Page 57 of Blackwicket

“No, Eleanora. The Brom aren’t trustworthy, but my people are, and I have someone who’ll come first thing tomorrow and tuck your sister in. Don’t worry yourself. We could do the service then, if you prefer.”

Spending another day waiting for the end of this ordeal was too excruciating to consider.

“Thank you, but I’d prefer it be done with.”

Mr. Farvem nodded, forever understanding. “Are you ready?”

I regarded the gate, the emptiness of the street. My father wasn’t coming.

“Yes,” I said.

The service was short, a reading of the typical rites, the spreading of herbs and dried flowers to dress the dead in peace and honor their transition from this world to the next, though I wasn’t sure such a place existed. All I knew for certain was that wherever Fiona was now, it wasn’t here.

I stepped to the graveside to drop a handful of dirt onto the casket, finding it black and shining, engraved with her name in burnished gold lettering and a flurry of embellished roses. I hated it. Fiona belonged settled upon a bed of real flowers, set to sea on a cloudless summer day with a lily in her hand, not tucked in this cold winter earth inside a ludicrous box her tormentor had commissioned. I let the dirt fall from my gloved fingers, mixing with the frost.

“Thank you,” I said in the end. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m not present for her covering tomorrow.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry it’s all worked out like this.” Hewasn’t talking about the grave digging. He hesitated, adding, “I’ve heard through the grapevine you’ve decided to stay and re-open Blackwicket House.”

William was making efforts to ensure everyone believed I was here of my own free will.

“The grapevine is poisoned,” I responded. “I’m not opening Blackwicket House.”

“Ah, I apologize. I was informed a man from the Inn stopped by to assist in the digging. I shouldn’t have assumed he was a guest.”

My eyes lit upon the two shovels standing erect in the dirt. Two men working rather than one.

Inspector Harrow had helped dig my sister’s grave.

“An unwanted one,” I said, struggling to find this new information believable. “But he’s gone now.”

The sound of a car turning onto the street distracted us, and we watched as a long black sedan pulled through the gate. I didn’t recognize the man behind the wheel. My father must have bribed someone to bring him, so he wouldn’t have to brave a walk in the snow.

At least he was here, even if he was too late.

But Darren Rose didn’t climb out of the passenger seat. The gold tip of a snakewood cane emerged first, and William Nightglass followed stiffly, his golden hair in stark contrast against the black collar of his coat.

Mr. Farvem looked uneasy, knowing this violated my wishes, having no power to stop the Principe from doing whatever he decided pleased him.

I met William halfway, hoping my expression remained neutral.

“William, you weren’t invited. Let me bury my sister in peace.”

“This is the woman I loved.” His response was matter-of-fact, as though that were enough to excuse his part in whatever had put Fiona in the ground. “I’m here to pay my respects. Please don’t deny me my last chance to say goodbye to her.”

“Did you have Mr. Thatcher murdered because I tried to buy a ticket?” I asked sharply, choosing not to respond to his appeal to my sympathy.

William placed both hands, one over the other, on the arch of his cane handle, pale blue eyes settled on mine with a long-suffering patience.

“Thatcher’s death was a tragedy. I admit I instructed him not to sell you passage out of Nightglass, but nothing more. Whoever killed Thatcher remains, unfortunately, at large.” He sensed my doubt, adding, “Why would I kill one of my own for doing exactly what I instructed them to do?”

It was a logical argument. Thatcher had denied me a ticket, as he’d been told to. The glint of Patrick’s knife in the street gleamed in the corner of my memory, and the temperature of my blood dipped to match the winter sea.

Already tired and preferring to move on as quickly as possible from this meeting, I indicated the graveside and let him pass. He moved with proud, rigid grace. I didn’t follow. Mr. Farvem approached, and we both stood a healthy distance from William.

“I hate to go, but I have to return to the funeral home. My work feels never-ending these days.”

“Are so many people really dying here, Mr. Farvem?”