When the men shoulder their spades and leave, my gaze drifts to the pink-streaked horizon. I made sure I came here at a good time, with the moon faded and dawn bringing enough light for Death to hide his bones. Was he truly that gruesome to look at?
I squeeze my eyes shut, reaching for the grotesque memory. What I find feels softened by time, the terror of it strangely blurred. Skin pallid like a corpse’s, yes, but also smooth and flawless. Ribs exposed for certain, a body stripped down to its simplest truth. Is there a heart behind them? And if I somehow ever manage a glimpse, am I going to find it with its strings ripped to shreds?
I sigh.
Wed him. Bed him.
Does the morning in the tower count? When I pulled the curtain? Or was that just lust with no intent? I don’t know, but I can’t risk a technicality. Lying with him is probably a step in the right direction under the circumstances.
I stand, my knees popping in the cold. I cross the lower graveyard and walk up to the edge of the fresh hole. Dug for a kitchen maid, I overheard one of the men mention earlier. Poor thing didn’t even die of rot. No, she took a tumble down some stairs and snapped her neck. Pity.
The scent of loam and worms rises from the grave, its familiarity letting warmth settle under the cotton of my dress. I hitch up its skirts. My boot toes the edge, finding a foothold in the clay, and I slide down.
My soles hit the bottom with a softthud. Walls of earth rise above my head, cutting off the view of the trees, the path, the everything, leaving nothing but a rectangle of gray sky above.
It’s colder down here.
Much colder.
I lie down, the back of my dress soaking up the dampness. Hands crossed over my chest, I am so still, forcing my breath into something dead-shallow as I stare at the sky.Come on now, you asshole…
Nothing.
No scent of carnations. No chill sliding under my skirts. No shadow thickening at my feet. No?—
Crunch.
The sound is slow but deliberate. A boot on gravel. Then silence. Then another crunch. Closer.
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
Dirt rains down from the edge, a gritty sprinkle that lands on my cheek. A shadow blots out the gray sky. Vale leans over the lip of the grave, his black velvet coat absorbing the mist, his hair a dark halo against the morning light. He looks down at me, brow arched in supreme, unimpressed boredom.
“Feeling theatrical, Elara?” His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in the narrow space. “Or have you finally realized where your sense of fashion belongs?”
My molars grind back a scathing comment about the fashion of tendons dangling from bones. “I was waiting for you.”
“In a hole? Things that cannot be killed hardly belong in graves. It’s bad luck.”
“I was told you like stillness.”
“Oh?” He tilts his head, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. “I must say, I liked the way you rolled your hips against me much better.”
Without warning, he jumps.
I gasp, instinctively flinching as he lands beside me, his coat brushing against my arm, the scent of carnations and ice instantly overpowering the smell of the dirt.
And then he lies down.
The narrowness of the grave forces him to press against me, arm to arm, leg to leg. A gravedigger lying beside Death in a kitchen maid’s grave. Hysterical.
I turn my head. Vale’s profile is sharp, pale as marble against the dark earth wall. He isn’t looking at me; he’s staring up at the sky, his hands folded over his stomach, mirroring my pose.
“Make your wish,” he says softly. “I have places to be.”
I watch the slow, steady rise of his chest. “I’ll make you a deal.”
He snorts. “You don’t have the currency for a deal.”
