“Survival is a sordid business.” There was an odd aloofness in his voice, as if he was not speaking to her.
His choice of words did not immediately make sense to Leena, and it took her a long moment to realize that the Saint of Silence was attempting tocomforther.
She could not explain why such an unexpected act of kindness brought forth another rush of tears. She pressed her closed fists against her eyes, turning away rapidly, unable to reply; her aching mind could not lift the weight of so much heartache.
Leena’s blurring eyes returned to the grave they’d left behind. The ghost of the young Black Coat was gone, and she was relieved that he hadn’t lingered to haunt her.
St. Silas’s voice when he called for them to continue sounded distant in her ears, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other to follow him through the clearing. The birdsong continued, drowning out her thoughts and all other sounds of the forest, a symphony of farewell.
Insomnia once againsettled behind Leena’s eyelids.
It had been one week since the events at the cottage, and the days since had passed slowly. She’d seen death before—multiple times, in fact—but never had such a direct hand in it. Her skin still smelled of burial.
In the rare few hours when she was not busy looking after Rami, she could not find rest. She searched for a way to stop her consistent deliberations. Amid the usual assortment of ghosts that lingered around her in the late hours, Leena paced, she read, she even sewed—anything not to face how skewed her life had become.
Why, Leena thought with a groan, pricking her finger for the fourth time, did his voice and shadowed face keep finding a home in her late nights?
But, of course, she knew. She knewexactlywhy.
She was contrite—and her contrition would not allow her the respite of sleep.
She had given him little choice that night but to help her bury the young man, threatening him with the one thing he wanted: finding Lord Avon’s ghost.
And she did not need to be a palm reader to be able to see, with sharp clarity, that burying the body had pained him.
Speak,he had said.
The methodical, detached way he had dug, the grinding of his jaw and the untethered look in his eyes spoke of a wound he was resurrecting alongside the thick, iron-rich earth.
Giving up with disgust, Leena threw her embroidery onto the bed, instead choosing to vigorously brush her hair for the third time that night. She stared at the mirror without seeing her reflection.
It was no wonder the look he had given her as he’d told of the boy he had buried at twelve spoke oflaceration.
She’d forced a confession from him, just as she had seen him do to so many of his customers. The only difference was that all of his customers came willingly, lined up for hours, and knew the price they had to pay, yet their reward was ample.
That night, St. Silas had paid the price without the reward. And that was what troubled her—the fact that she’dtakenthe choice from him.
It made matters worse that the ghost of the servant-boy—the very same one she’d acknowledged in Orley’s office—had begun to follow her. He stood by her bed, watching her from outside the salt circle. That first night, it had been him, the weeping cobbler, and an old woman whose clawed hand begged for offerings. The second night, it had been only the servant-boy and the weeping cobbler. The nights after that, it was only the servant-boy. His twitchy, gaunt face molded into a smile of greeting every time Leena stumbled out of bed, and she stared in amazement at the emptiness of her room.
“Are you keeping the other ghosts away?” Leena asked in awe.
He bowed, as if she was a lady and he was her servant.
“How do you do that?” she begged. “Can you teach me?”
He pointed toward his chest and nodded, then pointed toward Leena and shook his head. She understood. He could better control the dead because he was one of their number. Leena, who was stillliving (even though she didn’t always feel like she was), could not choose her hauntings.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling slightly deflated. “Will you keep the other phantoms away from me at night?”
Leena had asked this without any hope, as the ghosts never did what she wanted, so was startled when the servant-boy nodded. She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said haltingly. She had never thanked any of her phantoms before. He even turned around when Leena dressed—unlike a few of her leering ghosts, who forced her to change while under the covers, stripping her of her dignity.
This morning, she had a sudden desire to humanize the ghost, so she did something she’d never done before. She asked for his name.
She found yesterday’s newspaper and ripped out the margins, quickly writing the letters of the alphabet in as big a font as she could within the tight space.
“Point to the letters and tell me your name,” Leena told the boy, hoping that he knew how to read.
