Page 1 of When Bones Whisper
Prologue
1863, London England
Charlotte Lovett made certain her sister was dead before they put her in the ground. Ensuring Alice wouldn’t be subjected to the horror of being buried alive was the least she could do after letting her die.
The other mourners faded from her periphery, a group of moths instead capturing her attention when they flew between the weathered headstones. She watched them flutter erratically as one broke away from the group and tumbled down into the six-foot-deep hole. Its wings trembled when it tried to fly out but quickly gave up and landed on the muddy wall next to the casket,unaware that in its descent, it had narrowly escaped the beak of a wren circling overhead, which instead consumed its faster friends.
After a couple of minutes of the priest droning on, the moth crawled out, and the bird was gone. Much like the insect, Charlotte was also alone, broken, and surrounded by predators. Except, unlike the wren, those in good society hid their predacious natures behind finely embroidered frocks and insults disguised as compliments.
She watched them all from behind her black crepe veil as they avoided eye contact with what they perceived as the less accomplished sister. A beauty, yes, with her wild black curls and wide, green eyes, but her skin was kissed by the sun from the long days she spent barefoot in the garden, and she could never tame her hair into the fancy updos suitors preferred.
Charlotte closed her eyes, breathing in the heavy fragrance of damp earth and wilting lilies. She had grown to hate the flower that had once been her favorite. Her mother’s burial, just a few days prior, lingered with the same musty odor. It clung to everything—her clothes, her hair, and no matter how much she bathed, she couldn’t get rid of the smell.
Voices filtered through the inaudible whispers and sniffles surrounding her, but the loudest, not in sound but in accusation, came from the Baron Ellenwood and his wife, Victoria, who were standing beside her.
“I heard the father murdered three maids too, after he killed his wife and daughter,” Victoria stated in a low voice, just loud enough for Charlotte to overhear their conversation.
Her husband replied with less of a hushed tone, a single lily pinned to his black suit. “Terribly tragic. Although I am not surprised after what their mother did to the Eringhorn family.”
Victoria hushed him, but the tilt to her lips gave away how much she enjoyed her husband’s salacious remarks. “It is true. She should never have allowed her daughter to fraternize with a chimney sweep.” She hid her lips behind her gloved fingers and murmured, “Lord Eringhorn’s son had no choice but to break the engagement after that scandal.”
Baron Ellenwood shook his head, his fist tightening around the handle of his cane. “Quite right. It was not as if Alice could have done better than the second son of a baron.”
“Yes, and shortly after the news spread, the Eringhorn’s housekeeper fell ill and the family lost their wealth,” Victoria stated.
He tsked under his breath. “Perhaps that is why the father killed them all. Their mother, at the very least, had the evil eye.”
Charlotte pursed her lips, fighting the hot, angry tears that brimmed in her eyes. She instead tried to focus on the casket in the large hole in the ground, her stomach dipping at the thought of her sister’s body inside, unmoving and cold, her throat covered in bruises that matched her own.
“I wonder if the youngest daughter will inherit Lovett Manor?” Victoria asked, and Charlotte clenched her jaw.
Did they have no sense of propriety? Discussing such rumors at a funeral, especially when they were false.
“Surely it will go to Mr. Lovett’s brother,” Baron Ellenwood responded, side-eyeing Charlotte’s uncle. “If he has any sense, he will marry the girl off. That is if anyone will have her. Twenty-five years old and still unmarried.”
With a loud cough, the priest cleared his throat, and the whispers faded into a dull murmur.
Her family didn’t practice witchcraft, and Alice did not fraternize with anyone. The Eringhorn’s lost their wealth because Baron Eringhorn gambled, and their housekeeper did not fall ill. She was pregnant, and according to scandal sheets, the reason she was sent away was because the father was Alice’s fiancé, Baron Eringhorn’s son.
The truth didn’t matter, not when the lie better suited their delicate sensibilities. They wanted to demonize her family, and it would not have done for anyone to discover it was Alice who broke off the engagement. They were an aristocratic family, and everyone knew the aristocracy could do no wrong.
God, she hated them all.
With a deep breath, she lifted her glassy stare to the somber, cloud-shrouded sky and grasped at the gold locket hanging around her throat, containing a lock of Alice’s hair. She refused to think about the Baron and Baroness Ellenwood any longer. They were notorious gossips, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of showing that their words had any effect on her.
The priest’s voice floated back into her awareness, closing the end of the service, but Charlotte wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Alice had promised never to leave her. They only had each other, and now she was gone.
Pressing her lips tight, she looked at the casket, praying that this was all a dream and her sister—her frustrating, wonderful, charismatic sister—would be back home, in her room when she awoke, berating her for stealing the tonics from her dresser.
No matter how hard she pinched her wrist, nothing changed. The world continued moving despite Charlotte’s being torn apart.
A single tear escaped, trickling down her freckled cheek. She heaved back a sob, holding her breath so she would not explode into fits of tears. Letting in even an ounce of grief meant drowning in it.
Curling her fingers into her palm, she dug her nails deeper into her skin until the pain temporarily distracted her from the agony blooming inside.
As the world shrank and dirt toppled onto Alice’s grave, she turned away, the knot in her stomach tightening. She scanned the vast graveyard through hazy eyes, not yet ready to leave while at the same time, desperate to run out of there.
A wisp of gray and white caught her eye from between two crumbling graves. The fog took form as a semi-translucent figure, partially obscured by the morning mist. Squinting, Charlotte lifted the veil, her gasp frozen in her throat when she saw the ghost of her sister, with skin stretched taut over her lips, muffling her screams. Alice’s white eyes wept blood as she fought against unseen bonds anchoring her to the cold earth.
