Page 56 of Blackwicket
“Not if I don’t want to be.” I rejected her prediction, my vehemence making her laugh.
“The power of apathy must be nice, but some of us like to be alive, Eleanora,” she said. “We still have people we love, lives we want, futures we hope for, and all of it can be taken away, as slowly and horribly as watching your own skin being baked off the bone.”
She was right, I’d said something stupid and unfeeling, and Thea’s admonishment humbled me.
“I’m sorry,” I replied at length. “I’m sorry you’re trapped here.”
“And so are you. I guess it remains to be seen what you’ll make of it.”
I exited but couldn’t stand to end our exchange here.
“Fiona’s funeral is tomorrow at noon. Despite everything, I believe you were a genuine friend to her, Thea, and I’d welcome you.”
Thea’s smile lacked showmanship and looked only unbearably sad.
“No,” Thea said. “I can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I’d rather keep pretending she finally got out.”
“She did,” I replied, gently.
Thea’s eyes filled with tears, which spilled over her cheek as I closed the car door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Morning came, gray and dismal. The day of my sister’s funeral had finally dragged itself by its fingernails to the front door of Blackwicket House. I’d slept terribly, waking with a cold, empty stomach, and a heaviness on my chest. It was the weight of dread at what I’d soon face—the final separation from my sister. Six feet under.
I emerged from the bedroom and noticed Inspector Harrow’s door ajar. Closer inspection revealed the room cleared and the bed neatly made. Skeptical of his departure, I checked the parlor, but it was dark. The car was missing, parked neither in the front nor back.
It appeared Harrow had left Blackwicket House for good.
Snow had fallen in the night, blanketing the ground in soft white, likely hindering the gravediggers as they prepared Fiona’s final resting place in the family plot.
I found myself eager for my father to arrive, but hadn’t talked to him since he’d invited to pay for my room in town. I wondered whether he was still around. It would be typical of him to have second thoughts, hop on a train, and vanish, too cowardly to confront something this difficult head-on. I attempted to convince myself I was being unfair. Darren had, until now, done more for me than he’d ever done in his life, and I’d rebuffed him at every opportunity. Maybe today was when I’d reach across the chasm he’d created and take his hand. Hewas right. We were all we had. It wasn’t treasure, but was preferable to emptiness.
The house felt strangely inactive, listless, its steady hum a bare whisper. I sat in the foyer, the space I’d often occupied as a child, allowing myself to be vulnerable and encouraging the house to connect with me. Even Auntie lurking beneath the stairs would have been welcome, but there was nothing.
I was alone.
Wishing for the puddle of sunlight from so long ago, I lay on the floor and cried.
No one came to fetch me. An ancient car pulled to the gate and stopped, Mr. Farvem climbing from it. He was too weak to walk the hill, so I suspected he’d wait at the cemetery.
Darren hadn’t yet arrived, and it was already noon.
I dressed in a skirt of my own, but wore a vest of Fiona’s, spritzed her honeysuckle perfume in my hair, then wrapped myself in my old coat, proceeding to her graveside. The hole was open, the coffin already lowered in.
“Afternoon, Ms. Eleanora.”
Mr. Farvem greeted me with his usual gentleness. If Patrick were this man’s grandson, he had to be a black sheep. As I reached the bottom of the hill, Farvem took my hands in his, and this human contact was almost too much.
“Steady on,” he said with affection, offering a comforting squeeze and a tight smile. “I’m afraid I have unfortunate news.”
“At this point, Mr. Farvem, I’m immune to unfortunate news,” I replied, the words clotted in my throat.
“Well.” He paused, the wind bustling his white hair, the furrows of his age-worn skin deepening further as he frowned. “Only one man showed up to dig this morning. I’m old, you know, and can’t do such things anymore. Once it was done, he took off. Couldn’t convince him to stay.”
He sighed and glanced at the hill of dirt, two shovels stuckin, trowel first, like markers for the dead. There was no one to fill the hole, to pile the earth on my sister’s casket.
“I’ll see to it.” My reply was swallowed by the sudden gale. The undertaker and I braced ourselves, and when the air was calmer, he shook his head.
