It was on Augustin’s insistence, actually, that Braiden had agreed to come out and have a picnic at the cemetery. Braiden had met Augustin’s grandmother, so why couldn’t the wizard do the same?
Braiden found the sentiment sweet. He did this himself sometimes when he felt the need to talk and clear his head. Granny Bethilda’s gravestone never replied, but he liked to think that she was listening all the same.
“It’s that one,” Augustin said, nodding at the far end of the cemetery. “Right over there.”
“How could you tell?” Braiden asked, genuinely surprised.
“Because it looks cared for,” Warren said. “It looks like a place that has seen some love.”
Braiden lowered his head to hide his smile. He let the others take the basket from his arm. Warren and Augustin carefully set out the picnic blanket between the graves. Braiden brushed some dirt away from the headstone, polishing the letters that spelled out Bethilda’s name with the edge of his sleeve.
“Hi, Granny Bethilda,” Braiden told the headstone. “Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve visited. I brought some friends, though.”
Augustin knelt by the grave, his hands clasped, his eyes shut, surprising even Braiden. A prayer, perhaps, or quiet meditation. A moment or so later, he leaned in to whisper to the stone.
“Your grandson is wonderful. Most of the time. We all think so.”
Warren pinched at the earth at the base of Bethilda’s headstone, then rubbed the tiniest bit of soil onto the center of his forehead, barely enough to leave a mark on his fur. A burrowfolk tradition?
“So we always remember those who have left us,” Warren explained.
“Your granny’s got some pretty swanky digs out here,” Bones said, rapping the headstone with his knuckles. “Certainly better accommodations than mine. I’m sure she’s happy.”
Maybe Bones was only being polite, or maybe he didn’t know any better. Braiden smiled hard at the thought that anyone could consider his granny’s grave anything but plain. It was sweet of Bones to say either way.
Braiden had done his best with what he could spare to set things up for her. The headstone was common stone, not made of marble, not decorated with carvings or statuettes. What made it seem a little brighter, he knew, was how often he visited to pick away errant leaves and twigs, to give the headstone a little polish every now and then.
“I think Granny Bethilda would have liked you all very much,” Braiden said as they tucked into their sandwiches.
“I’m very good with grandmothers,” Augustin boasted over a mouthful of ham and cheese.
“With my grandmother, perhaps,” Warren said. “With your own? Not so much.”
Augustin scoffed. Braiden said nothing, smirking at the bluntness of their burrowfolk friend, something he had quickly learned to find charming. Besides, Augustin needed a little bullying every now and again. It kept him humble.
“I think your grandmother likes me, too,” Bones said, bits of masticated sandwich dropping from his skull and straight to the ground.
Warren nodded solemnly. “This is true. She enjoys how you are constantly teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, despite not possessing any nerves yourself.”
“Don’t need ’em,” Bones said. “And Iampretty affable, in my own way. I’ve even been making friends around town.”
The other three stopped chewing, glancing at each other before studying the skeleton with varying degrees of doubt.
“What friends are you referring to, exactly?” Warren asked.
Braiden leaned in. “And you’ve been wearing your cowled coat when you do that, of course?”
“You mean my hoodie,” Bones said, sniffing in offense. “And just because I’m a skeleton, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to meet people. I have other friends besides you guys. Okay, I have one friend. Well, he’smyfriend, at least. I’m not sure how he feels about me.”
The Wizard of Weathervale’s mind seemed to work like the wind itself, rushing just a little faster than everyone else. His eyes searched the cemetery, settling on the one structure that wasn’t yet another headstone, or the rare family mausoleum. It was the gravekeeper’s shack.
“This friend of yours wouldn’t happen to be a dab hand with a shovel, would he?” Augustin asked. “Lives nearby. Maybe even on the premises?”
Bones sprayed the picnic blanket with chewed-up bits of sandwich. “You’ve met him too?”
“Lucky guess,” Augustin said, smiling.
Braiden studied the shack for a moment, the very definition of a humble abode, seeing no signs of life. Maybe the man preferred to work by night.
