Page 6 of When Bones Whisper
Charlotte did not want to feel sorry for herself. There were far worse situations to be in. At least she was alive, unlike her mother and sister. Yet, as she walked into the gardens while the sun slowly set, she couldn’t stop the tears that had been building for hours from spilling onto her cheeks.
Muffling her sobs with her palm, she squeezed her eyes shut and told herself not to cry. Not because of her uncle’s demands, as he was at the gentleman’s club for the evening, but because if she didn’t suppress the anger and hurt, she feared it would swallow her whole.
“The hedgehog,” she said aloud when she removed her hand. The thought helped. Focusing on anything outside of herself made her forget how much pain she was in.
She hurried to the corner of the garden and kneeled by a collection of horse-chestnut trees. The tips of her brown bootssunk into the earth, and her long, black skirt billowed out around her. While she continued to wear mourning dresses made of dull, black fabrics, Charlotte refused to wear the veil any longer. It only got in the way and she was certain Alice would forgive her for the slip in custom. Normally, she would be mindful that if she was seen outside of her home not dressed in the deep mourning attire, it would harm her family’s standing. But she was the only one left, so she no longer cared, especially after the way her family had been treated.
With a slow exhale, Charlotte looked out over the gardens. They were beautiful in the light of the early evening. The pond reflected the darkening blue sky in ripples, and the flowers on the neatly trimmed beds shimmered, each in full bloom.
“Someone is out of hibernation early,” Charlotte exclaimed upon spotting the hedgehog walking out from the familiar stack of logs under a collection of bushes and tree branches. It was silly, really, but she needed this. A small victory. Her little friend had made it through his hibernation.
The hedgehog’s tiny nose twitched, sniffing the air. She kneeled on the damp, soft grass and slowly extended her hands, palms up. “Do you remember me? It was a long winter.”
The creature’s beady eyes met hers, and he took a brave step forward. She gently gathered him in her hands, the tiny quills prickling her skin slightly as her fingers caressed his round form.
She lifted the hedgehog to her nose, facing him directly, and smiled. “I checked on you every day,” she announced. “You only moved a few times, but don’t worry, I kept you safe.”
Beyond the beds of flowers, neatly trimmed bushes, and stretches of luscious grass, were tall, iron fences that made it difficult for predators to dig under and long strings of garlic bulbs hung from the spires, to deter any that might try.
The gardener had set traps too, but Charlotte had quickly dismantled them, not wanting to hurt any animal if it could be helped. With a small smile, she placed the hedgehog on the ground. He dipped his nose into the tall grass, inhaling deeply before his slow, unsteady gait carried him away.
A wave of honeysuckle, lavender, and petrichor washed over her as she inhaled deeply, the chilly wind a welcome reprieve from the flush on her face. If she could get away with it, she would spend all day surrounded by the fragrant blooms.
With all the darkness of the past month, Charlotte had learned to enjoy the small moments, ones that had been seemingly unremarkable before the massacre.
“Duke,” she exclaimed, spotting him at the edge of the garden, his paw batting a flower petal. It had only been an hour since he’d left her side, after she’d gone downstairs to join her cousin and uncle, but she missed him all the same.
In a flash, he darted across the steppingstones, his nose bumping her shins. She leaned over, carefully scooping him into her arms. As she straightened her spine, a sharp crack sounded in her back, making her wince.
“That didn’t sound good,” she murmured, a frown furrowing her brow as she pulled Duke close, his soft fur brushing her chin.
A deep, resonant purr vibrated through her face as she nuzzled into him. A soft wince escaped her lips when his mouth brushed against the purple bruise marring her left cheek.
None of the staff said anything when she came downstairs earlier. In fact, most of them refused to meet her eyes at all. She understood why they didn’t speak up. They would be dismissed or beaten themselves if they tried, and it would do no one any good. But even before her uncle had come, none of her father’s friends, nor any of the visitors who frequented their home and witnessed the bruises from her father in the months leading to the massacre, ever said a word. Charlotte learned long ago that the only person she could rely on was herself.
“Stay out of sight,” she warned, placing Duke back onto the grass. “If William or Theodore returns from the club before I return and see you, I am afraid of what they will do.” She took a step back and looked down at her black feline. “Do you understand me? You mustn’t go near the house tonight. Not until I have completed the spell.”
He tilted his head, yellow eyes shining with a slow blink.
“It’s just a few more hours,” she promised and kneeled, placing two fingers under his chin to pet him.
She brushed the dirt from her black pelisse and walked out of the gardens and down the small, winding dirt path to the graveyard.
The temperature dropped a few centigrade by the time Charlotte reached the iron gates. She nestled her chin into her mother’s fur shawl, searching for pockets of warmth. More than once she had argued with her family about buying anythingtrimmed with the fur of innocent animals, but now that her mother was dead, she couldn’t bring herself to throw the garment away. The faint scent of her mother’s perfume—elderflower and jasmine—still lingered in the fibers. She breathed it in, closing her eyes in a soft blink before looking into the lamp-lit graveyard filled with crumbling headstones and gray crypts. Darkness had swept over London, dark clouds blotting out the last remnants of the sunset before the horizon swallowed it altogether.
She peeked into the distance, spotting a small child giggling and running through the rows of graves. Her translucent body faded through the obelisk and to the other side, and her moss-stained dress floated in white wisps.
Quickly, Charlotte averted her gaze, ignoring whatever was mimicking a child, because if she had learned one thing from the grimoires, it was that only evil remained behind in this world. Hell was not a destination. It was all around them, separated from the living by a thin veil.
She supposed it was quite a perfect punishment for the damned, to forever walk the Earth, unable to move on. Damned souls remained behind either as ghosts or twisted into something lacking any humanity, like demons. Everyone believed those entities wanted souls, but she knew better. According to the grimoires she’d read, demons needed bodies. Without them, they were aimless observers, mostly unable to interact with the world, and they hated the living for it. She wondered if her father was now one of them. In the end, he turned evil, but there was a time when he was not. When he was hereverything.
Even after all he did, his laugh still haunted the halls of Lovett Manor. In moments of despair, Charlotte swore she could still feel the phantom tightness of his hugs, which offered little comfort when she knew how quickly his gentle caress could turn monstrous.
With a sigh, she walked down the long path, through rows of graves when a loud clang sounded from the entrance. She whipped her head around in time to spot the sexton walking inside, straining his neck to check the pathways for any lingering visitors. With a sharp inhale, she hid behind a crypt and waited for him to lock the gates and leave.
Once he was gone, she stood and looked at the ancient stones in front of her. The inscriptions engraved were barely visible beneath the carpet of moss and lichen.
One grave stood out to her.
