“Two guys claiming to be magicians arranged anofficialvampire hunt. A mob descended on the cemetery. Before the police could stop them, the mob ransacked graves and staked and beheaded some of the corpses.”
Quinn stares at me, eyes wide and jaw slack. “That’s awful!”
“Not the greatest event in London’s history. Thankfully, this grave wasn’t desecrated.”
I bring Quinn to a halt at a headstone with a quatrefoil at the top, with family initials engraved on it. A second headstone butts up against it at an angle. This one is older and covered in moss. The engraved writing has been weathered by time, but it’s still possible to see the names written there.
“Christina Rossetti,” Quinn says.
I swing my bag around so I can open it and pull out one of the books I’ve brought with me. This one is a book of Rossetti’s poetry. I had debated reading ‘Remember’, but I second-guess myself and read ‘In An Artist’s Studio’ instead. Quinn stands and watches me as I read, his expression reverent.
“That was beautiful.”
“It’s thought it was inspired by her brother, Dante. He was an artist as well as a poet.”
“It was pretty, especially read by you, but I’m not sure I understood it.”
I put the poetry book into the bag. “Critics are divided on its meaning.” I loop my arm through Quinn’s, and we start walking again. “Some think it’s lamenting the fact that male artists paint women as they want to see them, not as they really are. Others think it’s praising her brother for being able to paint a woman as an ideal dream.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s probably the former. The poem doesn’t seem overly pleased that the painter makes all his female subjects look the same.”
“I wouldn’t do that. Male, female, non-binary, I draw people as they are.”
“You made me feel beautiful when you drew me.”
Quinn nudges my shoulder. “That’s because you are. I drew you exactly as I see you.”
I stop, steal a kiss from him, and then we carry on walking.
It’s not long before we reach the next grave I want to show him. Michael Faraday’s grave is much less overgrown than Rossetti’s was. The writing is clearer, and it stands tall and proud.
“I’ve always wanted to stand in a Faraday cage,” I muse.
“That would be awesome. I’m not sure I’d be able to stand, but it would be amazing nonetheless.”
“I’d hold you.”
Quinn smiles, blushes, and sags against me. His eyelashes flutter, and his gaze becomes distant. I give him a moment, guessing that he’s dreaming of what that would be like. He shakes himself and opens his mouth, but I cover it with my hand before he has a chance to utter an apology.
“Good dream?”
“Uh-huh. We were in a cage with blue lightning arcing all around us. You were holding me in your arms. It was very romantic.”
The next grave I take him to is George Michael’s. His is brand new, only recently unveiled, even though he died several years ago.
“Are you going to sing at this one?” Quinn asks.
“No. You don’t want to hear me sing.”
“I didn’t know you were a George Michael fan.”
“Dad was—is—the real fan. He played George Michael and Wham albums a lot when Beau and I were growing up. As much as I railed against Dad after he fucked up our lives, it’s impossible to hate that music.”
“It’s very catchy. Do you play the Whamageddon game?”
“The what?”
