Chapter Nineteen
Morning arrives quickly.I had forgotten how restorative sleep can be—how it rinses the mind clean, how it invites dreams to the surface like shy things coaxed into light. I have not dreamed in forever; perhaps being here provoked last night’s vision of my family.
In my dreams they were alive, and I entertained my brothers and sister with flying paper darts, each one snapping through the air with wicked precision. It was lovely and sad at the same time.
I stand before the wardrobe and struggle to decide what to wear. It offers plenty of practical options—activewear, jeans, jogging bottoms—but trousers feel strange, as though I were parading around in my winter wool pantalets. I understand their usefulness. Still, the very idea of them sitting on my hips feels oddly wrong. Indecent.
I can almost hear Mother’s voice in my head, urging me to dress more appropriately. I know I must adapt to this modern world, and I will—even when it makes me uncomfortable in the most ridiculous way.
In the end, I slip into the same dress I wore yesterday. It is far more comfortable. I really must master my magic and see whether I can conjure something more suitable.
First things first: this body needs to move. Its magic depends on health and strength, on lungs that pull deep and muscles that remember what they are for. So I walk the perimeter of the property, confirming everything is in order.
It is. The maintenance staff deserve a bonus.
The graveyard covers two acres of peaceful gardens. The grounds are alive with colour: foxgloves, oxeye daisies, and forget-me-nots bloom between weathered headstones. Lavender borders the paths, and bees hum lazily in the late June heat, fat with pollen and contentment. A small pond glimmers in the shade, edged with irises and water mint, the surface dimpled now and then by an unseen insect.
At the centre lies the family plot—my family plot—enclosed by black railings.
The grass is neatly cut, and roses climb the fence in silent tribute, their scent sweet and almost too much. Ancient yew trees stand sentinel along the boundary, dark and solemn. Everything here is deliberate, each plant chosen to evoke remembrance, peace, or eternal life.
The gate opens without a squeak.
Dozens of stones crowd the plot now. Seven generations. Many names are unfamiliar, because tracking themhurts too much, and every new marker is a fresh reminder that time does not pause simply because I wish it would.
Father named us after the ancients, convinced that the right name shapes the soul: Lucian for light, Octavian for history, Callista for beauty, and me, Hestia, keeper of the hearth.
Standing here, reading those names carved in stone, I wonder what shape he thought mine would take—and what he would make of the thing I became instead.
I head for my sister’s grave first. I trace the smooth marble, cool beneath my fingertips. Beside it, a pink rosebush thrives.
I kneel before her stone. Callista’s soul is long gone. When you die as I did—when you witness souls depart or, worse, become trapped—you start to believe inmore. Yet a part of me hopes this peaceful place is a conduit to my family, that what I say here somehow reaches them.
I can only hope.
“I have missed you, dear sister,” I whisper. My throat tightens around the words. “Look what I have become. I am human. Can you believe it?” I recount the recent chaos—this unfamiliar body, the shock of sensation, the precise shade of Lander Kane’s eyes. Gossip, just as we once shared, as if she might roll her eyes and tease me for getting distracted by a man even now.
I move on to my parents’ and brothers’ graves. Each receives my full attention and whispered words of love. I speak until my throat hurts, until my voice thins to a rasp, until the breeze steals half my sentences and carries them away.
Then I halt.
Two more stones stand ahead.
My heart pounds, heavy and clumsy, and nausea rises. My vision blurs, and tears spill, hot and sudden.
This is beyond anything I have known. I shuffle forward, and deliberately I ignore the grave beneath the yew and sit by the other. I cannot lift my eyes to read the inscription; it will make this all too real.
I scrub my cheeks with my sleeve.
Be brave, Harper.
With shaky fingers, I trace the gold lettering.
The grave has my old name.Hestia Howard.
My former body has lain beneath this soil for a hundred and sixty-two years. The unreality of it steals my breath. Sitting above my own remains is surreal.
Beside it stands William’s grave.
