Rowan did not wait for a response. He grabbed his coat and made for the door.
“Tomorrow,” he said before leaving. “We will have a name. I shall make sure of that.”
The cemetery was quiet at this hour.
A light mist clung to the ground, and the path was uneven beneath Simon’s boots. His coat was damp at the hem, but he barely felt the chill.
He had not come here in years. Not since the funeral.
Even then, he had not lingered. He had not spoken. He had not allowed himself the weakness of grief.
But tonight, his legs had dragged him over. Where else was he supposed to go? He had already left his own home behind.
The moonlight was just enough for him to read his father’s name, which was etched into the stone. And beside him, his mother. Unchanged for many years.
Simon exhaled, his breath curling in the cold air. “It has been a long time.”
No one answered. Of course, no one would.
He let out a breath and took a slow step closer, running a hand over the surface of the stone.
“I am not sure why I came,” he admitted, tilting his head back to the sky, which looked just as gloomy as he felt. “Perhaps I am tired.”
“Rowan thinks I am losing myself.” A bitter chuckle escaped him, and his grip on the edge of the gravestone tightened. “He thinks I am chasing ghosts.”
“But I am not chasing ghosts. I am chasing the bastard who put you in the ground.”
Simon knew that he would appear like a true madman should someone spot him talking to graves, but he did not particularly care. It felt cathartic to do this, if anything.
“It has been years.” His voice grew rougher. “I do not know what you would say to me if you could. Would you be proud that I never stopped looking? Or would you be ashamed that I could not let go?”
He swallowed hard. They were questions that he had thought of far more times than what should be considered normal. For once, he wanted them to answer back to him.
“You were good people. You deserved better,” He glanced down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “But I have never been good.”
His father’s words echoed back from a time long past.A man who lets vengeance consume him is already dead.Perhaps that is why Rowan’s observation had been so hard-hitting.
“I am not a ghost,” he whispered. “But I will not rest until they are in the ground beside you.”
It did not matter what Rowan thought or what Rachel did. He had made a promise years ago, and he was not going to step back from it now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You must eat something, Your Grace.”
“I am not hungry, Agnes.” Rachel barely looked up from the embroidery hoop in her lap. It was an activity that she had found drowned away the noise inside her head.
“You have not been hungry for three days.” Agnes’ voice was edged with worry, her hands folded tightly in front of her. “That is not normal.”
“I am perfectly fine.” Rachel kept her gaze fixed on the needle piercing through the delicate fabric. Over and then under. A repetitive motion.
She would do it until her fingers were sore.
“No, you are not,” Agnes huffed. “You are pale, you are restless, and you barely sleep. If you think no one has noticed, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I do not require a lecture.” Rachel’s fingers twitched slightly, but she did not pause her stitching.
“Yes, I agree, Your Grace. You require a meal.”
