Page 123 of Brambles and Bellflowers
“Here.” Miles pulled me to him and wrapped his arms under my back and knees as he stood. “Let’s get some fresh air,” he said, stepping past the neatly carved doorway and down the tiny, flat-stoned stairs. He moved toward the outdoor kitchen. “I’ll set you up with a fire so you can relax.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, resting my face against his chest.
“I’m going to perform Kathleen’s final rites,” Miles answered, his voice tight. “And then we’ll move on tonight. It feels wrong to stay here without her.”
I nodded. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
If there wasa funeral for Sorcha, Kieran and I didn’t know. We’d no choice but to leave her behind as we ran. But being here, watching Miles somehow turn this dark and dreary atmosphere into something beautiful, made me wonder about another death that had happened not so long ago.
“What happened with Mr. Weaver’s body?” I asked.
Miles was moving along the outside of the white candles he’d placed carefully around the circular grave. He stood from the one he was lighting and looked at me with a raised brow.
The full moon was hanging high in the sky, and the light shone across his freshly scrubbed face and—for once—neatly tamed hair. Both were made reality by the small creek that ran past the cabin and our quick attempt to clean. He’d found a dark brown robe and was wearing it as if it held some measure of ritualistic significance, while he’d convinced me to change into a black dress that seemed suspiciously small for someone of Kathleen’s stature.
Wearing the clothes of a dead woman didn’t bother me so much—it wasn’t like this was the first time. But it was probably not the best time to tell him that he really did look like a monk.
Besides, it was hard to focus. This was a surreal experience. Even though I’d dealt with the dead my whole life, I never thought to worry about what happens to the physical body. Guilt flooded me, and my chest grew tight.
Mr. Weaver was a member of my family, and I’d never even thought to ask. Did he have a funeral? Did anyone go? He and Dr. Stephens didn’t seem to get along.
Considering that we were fae and could all see him hovering about, was it weird to partake in such a ritual?
“Funerals are for the living,” Miles answered. “And also, they symbolize putting the earthly body to rest. You only deal with the spiritual side of things, and while witches are concerned with the spirit, we also focus on the physical. Our rituals are designed to express thanks for the human form that the individual inhabited while on this earth and to encourage their spirits to leave this realm. It’s for closure, and most spirits will move on at the resolution of these rituals. A lingering spirit is never a good sign.”
He’d stopped lighting the candles, frowning at the one at his feet. I felt like he wasn’t finished.
“And?” I prompted.
Miles blinked, shaking himself out of his sudden silence, and glanced at me. “As you know, Caleb did not move on. But yes, he did have a memorial service—his quintet member, David Kelly, did his rites. It was a small service, but only because he left instructions in his will naming everyone he didn’t want to see there because he didn’t want ‘to see their annoying faces blubbering about.’ ”
“He watched his own funeral?” I frowned.
“Supposedly,” Miles said, shrugging. “There was a commotion among the Unseelie—mostly with his students—because he was unhappy with the theme. But it all worked out.”
“When was this?” I would have liked to have gone.
Miles looked away, and there was a strange tone in his voice as he said, “Not long ago. It took place while you were in the hospital.”
“I see.” I guess it didn’t matter—it would probably have been weird. “What am I supposed to do about him anyway? Send him away?” I might have done the opposite by trapping him in Ms. Protean’s office…
“No, he’s an extremely powerful fae,” Miles answered, lighting the last candle. “He will move on when he feels like it. Until then, he’ll do whatever the heck he wants.”
I nodded.
Miles was probably right. Even dead, he was ornery and had plans. He’d even said ‘There were so many things that needed doing.’ In any normal situation, hecoulddo whatever he wanted—that was, if he had hisfreedom. Which he might, at the moment, lack.
He was going to kill me.
“Do you want to stay?” Miles shot me another concerned look. “Or would you be more comfortable waiting somewhere else?”
“I want to watch.” I moved to my feet. I shoved my hands in my pockets and touched the hag stone.
Even though it didn’t seem special, Katheleen was right: there was something magical about it. The pinkish stone seemed to pulse under my fingertips.
She’d given me this as a gift, presenting it to me on her deathbed. There was no way I could have refused. Plus, despite my wariness of her, she’d been nice to us. Sure, her advice made no sense, but at least she’d tried.
And she was family. I might have been angry at my adoptive parents, but it would be disrespectful not to see this through.
