The frayed control she held over herself was unraveling. The Saint did not understand; shemustbury the body tonight. If her hand did not mold itself over the handle of a shovel now, it would forevermore carry the feeling of the knife instead.
“Tonight.”She did not recognize the near-hysteria in her own voice; very rarely had she ever felt so undone. “Tonight.” She swallowed again. “You can leave. I will go back.”
“He is dead.” St. Silas’s voice was flat. “It will keep.” She knewthat tone well; there would be no arguments that would sway him. Nothing that would shift his forceful eyes.
For the second time that night, without waiting for his permission, Leena jumped down from the carriage.
His iron grip held her steady. “What if I forbid you?” His eyes were hard, but there was a crack in his voice.
Her own voice was unsteady. “Then I will return, even if you drag me back and lock me in my room. I will force my way back to bury him.”
“Your misplaced sentiments are foolish,” he gritted out.
She put her hand over his clasped fingers. “Let me go.”
“Or else?”
“Or else I will never speak of Lord Avon again, contract or no.” She was unwavering, her brows drawn and set on her face. “Some things are worth the sacrifice.”
They stared at each other for a searing moment.
“The burial—” he began, before cutting himself off harshly, abruptly releasing her.
Finally, St. Silas let out a staggered breath before dragging his hand through his hair. It was such an uncharacteristically human gesture it made Leena pause. If she had not known better, she would have said he was angry. No, not angry—agitated.
The only reply she got was an imperceptible nod of his head. Without waiting for her, he headed back toward the clearing.
With one final worried glance at her brother, who still lay deeply asleep, Leena followed.
—
The bullet had hit the corpse in the middle of his forehead, an unsurprisingly perfect shot, and the river of blood and brain matter concealed his face from view.
Leena preferred it that way.
“Is his ghost with you?” St. Silas broke her heavy thoughts, his voice oddly quiet.
“No,” Leena whispered, making another careful search. “Thank the Saints.”
They found a wooden shed with an assortment of garden tools, including two rusted shovels. The rain had softened the soil. St. Silas rolled up his sleeves and began digging without prelude, the hard muscles of his back coiling with every mound of soil he lifted. Exhausted, Leena worked beside him—albeit at a slower pace, in spite of her best efforts to keepup.
A few times she glanced over at St. Silas. He worked almost mechanically, a distant look in his eyes. Even in her haze of misery, she could not account for his strange behavior.
The task was long and arduous. The earth beneath them was not meant to be a burial ground, and it opposed their unsaintly digging.
“Speak.” So focused was Leena on her task that she thought she had imagined St. Silas’s voice. She paused and turned to him, but he did not stop, hard eyes fixed on the earth before him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Speak. Say anything. I cannot abide the silence.”
Leena’s mouth parted, both weariness and confusion making her slow to react to his words. But as her focus cleared, she regarded the rigidity of his expression and understood his unsaid meaning—I cannot abide the silence while I am creating this grave.
After another long, searching moment, Leena murmured, picking up her own shovel again: “Chapter Seven: The Rosethorn. The Rosethorn is native to colder climates, found most notably in the meadows of the Aksari Mountains, blooming in early spring and thriving until midwinter. Its petals are a curious mixture of red and orange, giving it a sunset glow, which helps keep insects active through the winter…”
Leena could see the text as ifA Guide to Botanywas open before her. She was sitting reading to her mother, legs swinging beneath her on the crooked chair, the soft breeze bringing in the smells of salt and cooking. There was warmth. And there was love. And she had not been cold or afraid or heartsick.
“Will I never hear the end of that blasted book?” St. Silas finally replied when she took a pause, but when she glanced at him the tightness around his eyes had abated a little. Leena was glad, without knowing why, that he did not look, for a moment, like a ghost himself.
