Page 11 of Alive (Shadows of a Forgotten Past #2)

CHAPTER 11

~ UNFORESEEN ~

The coming and going of the local police and Scotland Yard delayed my plans to visit the cemetery. Chief Inspector Overton—a clean-shaven man with curly brown hair who stubbornly wore his trench coat despite the warm weather—established that Mrs. White had entered the house through the tunnel and exited through the main door.

“We’ve been following her tracks but never saw this coming.” The inspector alluded to last night’s intrusion. “It was unpredictable—and I don’t like unpredictable.”

“I feared it was possible but never truly believed it would happen. Inspector, you must find her,” I pleaded.

“We’ll do our best. I’ll ring you if anything comes up.”

“Please do.”

“Now, you must heed my advice and lie low. In fact, stay out of sight. She knows the household will be on high alert, so I doubt she’ll return here. To be sure, I’ll have the constable increase their patrols in the area.” With that, the inspector departed, taking Mrs. White’s knife as evidence—along with my request to look into Martha’s background, just in case.

Through the window, I watched the police car drive away, its silhouette framed by verdant trees and a clear blue sky—a peaceful scene that contrasted with the turmoil roiling inside me.

“ It’s not what I have taken, but what I have not taken, that will hurt you most ,” Mrs. White had threatened. The odious woman took a twisted delight in inflicting physical and mental anguish.

I glanced at my wristwatch. I still had time.

Minutes later, I sat behind the Lagonda’s steering wheel with Zaira in the passenger seat.

“There is still time to reconsider.” Zaira wrung her hands anxiously. “This could be dangerous in more ways than one. We’ll be pushing the boundaries of the dead by disturbing their rest—and defying the inspector’s advice for you to lie low. Mrs. White could be watching your every move.”

“She won’t hang around waiting to be apprehended. She’ll go into hiding like before. I must say that if I had any doubts about doing this, her attack removed them. She could’ve done anything with the baby. For Alex’s sake, I need to know he rests in peace.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Zaira shot back, her voice tightening. “Mr. Sterling will be enraged when he finds out. It’s a tremendous desecration of his son’s grave. It could destroy your marriage. Have you thought about that?” Her words hit harder than I expected, but she didn’t know the truth—he was my child too.

“I have, but I’m not planning to tell him anytime soon. Unless, of course, we find no corpse.”

“And if that’s the case, how will you find out what happened to the child? Mrs. White will remain silent, even if she’s facing the gallows.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Zaira gave me a sharp glance, her lips pressed in a tight line.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this. If you’d rather not be involved, I understand. You can wait for me in the car.”

“Too late for that,” she retorted. “I’m too curious to jump ship now.”

I floored the gas pedal, eager to reach our destination. For the rest of the ride, I mentally rehearsed my conversation with the cemetery keeper.

Aside from a middle-aged woman arranging flowers on a freshly dug grave, the cemetery was deserted.

“The fewer people we encounter, the better,” Zaira remarked, veering onto the first path off the main entrance.

“We should have brought flowers,” I muttered.

“Now you think about it.”

“You didn’t think about it either.”

“No. I do not like graveyards or anything that makes me think about them.” Zaira’s gaze flickered from one headstone to the next.

“I don’t mind coming here. It’s peaceful.”

“I can think of a million other peaceful places.”

Thank goodness she had no idea how often I visited. But would her perspective change if someone dear to her heart were buried here—someone like Clarence? I pushed the thought away, hoping she’d never have to know that pain.

We cleared the corner of a mausoleum with an angel clutching a sword at its entrance. Up ahead, in the oldest section of the yard, I spotted the caretaker hunched over, shoveling weeds.

“That’s Mr. Morris.”

“He looks creepy,” Zaira assessed. “Are you sure he’s alive?”

I smiled. The first time I encountered him, I’d wondered as much. “Last I checked.”

“You still haven’t told me how you know him.”

“Oh, just by chance. I stop by on occasion to let Betsy rest.”

Our approach brought Mr. Morris’s work to a halt. He removed his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “Good day, ladies. May I help you find someone?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Morris. Actually, we were looking for you.”

“For me?” He rested his hands on the shovel handle, studying us.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“How can I forget?” he mumbled. “You are Mrs. Sterling, all right.”

“It’s nice to see you again.” I smiled, concealing my hesitation. Now that I was here, I feared saying the wrong thing and offending him. My intentions, while questionable and unorthodox, weren’t malicious. I hoped to convey as much.

“How may I assist you?”

“Do you recall what you told me about the late Mrs. Sterling’s grave? About Scotland Yard?”

Zaira gazed at me with curiosity. No doubt she’d ask later. I’d have to come up with an explanation—one that didn’t involve Alex digging up my remains, thinking I was his deceased wife.

“I do. Why?” His eyes narrowed.

“Because there are rumors the general’s baby didn’t die, that it was all a lie, and his coffin is empty. We suspect it was part of a vile scheme to separate the child from his father.”

“You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “That’s serious business.”

“The worst is that the general is away on military assignment, not knowing if this is true. And as you know, Scotland Yard can be a bit sticky to work with. They complicate matters more often than not.” I would appeal to his pride to win him over. “They undermine the locals’ abilities to solve their own problems.” I watched as my reasoning unlocked something in his brain.

“That’s exactly what I’ve always said. They think they’re the sublime capos, but all they do is step on people’s toes.”

I inched closer and lowered my voice. “Here is the thing—I want to help the general find the truth, but I’d like to do it discreetly, without involving the authorities. It wouldn’t cause any harm . . . just a quick look. The general would be forever grateful.” He observed me with a blank expression as I concluded. “The problem is, I don’t know how to go about it.”

“It’s a risky business, indeed, very risky.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, miss, but you understand that you can’t go about digging up the dead. I’d have to report you. Patrons are only permitted to clean the tombs and bring flowers.”

Did he misunderstand my intentions, or was he cleverly playing along? I suspected the latter. It was time to be direct. “No, I can’t dig up a grave, but you can.”

“I can, but it doesn’t mean I will. I could be dismissed from my post. I’ve been here ages, miss. Worse yet, if I did, the missus would wring my neck like a goose. Too many mouths to feed at home, you understand.”

“How many children do you have?” Zaira asked, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.

“Six little ones.”

“Quite the brood,” Zaira muttered.

“Miss,” Mr. Morris squinted at her, scrutinizing her closely, “do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” She looked away to avoid his probing gaze.

“Hmm.”

“Mr. Morris.” I construed my next words carefully. “Please don’t take offense, but with the war and all, wouldn’t it be helpful to have extra cash in hand?”

Zaira eyed the shovel in his hand and retreated a few steps, as if bracing herself to run. Persuasion had failed; we were now venturing into criminal territory—bribery. I half-expected him to swing the tool at us.

“Indeed, these are hard times,” he admitted, the shovel still.

“If anything goes awry, I’ll take full responsibility,” I assured. “What do you say? One quick look could put a million worries to rest. Just one look.”

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Morris turned away and, muttering something about what the world had come to, resumed his work.

“Come on, let’s go before he calls the police,” Zaira whispered urgently.

“Mr. Morris,” I called in a last-ditch effort.

He ignored me.

Stung by failure, I followed Zaira as she took a shortcut through the mausoleums, her legs pumping toward the exit.

“For goodness’s sake, Zaira, slow down.” I hustled to catch up.

“This was a terrible idea,” she hissed. “What if he tells Mr. Sterling? I might end up without a post and you without a husband.”

“Nonsense,” I said, though she might not be far from the truth.

Suddenly, a figure burst from behind one of the structures, collapsing with Zaira. She let out a startled squeal, her hands striking the man’s chest and shoving him backward.

“Mr. Morris! What the devil are you doing?” I snapped. “You scared us stiff!”

“I . . .” he stuttered, regaining his balance. “I was trying to catch you before you left.”

“Why?” Zaira demanded, still shaking.

“I’m keeping guard tonight.”

“And?” Zaira growled.

“Come back after dusk. Just you two. No witnesses.”

“You’ll help us?” I questioned, hardly believing his change of heart.

He nodded. “I’ll be at the back gate.”

“When alms are too generous even a saint grows distrustful,” Zaira challenged.

“Well, you know what they say,” Mr. Morris countered. “A wise man should have money in his head, not in his heart. In my case, I’d rather have it in my pocket. My brood could use new shoes. Bring the money, and don’t forget—come alone.”

* * *

“Hello?” I said into the receiver.

“Hello. Is this Miss Bates?”

“Miss Bates?”

“The lady who inquired about my cottage? This is Mr. Acker.”

“Oh, yes, yes. This is she.” I silently cursed my inability to remember my fabrications. It would be easier if I simply told the truth.

“Lucy or Alice?”

Darn. Who was I? “Lucy!” I responded a bit too enthusiastically, glad I had remembered.

“Miss Lucy, I rang to let you know the cottage is available. Mrs. Burrell and her nephew left this morning.”

“Oh. I didn’t think they would leave this soon.”

“Neither did I. She had a family emergency up north. In her haste, the poor woman slipped in the bathtub and cut her head.” Mr. Acker was quite the chatterer today.

“Oh my. Is she all right?”

“Well enough to get on the road without delay,” he retorted. “She’s sporting quite a patch but insisted she didn’t need stitches.”

I had to lie again to maintain my story. “I appreciate the call, but I’m afraid my sister and I have committed to another place.”

“It’s fully furnished. Apart from your clothing, you won’t have to bring anything,” he said encouragingly. “The furniture, bedding, ice box . . . even the picture frames are included. Did I mention that before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“Wait. Mr. Acker?—”

“Yes.”

“Did you say the picture frames come with it?” My stomach knotted.

“Yes.”

“They weren’t Mrs. Burrell’s, then?” I had to be sure.

“No.”

“And the photos—weren’t they of Mrs. Burrell and her nephew?”

“Oh no. I suppose she didn’t plan on staying long enough to switch the photographs. They belong to the previous tenant.”

“I see.” I considered the implication. “Mr. Acker, out of pure curiosity, did Mrs. Burrell injure the right or left side of her head?”

He paused, likely wondering about my odd question. “The right side.”

“How unfortunate. Well, thank you, Mr. Acker. I’ll ring back if the other place falls through.”

“Please do.”

I stumbled to the sofa—the photos in the frames weren’t of Mrs. Burrell. She’d been just injured. She’d left in a rush. I had seen the rosary at the cottage. I’d struck the right side of her head with the jewelry box. Mrs. Burrell and Mrs. White were one and the same. The knot in my stomach tightened so hard I could barely breathe. She’d made a fool of me again.

“ You have meddled in Mr. Sterling’s life long enough ,” she had said. If she wanted something buried in the past and had discovered my visit to Dr. Jones, her brazen attack made more sense.

If I had called Inspector Overton the day I visited the cottage, she would be behind bars and wouldn’t have had the satisfaction of assaulting me. Instead, courtesy of my foolishness, she remained in the wind. It had been easy to discard the only clue, the rosary, when there was so much that pointed away from her. If only I had asked Mr. Acker a few more questions. If I had waited for Mrs. Burrell to return. If I had —the saddest words. Yet no amount of guilt could change the past.

Now, to my shame, I would relay the information to the inspector, though it might be too little, too late. She was too clever to leave obvious traces, but she wasn’t perfect. Hopefully, the next time she made a mistake, the authorities—or I—would not dismiss it.

* * *

When the appointed hour arrived, my heart pounded with a rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. What if the coffin was empty? What if my son was alive somewhere? Alex and I would move heaven and earth to find him. True, I would come in as his stepmother. But that would be enough.

However, the probability of encountering his remains sent me into a frenzy—it would forever haunt me. Every moment with Alex would be tainted by the memory of my decision.

The telephone rang from the far end of the library. I answered it, every nerve on edge, as if I had already broken the law and the police were already at my door. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Sterling?”

“Yes. This is she.”

“I’m glad to find you at home,” said the woman. “I’m afraid I have sad news, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Who is this?”

“Mrs. Abbotts, dear. Doctor Jones’s sister.”

“Mrs. Abbotts—what’s happened?”

“Seldon passed away this morning.”

“Oh no.” Grief clawed at me, feeling his absence and the severed connection to my previous life. “I’m so sorry. He was an extraordinary man.”

“He truly was. He lived a wonderful life. There is much consolation in that.”

“It must be hard for you.” I remembered the worn bedside chair. Would she still sit there thinking of him, unable to let go? “How are you holding up?”

“Oh, I already miss him dearly. My days will be frightfully lonely.”

“We didn’t have much time to chat when I visited.” Acquainted with death’s loneliness and the sustaining power of friends, I invited, “You must come for tea sometime.”

“Sounds wonderful, dear. Once the dust settles, I shall.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll ring you once I know the details. Please relay the news to the general.”

“I will as soon as I can. He is still away with the military.”

“I trust he is safe?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, dear, until tomorrow.”

“Until then.”

I could hardly believe Dr. Jones’s passing. Death kept crossing my path, a shadow I couldn’t escape.

A disturbance drew my attention to the doorway. I shrieked. A woman shrouded in black, her face hidden behind a veil, stood as if she had just emerged from a long-buried crypt.

“Don’t fret. It’s just me.” Zaira lifted the tulle off her face.

“You turned my blood to ice!” My hand flew to my chest, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. “Why in the name of all the saints in heaven are you dressed like that?”

“For no other reason other than to avoid detection.”

“Honestly, you have the most fascinating ideas.” The veil was a bit too much.

“Mock all you want, but there is always someone watching. A busybody with nothing to do but look for something to gossip about. Now, we don’t want that, do we?”

“No, we don’t.”

“Well then,” she said, eyeing my light-colored dress, “go change into something more suitable.”

“All right—don’t get worked up.” I moved to the door. “I won’t be long.”

“Should I get Mr. Brown?”

“No. I’ll drive. He left the car up front. I told him we were visiting someone in the village.”

“At this hour? Did he believe you?”

“Don’t know.” I shrugged. “At any rate, he didn’t question it. Oh, before I forget—Doctor Jones’s sister telephoned. He passed away this morning.”

“You don’t say!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s just our luck,” she retorted.

“And why is that?”

“His spirit may roam the cemetery. And I must add—he may be angry at us for what we are about to do.”

“Don’t be absurd.” I waved her off, though her comment lingered in my mind.

* * *

We left the car under the willow trees near the main entrance. As Zaira and I crossed the deserted street, I searched for the moon. It was hidden behind a layer of clouds, plunging the night into darkness so deep that we could see only a few feet ahead.

“Mr. Morris said to meet him at the back,” I recalled. “Come on.”

We skirted the brick fence toward the far side of the property.

“This wall must have cost a fortune,” Zaira muttered.

“Do you think it was built to keep people out or to keep something in?” I honestly wondered.

“Let’s not find out,” Zaira said with a shiver.

I quickened my pace, scanning the shifting shadows. A chilling sense of unseen eyes tracking our every step settled over me. Though I had encountered the otherworldly—having seen and spoken with my deceased brother—this felt different. This energy pulsed with dread, a warning against what lay ahead. We were about to disturb something that demanded respect. I could only hope we’d leave unscathed. We hurried the final stretch, half walking, half trotting, until Mr. Morris’s silhouette emerged from the gloom.

“There he is,” I said.

“Wait!” Zaira grabbed my arm. “He is not alone.”

I squinted into the darkness. “You are right.”

“This could go horribly wrong. Think about it. We are in a graveyard, out of earshot from anyone, with two complete strangers. If Mr. Morris can add two and two, he’s already figured out no one knows we’re here. And if that’s not enough to make your skin crawl, you are carrying a wad of cash.”

“You’re overthinking it.” I tried to sound calm despite my doubts. “He’s probably brought a helper.”

“Helper or not, I don’t trust him.”

“If it makes you feel better, we can hide the cash,” I offered. “We’ll give it to him on our way out.”

“It doesn’t make me feel better, but fine,” she grumbled.

Concealed by the night, I buried the envelope under a layer of leaves against the wall. “Remember, it’s below the third figure—there, the gargoyle.”

“Why do people even make those grotesque things?” Zaira muttered, glaring at the statue.

“And why put them in graveyards?” I added. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Just in case.” With one graceful movement, Zaira picked up a rock and slipped it into her pocket. “A little more leverage. One wrong move, and I’ll beat them silly.”

Any other time, I might have laughed. Tonight, I prayed we wouldn’t need the weapon. My thoughts drifted to the self-defense tips the nuns had taught at Higher Grounds. “ Go for the vulnerable areas ,” Sister Callahan had instructed with a grin. “ Between the legs is a perfectly good spot. The eyes are next. If you’ve got nothing sharp to stick in them, your fingers will have to do .” I smiled inwardly. When it came to the girls’ safety, she didn’t fool around.

“Good evening, ladies,” the caretaker greeted.

“Good evening,” Zaira and I responded, our voices a bit too forced.

“Welcome to the cemetery—a whole different world at night.” He chuckled unnervingly. “This is Frank, my lad. He’ll be helping me tonight.”

The moon peeked out from the clouds, illuminating Frank’s young, tense face. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Clearly, he didn’t want to be here any more than we did.

“See, nothing other than an innocent helper,” I whispered to Zaira, though minutes ago, I hadn’t been so confident.

Zaira grunted in response.

Mr. Morris surveyed Zaira’s appearance with a smirk. “Miss, are you here to unbury the dead or to bury yourself?”

His joke hung awkwardly in the air. After all, just the other day, he had said, “ Not that anyone with half a brain would wander in at night .” I realized that it was too soon to feel safe.

“That’s in poor taste,” Zaira snapped, her hand darting to her pocket and the rock.

“Ah, don’t get agitated,” the caretaker said, laughing it off. “Let’s get on with it.”

We trailed behind as the men led the way toward the Sterlings’ burial spot.

“I must warn you,” Mr. Morris called over his shoulder. We aren’t the only ones moving about the grounds.”

“What do you mean?” Zaira asked.

“At night, the dead stir. Ignore them, and they’ll ignore you.”

Was he joking again? I glanced at Zaira. She moved like a robot, mechanically, rigidly. I owed her.

“Come on, Pa,” Frank said, walking briskly to take the lead. “Let’s hurry.”

We wound our way through the graveyard, careful not to tread on the sacred resting spaces. A low hooting drew my attention to the beech tree. I could just make out the shape of an owl in the dappled moonlight, perched on a lower branch, its talons gripping the wood with intensity. Its wide eyes gleamed in the obscurity as its head tilted toward the moon. At the trudging of our feet on the dry twigs, the bird turned in our direction.

We passed under the tree, and I could have sworn its gaze was fixed on me as it emitted a string of bold sounds. A shiver ran through me as I glanced over my shoulder. The owl was behind us now—still watching.

About fifty yards ahead, the Sterling tombs loomed. My tomb, with my name. This was the worst time for Zaira to discover the former Mrs. Sterling’s given name. She wasn’t prepared to learn it. I wasn’t prepared to explain it. Gratefully, the darkness favored me on this point. I had to be extra careful.

“Here we are,” Mr. Morris announced.

I positioned myself to obscure the headstone bearing my name, steering Zaira’s attention toward the child’s grave instead.

Mr. Morris rounded a grave guarded by chains and came back with a lamp. He produced a match and lit it. Frank hustled to a nearby angel statue. From behind its massive pedestal, he retrieved two shovels and several other tools. The men set to work, shoveling away the soil.

“Good thing this one doesn’t have a cement cover,” Mr. Morris pointed out. “It would be nearly impossible to do this otherwise.” The grave featured a magnificent headstone but lacked any covering across its length. The size of the coffin was also convenient. One man could tackle the task alone, but with two, the work would go fairly fast.

“Imagine that—a million concrete pieces scattered everywhere,” Zaira said. “Concealing our crime would prove far more difficult.”

Crime. Guilt stabbed my heart, but the need for truth overrode it. Still, with each scoop of soil removed, the magnitude of my decision pressed on me like a ton of bricks.

“Put some muscle into it,” the caretaker urged his son.

“Wait, Pa, we are digging a bigger hole than necessary.” Frank stepped back to catch his breath and survey their progress.

“It’s the perfect size,” his father assured.

“The coffin isn’t that big, is it?” Frank questioned.

“No, it isn’t.” Mr. Morris frowned. “But once we reach it, there needs to be enough space for you to jump in and secure it so we can pull it up.”

“Me?” Frank’s voice rose in alarm.

“Let’s put it this way,” his father replied, his patience thinning. “If I go down, I might not be able to climb back out—and that wouldn’t be good, now, would it?”

Without another word, Frank resumed digging as the minutes dragged on. My legs began to strain from the long standing, and just then, a gust of wind gathered the clouds in its grip and swept them away. The full moon appeared above us, its light bathing everything within reach.

“Oh, good . . . good,” Zaira muttered.

“Good indeed,” I echoed. The added clarity was comforting.

Abruptly, Zaira squealed—her previous relief shortly-lived.

“What is it?” I stammered, my eyes flickering with anxiety.

The men stiffened; their shovels suspended midair.

“There—do you see that?” With a trembling hand, Zaira pointed to a mausoleum on the other side of the path.

“See what?” I could see nothing.

“There!” Zaira insisted.

“You don’t see her?” Mr. Morris sounded surprised and maybe even amused.

Frank turned away as if avoiding what apparently was there. “Come on, Pa, let’s get this done. I want to get out of here.”

“Easy now. Don’t make a fuss,” Mr. Morris advised. “She’s harmless.”

“Until she isn’t anymore.” Zaira laced her arm through mine, her body shaking violently.

“Who?” I pressed.

“Lady Catherine,” Mr. Morris said.

“What?” I was confused.

“A ghost,” Frank clarified.

I squinted into the gloom and gasped. The air sliced down my throat, icy and sharp. There she was—a black figure with a pale face and long dark hair, floating silently between the mausoleum columns. “Goodness gracious!”

“You see her now?” Zaira’s arm gripped mine so hard I thought she would break my bones.

“I do.”

“The ghost of Lady Catherina di Leccio. One of the oldest souls on these grounds. She comes out every night.” Unconcerned, Mr. Morris went back to digging.

“There she goes now,” Frank observed.

She slipped away, a dark cloud traversing the headstones.

“Where is she going?” Zaira asked, and I got the feeling that, like me, she was relieved the specter moved away from us.

“To the beach,” Frank answered.

“To the beach?” I wondered.

“The tale is that her lover sailed from Hurst Castle and drowned in the sea,” Mr. Morris said. “She spent her life pacing the shoreline, waiting for him.”

“So she’s still waiting for him?” I assumed.

“That’s right. Every night, she goes to the water, then comes back at dawn to the confinement of her existence.”

The sadness of the tale hung in the air, a poignant reminder that not all burdens were shed in death.

Zaira’s gaze darted from one tomb to the next, her body rigid, poised to flee at the slightest movement. “There could be more . . . they could be anywhere,” she stammered with barely contained fear.

“No need to fret, miss,” Mr. Morris assured. “Rarely do others come out on a full moon.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Zaira questioned.

“It’s all right.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “Just focus on the lamp.”

The men continued their work with determined focus. Before long, Frank was waist-deep in the excavation, his figure partially obscured by the loose soil piling up around him.

“We are close, really close . . .” I whispered.

“Good. Good.” Zaira inhaled deeply.

“Ah, there you are!” Mr. Morris exclaimed. The shovel finally hit wood. “Careful now . . .” He handed Frank a cord. “Tie this around it to keep it together.”

Frank did as told, supporting the bottom as Mr. Morris hoisted the coffin out of the darkness of the earth. Once they set it on the ground, Mr. Morris helped his son climb out.

I fell to my knees and pressed my palm on the tiny box, brushing it off with a sweeping motion.

“Please, Mrs. Sterling, move back. We must be extremely cautious,” Mr. Morris warned. “If we break the frame, we can damage the remains—and we mustn’t alter them in any way.”

“Amen,” Zaira agreed.

I scooted back but remained on my knees. Fueled by anticipation, sadness, and even rage at having to do this.

Wielding a heavy tool, I wasn’t familiar with, the caretaker loosened the nails. Under the careful pressure of his hands, the brittle wood screeched but held its form.

Another blast of wind blew through the graveyard, knocking the lamp over. Zaira seized it at once. The light flickered more in her unsteady hand than it had in the wind.

“Are you all right?” I looked up at her.

“I’m ch-chilled to the b-bone,” she stuttered.

“Are you ready?” Mr. Morris asked.

“Go on.” My emotions finally took over, and tears flooded my eyes. This moment, no matter the outcome, would change me forever.

He gently pried open the lid and stood aside.

Zaira shrieked and dropped the lamp.

“It can’t be!” I cried in bewilderment.

A tiny skeleton lay within the shadows of the coffin.