in Mr. Tarvem’s expression was making this difficult. “I’ve come to change arrangements for my sister.”
“Change arrangements?”
“Yes. I’m her only living family. Some decisions were made regarding her burial that would grieve her. I want to amend them.”
The undertaker nodded, understanding, prepared to do whatever was needed for those left behind by the dead in his care.
“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your sister is laid to rest in a manner appropriate to the wishes of her family, but I apologize, I’m afraid I don’t recognize you. As much as it pains me to admit, I can’t recall who your sister might be.”
My breath stalled in my throat, and Mr. Farvem waited, likely believing he understood why I paused before saying my sister’s name.
“Fiona Blackwicket,” I said at last.
The anticipated horror didn’t materialize, though there was a slight jump in the muscle near his left eye.
“Blackwicket?” he repeated, slow, “Miss Fiona had no living family other than her father, I was told.”
“You were misinformed.”
“So,” he said, intrigued, an unusual reaction, “A Blackwicket. Are you, perhaps, Eleanora?”
A lie quivered on my tongue, instincts still inclined to conceal my identity. Instead, I nodded in silent affirmation, not yet ready to come back to myself aloud.
“I know this is very difficult for you,” he said, his approach delicate. “Please be assured everything is already taken care of. The details needn’t worry you.”
This was ground I could confidently tread, the reason I’d come.
“About that.” I pressed a finger briefly to my temple as if tohold the thoughts in place. “I want Fiona buried on Blackwicket property.”
“I can imagine it’s important to you that your sister be buried next to your mother, somewhere safe.” His gaze was steady, scrutinizing.
I tilted my head, perplexed. If there was a grave for my mother in the little cemetery at the bottom of the hill where the Blackwickets rested their bones, there was nothing in the casket. The Fiend would have spared nothing of Isolde Blackwicket, body or soul. “Unfortunately, it’s quite impossible.”
“Why?” I asked, meeting his gentleness with abrasion. I hadn’t come all this way to be rebuffed by someone with no right to refuse me.
“The funeral arrangements for Fiona Blackwicket have already been generously paid for and set into motion.”
The door from the street opened and closed, and Mr. Farvem straightened, glancing over my shoulder. I didn’t budge. I wouldn’t be dismissed. My ordeal with the Authority had taught me several lessons, among them how to dig in my heels.
“Certainly not by Darren Rose?” I said. Darren never had more than a few dollars to his name at any given time. I’d be shocked to learn he’d scrounged enough together to pay for a funeral or that he even cared enough to do it. Mr. Farvem glanced behind me again, frustrating me with his attempts to excuse himself from our exchange.
