Page 76 of A Lullaby for Witches

It was her hair that he saw first, peeking up through the dirt, wet and tangled, but unmistakably hers. A cry escaped him, echoing through the still woods. Hadn’t he known as soon as he’d started digging what he would find here? How could it still feel as if he’d plunged underwater, held until he could no longer breathe?

His hands were cold and numb as he continued digging, his chest empty. Carefully, he brushed the last of the earth from her, lifting her in his arms. She was light, even in her wet clothes, looking like a poorly made doll of herself.If I had a someone worthy of such a love, I would do anything to keep them. I would cross oceans for them. I would fight battles for them, would carry them broken and cold home, tend to them and keep them safe with me always. I would not rest until they were by my side, where they belonged.

Shadow trailed them, head down, in a solemn procession back to the house. It was well past dusk when George pushed open the back door, his back aching, his mind frighteningly clear.

Henry was in the parlor, an unread book held loosely in his hand. At George’s entrance, Henry looked up, the book falling onto the floor with a thud.

“What...where did you find her?” he asked in a cracked whisper when he saw George.

“In a shallow grave bed in the woods,” George answered, his voice seeming to come from somewhere far away.

Henry picked up his empty glass, put it back down again. “Perhaps she ran afoul of some crook,” he said, his voice flat. “Or, maybe it was that witch woman she used to associate with. No one has seen her in some time.”

His theories might have been logical, but Henry’s guilt was written clear as day on the whiteness of his knuckles, the downward cast of his eyes.

“Her killer smoked,” George told him. There had been a stubbed-out cheroot near the grave, Henry’s brand. “Her killer was so callous, so unconcerned, that he took the time to light a cheroot and smoke it while his victim lay there.”

There was no doubt in George’s mind about Margaret’s killer, the only question was, why? “Why did you kill the woman you adored?” he forced himself to ask. “Why did you leave her to rot in the woods like an animal?”

Henry said nothing, offered no explanation and no denial. He didn’t even lift his head to meet George’s eye, the coward. But as George held her cold body and gazed at her peaceful countenance, he found he had not the energy to interrogate his brother. “You’re a monster,” he murmured. “You have lived under this roof for all these years, and there has been a darkness festering inside of you the whole time.”

“Will you report me?” Henry asked, his voice small, like that of a little boy.

George gave his brother a long, hard look. “We are Harlowes, aren’t we? Justice for Margaret would mean ruin for our parents. It would mean Ida’s family would revoke their blessing for the wedding. Besides, I am not sure she would get true justice in this town, not from the people that treated her so cruelly. No, I think her justice will be to see your suffering, your remorse and wretchedness. You may walk freely through the streets and go about your life, but you will be yoked to her memory for the rest of your days. She will never leave this house, and you will have to live knowing that she is here, watching you. Hating you.”

Henry made a strangled sound, crumpling to his feet. “I loved her! You have no idea. I loved her, I loved her, I loved her.”

George left his brother like that on the floor as he slowly staggered back down the hall and out to the back garden. How strong and convincing his words had sounded only moments ago. Was that the truth, that justice for Margaret wasn’t worth risking their family, or Ida’s, reputation? Or were his reasons more selfish? There had been some business with Phebe Hall, and also some angry men from town whose wives Margaret had treated. There was no doubt that there were people in this town who would have liked nothing more than to see Margaret get her comeuppance. There was no guarantee that she would receive justice in Tynemouth. But he didn’t want to examine his motives too closely; he only wanted to have her nearby, forever.

She had been the lifeblood of the house, had been what made it a home. She alone had warmed the rooms with her sunny laugh, had infused wit and spirit into their dreary days. Before Ida, before the sea even, there had been Margaret. When he had been away at sea and the days seemed long and never-ending, he had known that Margaret would be there, awaiting his return.

For the second time that day, George found himself digging. And digging and digging. Above him, the gnarled branches of the apple trees watched him and each punishing stab of the shovel. Shadow regarded him, head resting on his paws, brown eyes filled with immeasurable sorrow.

He should have taken her to the cemetery at least, bury her in hallowed ground. But his sailor’s heart was insistent. When a man died at sea there were two options: prepare his body, pray for fair winds, and hope for the best during a long and often hot journey home; or bury him at sea. The first option was really only for the man’s family, so they could have a grave that they could visit. What sailor in his right mind wanted to be delivered, bloated and rotting, in a wooden box back to land? George, and every other sailor he would wager, would much rather be buried at sea where he belonged, and let the water take him where it may. It was the same for Margaret, except that this house was her sea, her last communion with the place she loved. If he could have buried her under the house, he would have. This was where she belonged.

George’s shoulders were on fire, his hands raw and bloody when at last the grave was ready. Wrapping his coat around her, he reverently placed a kiss on her cold brow.

“Rest now, my darling,” he said, gently lowering her down. “You are home now.”

The first night, no animal dared to trod the disturbed ground. George watched from his window as Shadow lay beside the grave, head between his paws. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if his parents were to return home to find Margaret missing and Shadow acting strangely in the yard. As if also sensing that his vow of service was at an end, Shadow was gone the next night, returned to wherever he had come from. Every succeeding night, the dirt settled more and more, branches and twigs accumulating until it looked as innocuous as any other barren patch in the frosty garden. Gradually, winter snow blanketed the grave, deer delicately pawing it in search of sustenance. Snowdrops, peeking through the thawing mud, were the first harbingers of spring. Their roots probed downwards, drawing up the decomposing body into their white petals and weeping leaves. A hungry rabbit nibbled on the tender, green shoots before scampering away. As warmer air swept in, the white flowers died, and the grave spread over with brambles and bitter rue. A robin feasted on grubs made plump by the rich soil, bringing more back for her nestlings. Summer came and went, and with it, George, departing for an expedition that would take him thousands of miles away from the little grave in the rocky Massachusetts garden. The dry leaves of autumn danced and swirled, borne up into the sea wind and carried far away. Seasons came and went, years passed. The people who once knew Margaret Harlowe turned gray and forgetful, and then one day there was no one left who remembered the sound of her voice, the brilliance of her smile or the dark impulses that had ruled her heart. Her remains lay forgotten but for the trees and flowers she nourished, their secret laments carried on the wind and scattered to the sea, until such a time as they were called back.