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REED

If the drunks at Dankworth’s were to be believed, graverobbing wasn’t a crime, but rather an art form.

There were rules to obey, procedures to follow, and details to observe.

The most sacred of which was: one must never, ever visit a grave sooner than nine days after burial.

Nine to symbolize the nine months the dead grew before birth, nine to remember life renewed.

Also, the time of offerings—bread, water, and lighted lamp to welcome departed souls back to earth for the night—would be over, which clearly indicated the graverobbers’ welcome.

Reed had never been able to ascertain what exactly would happen if this rule was broken, but it was clearly something very unpleasant. He guessed it involved curses, bad luck, and probably death by haunting.

Three things he fortunately didn’t believe in.

The first and most unbreakable rule established, the drunk would move on with his lesson.

Once a grave is selected , he would explain, certain precautions had to be taken.

First, make sure to tie a black ribbon around your arm in a display of mourning.

This shows any watching spirits that you have respect and gratitude for what you’ll take .

Secondly, and very important no matter how squeamish you might feel about it, kiss the forehead of the deceased the instant you see them. This will ensure they don’t haunt your dreams.

Reed thought if a person was squeamish, they should take up another line of work, one that didn’t involve rotting corpses. He discovered pointing this out usually enraged the drunks, however, and let them ramble on about technique instead.

A body snatcher only needed a pointed spade and a ‘resurrectionist cane’—a four-foot iron bar with a hook at one end—a tool easily hidden beneath a cloak.

This was perfect for cracking open the head end of the coffin, attaching the sharp end beneath the dead’s chin, and pulling them out.

A single body would fetch a pretty price if one knew the right physician to sell them to…

Reed knew of no wealthy physicians in the Glen and had no interest in hauling a body around even if he did, especially since he had no cart. Besides, though he was willing to steal jewels off a dead heiress, this method of stabbing into her sounded barbaric.

Did rich people nail wooden coffins shut? Or would the dead bride be buried in some kind of stone casket? If that was the case, he had no hope of prying it open alone.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Reed checked on Philip, borrowed tools from a farm he knew wouldn’t miss them anytime soon, and made his way toward Moonglade.

His brother’s condition was not noticeably worse, and he’d managed to eat some of the berries Reed offered him, along with warm water with stewed mushrooms. Reed tried to assure him everything would be okay by morning, but he could see Philip didn’t believe him.

“After I’m gone,” he’d said, his voice barely above a whisper, “get as far from here as you can. You’ll find a better life for yourself, Reed—you’re too smart for this place.”

Reed had only nodded, though he had no idea where he would go or what he would do. He wasn’t smart—he was only reckless.

Once Philip was better, they could take whatever money was left and travel the world on grand adventures, finding peace and happiness away from the filth of the Glen together.

Reed walked hidden within the tall grass alongside the road, ducking down at any sound of horses, staying out of sight as he traveled.

Oscar was journeying to the south, but there were other ways to find out the precise location of the dead bride’s manor.

When Reed reached Moonglade, he planned to ask the oldest barkeep in the emptiest tavern about the heiress.

Sure enough, a lonely tavern stood atop a hill just outside the village, its dusty porch looking down on the crowded streets of Moonglade.

As the sun set, lanterns glowed one by one before the storefronts, their warm light shining through the tree-lined lanes while passersby hurried on their way between a blur of carriages.

Someone played a lute, its delicate chords drifting along the warm breeze in melancholy harmonies.

Reed secured his tools beneath his tattered cloak and entered the tavern, the picture of an innocent country bumpkin.

“One pint of your finest mead, my good man,” Reed called cheerfully as he settled onto the worn stool in front of the solemn barkeep with a large gray mustache. The man stood wiping mugs of foggy glass using a towel that looked the worse for wear, ignoring him.

Reed kept his white hair hidden beneath the hood of his dark cloak, knowing it would be memorable to anyone asking after strangers in the unlikely event his crime was discovered.

His formerly dark hair had turned white after his fifth birthday when he’d fallen ill with the same fever that claimed his parents, and it had never regained its natural color.

Philip insisted it made him more strikingly handsome, but Reed felt his unruly white hair was an unfortunate thing for the criminally inclined to possess.

“Word in the villages is a recently wed couple is in search of stable hands,” Reed said, sipping his drink with a cough as if it were the first of his innocent life. “I wonder if you might direct me to the home of the Hale’s?”

The barkeep glanced at Reed’s hands, then resumed wiping glasses and placing them along the shelf.

“Good with the horses, are you?”

So. He was the suspicious type. Reed would need to move along quickly, but not too quickly.

Reed held up his clean hands and wiggled his fingers, offering the man what he hoped was a non-suspicious smile.

“I walk the horses to the blacksmith more than I do the mucking out, most days.” He took another ungraceful gulp from his mug.

“But lifting bales of hay for bedding, fetching water at all hours of the day, and preparing the bran mash after a hunting party was my main duty. Well, that and grooming. The grooming never ends, does it? But a job is a job—I had no complaints.”

The barkeep nodded in approval, though Reed could see he was still untrusting. For one thing, he hadn’t given up the dead bride’s abode.

“Rumor has it”—Reed leaned in—“the newlyweds only have four horses in their stable. Four! Can you imagine? What a dream it will be to get the job. Why, half the day to sleep away the idle hours…”

The barkeep at last looked at Reed with a sympathetic gaze, even refilling his nearly empty mug.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, my boy,” he said, “but that house is in mourning. The bride is dead, buried just this morning.”

Reed slammed his mug against the worn counter, spilling mead along the wood. “ Dead ?”

“I doubt if they’ll be keeping a running estate,” the man continued.

“Not for a while. My guess is those horses are already gone, them and the rest. Wouldn’t look good to be carrying on like normal for the rich, no sir.

Goes against tradition, doesn’t it? Especially with the mistress so young and childless… ”

“Would it be all right if I inquired all the same?”

“Doubt anyone will answer at the gate,” the barkeep told him, shaking his head sorrowfully. Then, meeting Reed’s hopefully heartbroken expression, he added, “But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in trying.”

Finally. Reed was beginning to wonder if he’d need to make himself sick with mead before the spleeny old geezer gave up the fobbing residence.

“If you follow that road for the better part of an hour, you can’t miss the place.” He pointed to the only visible road in sight. “Largest manor in Moonglade, half hidden behind a wall of ivy and honeysuckle vines.”

“A stone wall?”

“Its obsidian gate is one of a kind, decorated in golden pomegranates and unicorns.”

Reed had to remind himself not to roll his eyes at this.

What ridiculous anomalies the rich were.

Golden fruit and nonsensical creatures all over their gorbellied gates, while the rest of the malt-worm population nearly starved.

If he had ever felt an ounce of guilt over robbing the dead bride before, he certainly felt none of it now.

Reed finished his mead, paid the man with profuse thanks, and left—his digging tools held firmly against his side.

The sun had set by the time he reached the market square, and it was easy to stay out of sight as he followed the narrow alleyways parallel to the tree-lined avenue through the town, the buildings becoming scarcer and the houses ever larger while he made his way up the hill.

The night air was crisp, autumn approaching fast, and he was glad of his cloak.

Here amongst the houses of the rich, there were no pedestrians, only the odd carriage, and Reed stayed within the shadows of the sycamore trees and yew hedges that decorated the neatly cobbled lane as it stretched beneath the stars.

When he at last came to a wall that dwarfed all the others before it, he knew he had reached his destination, even without seeing its famed gate.

Honeysuckle vines covered it in a massive wave of flowers, their fall berries shining silvery in the moonlight along dense foliage, completely disguising the wall of stone beneath them.

Reed followed the wall until the gate’s entrance was in sight, lamps lit above it, illuminating the drive, and then he turned around, following the wall back the way he’d come.

There had to be another way in, an entrance for the reeky peasants to do their jobs and vanish from sight.

“Hello,” Reed drawled, finding exactly what he was looking for.

A door of rough pine hidden by vines, its rusted handle hanging half broken from its hinges, saving him time picking the lock. It opened with a soft creak, and Reed froze in the darkness, waiting for any sounds of alarm.

None came.

Time to find this grave, dig up my treasure, and get back home .