Pain spins, sharp and blinding. Frost crunches under my palms as I catch myself. Breath rips out of me in short, burning bursts. Electricity skitters over my skin.
The world tilts back into focus slowly. I blink against the disorienting swirl of fog, my breath coming in shallow puffs that hang in the icy air.
I already know where I am. The cemetery.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I lift my head. The Weeping Widow looms above me, her bronze skirts dusted with snow. Melting water tracks along the grooves beneath her eyes, darkening the metal like fresh tears. Her gaze forever fixed on the Sterling family plot.
A weight settles somewhere behind me. Patiently waiting.
The Rider?
Terror sizzles through me.
Afraid to turn around, I keep my attention on the Weeping Widow. She’s the key to this, not him. I feel it down to my soul.
The mark on my arm pulses, warm beneath my sleeve. More attentive than frantic.
Maybe I haven’t been delivered to my execution after all.
I push myself upright slowly, my joints loudly protesting each movement. My velvet dress is damp at the hem, my tights ripped and clinging to my knees.
But I’m still alive. Terrified and confused, but breathing.
I turn, studying my surroundings. Fog curls at the edges of the cemetery but doesn’t cross some invisible boundary. The Rider remains a certain distance away, his ghostly horse stamping his feet, its massive hooves thudding softly against the earth.
My breath fogs in front of me as I turn away from the Rider and step closer to the statue. I follow her line of sight to where generations of Sterlings have been buried.
What about it?
Fear sharpens my brain. The oldest graves in that lot. The three young wives of Silas Sterling. One after the other. The death certificates I’d pulled listed causes of death like “puerperal exhaustion,” “childbed fever,” “hemorrhage.” Their headstones only had simple dates and scant info. No identity besides “wife of.” As if they were interchangeable. In my research I’d discoveredfourmarriage certificates for ol’ Silas Sterling, though.
The mark at my wrist flares once, brighter now. As if compelled, I drift closer to the statue.
Whisper your love’s name to the Widow and she’ll tell you your greatest fear…
Nope. Not doing that.
Instead, I lean closer to the statue and lower my voice. “What did they take fromyou?”
The Widow has no answer, of course.
But the air around me shifts all the same.
Images slide through my mind. This time they’re not quick fragments triggered by pleasure.Papers. Signatures. Tears. A door slamming shut. A town turning away.
“You were never a widow. That’s a story they made up later, isn’t it?” I swallow, pulse racing. “You were the first wife?” I murmur. “You were erased somehow. Forgotten.”
The mark on my arm warms again.
“You weren’t sick. Or they would’ve just buried you with everyone else.” I frown as fragments of the answer fall within my reach. “You were inconvenient in some way?”
The mark warms again, ripples as if it’s exploring and expanding.
The answer explodes inside me. “You couldn’t have children and he replaced you with a younger woman who could?”
The mark warms again, then steadies.
“You weren’t just replaced, though, were you? You were cast out?” My throat tightens with borrowed fury. Back then, she might not have been able to own property. She’d have nowhere to go. “They let it happen. You lost everything. And no one stopped it.”
