“So does he know that you’re a skeleton?” Braiden asked.
Bones shrugged. “I mean, I wear my hoodie around him, if that’s what you’re asking. Somehow, I don’t think it would matter to him either way. I come here on some nights, to think or to talk. Everyone’s such a good listener here, but especially Gregor.”
Fair enough. The dead didn’t talk back, but who was Braiden to judge? He liked talking to Granny Bethilda, too. She happened to be an excellent listener in life, an even better one in death.
As for this Gregor, it made sense that someone who worked in such close proximity to death would be comfortable in the presence of a walking, talking skeleton. Perhaps tolerant was a more appropriate word.
“Yeah, good old Gregor. I met him on one of my chatty nights. Swell guy. Doesn’t say much, except ‘Isn’t it time you went home?’ and ‘You bother me.’ He’s so considerate.”
Warren stretched out on the blanket with a sigh, finished with his sandwich. “Considerate is one way to put it.”
“Yep. A good listener, like I said. Really good with a hammer and chisel, too. Doesn’t matter, wood or rock, coffin or headstone, he’s got you covered. Stone carver, woodworker — forget about it. The man’s an artist.”
Braiden chuckled. “Sounds like a talented gentleman. Do you think he knows much about secret messages?” He brought out his little notebook, carefully opening its covers to extract the card that Bones had discovered.
Warren tilted his head as he studied the card. “I could show it to Grandmother, but I doubt that she or her many sisters would be able to tell you much. We burrowfolk have far more experience with basketry than parchment and ink.”
“The thought is very much appreciated, Warren. I think we’ll keep it up here on the surface for now. Maybe we’ll find someonearound town who knows what to look for, like a wizard, or a rogue. Okay, Bones. Careful with that thing, now.”
“I’m being careful, stringy. Don’t you worry about it.”
The skeleton lay sprawled along the picnic blanket, the mostly blank recipe card held delicately between his fingers as he raised it up against the sun. He hummed to himself as he flipped it over, turned it side to side, trying to make heads or tails of what few words it held.
“That’s only if the card actually contains a secret message to begin with,” Augustin said. “I don’t mean to take the wind out of your sails, Braiden, but best prepare yourself for the possibility that this might well be a simple cover for Granny Bethilda’s deck of cards, exactly as you’d initially surmised.”
“Or a cover for something else. Look at this.”
A quiver of excitement ran up Braiden’s spine when he heard the whispered awe in Bones’s voice. The others crowded around him, inspecting the card for signs of something new. Bones sat up, the card resting on his outstretched fingers, cradled as gently as a precious feather, a sacred leaf.
“Ours is the way of warmth,” Braiden breathed. The heat of the sun had revealed the card’s little secret.
There it was, on the back, a sketch of something boxy and strange, drawn in whisker-thin black lines against the card. Braiden squinted at the illustration, then at the cryptic phrase beneath it, written in Granny Bethilda’s recognizable scrawl.
“Heirloom?” he read out, his question mark echoing the one written in an elegant curve by Granny Bethilda’s hand. “It’s like she isn’t sure what this is supposed to be.”
“Is it a blueprint of some kind?” Augustin asked. “A bit hastily drawn, if I say so myself.”
“There’s something familiar about it,” Warren said. “But I can’t quite say what.”
“Looks like a musical instrument to me,” Bones said. “I mean, it sounds like I missed a few hundred years in string instruments between now and when I kicked the bucket, but it’s got all the right parts. There’s a frame, some strings. Maybe it’s a lyre of some kind?”
Braiden shrugged. “But that has nothing to do with the weaving way. The Beadles were never really known for music, either. I can’t carry a tune. I’d make a terrible bard. Why would Granny Bethilda leave this as her heirloom? And why make such a fuss about keeping it secret?”
“And it seems as if it was never actually built,” Augustin said. “Unless — do you think it’s somewhere in the shop? Somewhere on the premises?”
Bones clicked his fingers. “You know who might give us some answers? My buddy Gregor. I’m telling you, the man knows a thing or two about woodcarving. If your good old granny never managed to build this thing, maybe Gregor knows how to actually go about it and get it done.”
Warren’s ears swiveled toward the gravekeeper’s shack before his head did. “And what time do you suppose your friend will be awake?”
Bones creaked and clattered as he shrugged. “Usually when the sun comes down. Sometimes a little later, if he knows I’m out here. I think he’s playing hard to get.”
Braiden peered at the sky, trying to gauge the time. “We do need to get back to the shop. Would you mind waiting around for Gregor, Bones? Maybe see what he might have to say about Granny Bethilda’s drawing?”
The skeleton snapped to attention, making an awkward salute. “You can count on me. I’m your man. Warren, you wanna keep me company until then?”
Warren was already back to comfortably reclining on the picnic blanket. He opened one eye at Braiden. “Do you need me back at the shop?”
“I think we’ll manage,” Braiden said with a smirk.
