Page 5 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
"I see. Thank you. I appreciate you seeking me out to say so."
Without another word, he strode past me and disappeared in the direction of the service area. I sighed and extinguished one of the candles. I grabbed the other to light my way upstairs. I thought about going to him in the kitchen, but since I wasn't sure what to say, perhaps it was best to avoid him. Every conversation we had of late just widened the gap between us. I wished I'd never let him see how much I desired him.
***
I waited for the rain to stop before heading to the cemetery. It was Saturday, my morning off, and I wanted to visit my adopted mother's grave.
"You haven't been there in two months," Lincoln said when I informed him. He liked to know when I was heading out, and I had no objection to telling him. I had no secrets, and he was simply worried, after what had happened with Frankenstein.
"Then it's high time I go." I fastened the glove at my wrist and pulled on the other. "I do think of her as my mother still, and she did care for me."
He rested his hand on the doorknob then after a brief hesitation, he opened it for me. "Of course."
I half expected him to announce he was coming with me, but he didn't. He seemed to believe that my calling upon my mother was entirely innocent and had nothing to do with looking for clues as to the grave robbers' identities. I was able to fool him easily when I put my mind to it.
The damp air curled the ends of my hair before I'd even reached the estate's gates. My hair had grown a little but it was still short at the back, skimming my collar. I wished it would grow faster.
I quickened my pace and reached the cemetery's grand stone entrance a few minutes later. I headed for my mother's grave and spent a few moments thinking of her as I stared down at her headstone. She might not be my birth mother, but she'd loved me—and I her—when she was alive. She'd been the first spirit I'd raised, and her death had sparked my banishment by the man I'd thought was my father, Anselm Holloway. Yet I couldn't be angry with him—or her. I would never have ended up at Lichfield Towers if my necromancy hadn't been reviled and feared by Holloway. Lichfield was where I belonged. I knew that to my core.
I muttered an apology to Mama about seeking out my real mother, even though I knew I had no reason to feel guilty. I'd made little headway, anyway. None of the orphanages I'd visited so far had records of an adoption by a couple named Holloway. But there were still more orphanages to visit, and I'd not given up hopes of finding something. All I had to go on was my mother's first name—Ellen—and that she was a necromancer like me.
I removed one of my gloves, kissed my fingertips and touched the headstone. With a sigh, I turned away and went in search of the robbed grave. It was easy to find, as a pile of soil marked the empty hole. I half expected to see Lincoln there, having anticipated my real motive for going to the cemetery, but there was no one about.
The ground near the grave was scuffed up and boot prints headed away from the site. There was nothing special about them. They were of average size and could have belonged to Tucker or one of the other groundsmen.
There were several other graves nearby, all of them quite new. Lincoln was probably right about the spirits not knowing anything. They needed to be present to have seen anything, and according to the books and what I'd already observed, spirits parted from their bodies at the time of death, not at their burial. Besides, the thought of raising the dead chilled me to the bone. I only wanted to do it as a last resort and preferably when I wasn't alone.
But I wasn't alone. A man watched me from beneath a tree, where he leaned on a rake. When he saw that I'd noticed him, he quickly continued to rake up leaves.
"Excuse me," I said as I approached. "Do you work here?"
He turned his back to me and continued raking a patch of earth that was already clear. Well, that was rude.
"My name is Charlotte," I said. "They told me my uncle's grave was robbed last night. Do you know anything about it?"
He nodded.
Since he made no effort to look at me, I skirted his pile of leaves to face him. He was a young man with a port wine birthmark covering one cheek and a squint that made his eyes all but disappear. He removed his cap and scrunched it in his hand.
"Is it your job to tidy this area?"
He nodded into his chest.
"But you weren't here last night when the grave was robbed."
"I was, miss," he mumbled. Thank goodness the man could talk. I was beginning to think he'd have to write his answers in the dirt.
"But Mr. Tucker didn't mention a witness."
"I didn't see anything, miss."
"That's a shame. I hoped you could tell me something about the men who took the body of my uncle."
He glanced at me then down at the ground again. His hand tightened around the rake handle while the other continued to scrunch the cap. He seemed quite agitated.
"Is there something you want to tell me?"
He nodded.
