Then I heard the service door slam shut down the hallway.
That little minx.
17
THE POISONER
Iwas not superstitious.
Upon my father’s grave, small flowers grew.
They say that if you were a good person, flowers would bloom on your grave. If you were a bad person, there would only be weeds.
I still believed it was a tale that people told themselves to make them feel better.
My body ached like no other. I was falling apart at the seams. My body had old and new bruises and scratches from my many encounters with that animal of a man. On top of the physical ache, my muscles strained from sleeping so long bent over a desk and not moving an inch for hours upon hours. It was still unbelievable to me that I’d escaped with my life by being too odd or too much of a nuisance on several occasions.
I knelt before my father’s grave. Even his headstone was as intimidating and imposing as he was. It was a tall, carved, dark stone of something like granite. His death mask was placedin the middle. Though even at “rest,” he was stern and focused. I learned just how permanent those creases in his face were after he was laid to rest. It was a shame that he was not buried next to Mother, but they disagreed on where they wanted their final resting places to be.
JACEK ALEKSANDER LIS
April 1845–January 1889
“It’s better to have a sparrow in one’s hand than a dove on the roof.”
It was his favorite saying. A frequent phrase he used to repeat to me, enough that I could hear it in his voice as I read it. It was often relevant to my ambitions. He constantly warned against taking on more than I could, critiquing my ideas for being too grand, vague, and unachievable.
“I’m sure you’re thrilled to see me, isn’t that right, Father?” I winced, as if he would answer. I knew he would be disappointed in me if he saw me now. It had been over a year since I saw him at the funeral before hiding away in the countryside. “My delay will be worth it. A lot has happened since I arrived.”
We—I—spent the next hour talking, just out in the open. He was the only person I could tell everything to, as the dead rarely passed judgment. It was therapeutic, but a bit pathetic on my end. The deceased were the only ones who would understand my troubles.
“Phoebe and I are still friends. I’m in the old town house now. I’ve collected a few more friends—maybe an enemy or two. You always said those go hand in hand. A natural balance, though I don’t know what I did to deserve this one.” I laughed, picking at my red fingertips. “Before you ask, no husband yet.”
I took a deep breath, my throat clenching from restraining the grief.
“I’ve discovered something,” I started to say, plucking a flower from the grave and twisting the stem between my fingers. “I think I can study them. Make something good out of it. A new creature. He’s... fascinating. Something I’ve never seen before.” I gulped, my eyes stinging. “I wish you were here to help me. I don’t know if I can do this on my own. When you left, it was like my Library of Alexandria burning. I don’t know what I don’t know. It’s like the more I learn, the less I know. I hate it,” I mumbled, tilting my head back to beg the tears to go away and to reabsorb into my eye sockets. The overcast screen of clouds hung low above us.
Thick drops of rain started to plummet from the gray expanse. First, a few, then many. Before I knew it, the water would soak me. It was an unusual rain, heavier drops than usual. Another tall tale would say that meant death was near as well. I supposed death would always be near, my closest companion. The stray cat that purred against my door, knowing me as a reliable source of food.
My knees ached from sitting for so long when I finally rose to my feet. The blood returned to my legs in a tingling rush.
“Let us do this again, on a happier day,” I said, tossing the flower back onto the bed of foliage.
The rain reminded me how cold it was getting already. Autumn was ending quickly. Even in my black attire, there was no stopping the cold from penetrating my bones, my mind, my perpetual state of being.
Walking through the foggy path, I saw a few magpies settling in and a cat or two running through the graves for cover. The fog danced in their wake, curling and disappearing into the air.There must be a storm coming if even the crows had nothing to say.
Aside from the rain, the cemetery was a forbidding type of beauty. Centuries of secrets tucked away under the ivy-ridden floor, forever to be kept in their crypts. This cemetery enjoyed the cover of trees, like an arboretum of sorts. In life, my father would forage here, since there were not many places to do so that were close to the city like this.
The statues stood tall, looking down on me with pity as I passed. The angels’ eyes were always a bit stern, despite their elegant forms. They were judging me, looking down on me. That was why some of my favorite statues in the cemetery were those of dogs, horses, and one sleeping lady basking on top of a tomb.
As I passed a dark footpath, low, harmonizing clicks penetrated the thick fog. The thin air allowed the sound to travel like the light flashing across the sky.
Not now.
Moving down the footpath and through a covered bridge in the cemetery, I hid underneath the ivy that hung in front of the forgotten catacombs. Thunder rumbled across the sky, giving a low vibration to the walls. The trees outside began to thrash, picking up their pace as they smacked together in a chorus of cracking, smacking, and swishing.
If there was more clicking, I would not hear it between the sounds of brewing weather, but I did not wait to find out. Under the bridge, a path of catacombs opened up, a cedar tree growing from the top of the structure in the middle. It was a circular sunken path that went all the way around the tree, lined with many doors to private tombs and stairs to the upper level, dividing the circular structure into quarters.
