Chapter
Fifteen
By now,Braiden should have become accustomed to his grandmother’s posthumous fame — or was it notoriety? He held back a chuckle, thinking how tickled Granny Bethilda would be to know that so many people still remembered her.
“You knew Granny Bethilda?” Braiden asked.
“Well,” Gregor said, twiddling his fingers and half sputtering, “knewher is one way to put it.”
Even in the dim light of his cabin and through the impressive shrubbery of Gregor’s gray whiskers, Braiden could tell he was reddening. And that was why Braiden reddened too, looking away and past the gravekeeper’s head into his shack.
It was surprisingly cozy in there, not what he might have expected for someone who worked in such a morbid profession. Not too different from the trappings of his own bedroom, or Augustin’s, for that matter.
A low bookshelf filled with what were presumably casual reads, a simple iron stove that doubled as a heating element, a small preparation area for food, a roughshod dining table with four chairs in the center, and a comfortable-looking single bed pushed off into the corner.
“I’ll stand guard outside,” Warren said, seemingly to break the awkward silence. “It’s a nice night out, and you never know with zombies these days.”
Braiden nodded as he ushered Bones inside and shut the door behind them, knowing Warren was only grateful to spend time above ground without needing to hide behind his helmet.
“We don’t see that many zombies here, really,” Gregor said, ushering them toward the dining table. “But of course, that’s partly because I do my job. Sit, sit. Let me make you some tea.”
He plucked tea leaves and dried flowers from a series of jars on the shelves of his tiny kitchen, reminding Braiden of the same ritual he’d performed in his own kitchen the night before.
Wood scraped against wood as Bones and Braiden took their places at the dining table, eagerly accepting their fragrant mugs of tea.
“Your grandmother taught me a recipe for sleepy-time lavender tea once,” Gregor said, immediately reddening again and noisily clearing his throat.
Braiden widened his eyes and looked politely away for Gregor’s sake.
Oh. So it wasthatkind of relationship they had. Good going, Granny Bethilda. Braiden could tell Gregor was handsome in his youth, which undersold how he’d aged into a perfectly handsome older gentleman, too.
His was a gruff and weathered face, thought not at all unlikeable, a distant kindness just visible behind the hardness of his stare. Above all else, the man was generously whiskered, the few places on his chin that were shaved still growing enough stubble to sand down a rocking chair.
“Absolutely no drinking for you,” Gregor said, wagging his finger. “I’m done mopping the floorboards after you, and I don’t want you soaking the nice coat this nice young man has clearly made just for you.”
A compliment, this soon into their first meeting? Braiden liked the man already.
“It’s a hoodie,” Bones huffed.
He wrapped his hands around the mug and sat perfectly still. As always, though the skeleton was physically incapable of forming facial expressions, Braiden found it easy to guess that he was sulking.
Braiden took a sip of his tea, surprised to find it was sweet, despite Gregor never having added any sugar. Maybe Granny Bethilda had even more special recipes she’d been holding back from him.
“I suppose you’ve come to take a look at this.”
Gregor retrieved a wooden frame from his workbench, carefully placing it on the table. Even unsanded and unvarnished it was already something to behold, its legs ending in curlicues that resembled Weathervale’s waves and clouds. One corner of the instrument even held a stylized letter B: for Bethilda, for Braiden, for Beadle.
“It’s beautiful,” Braiden breathed, running his fingers over the notches meant for stringing, grinning up into Gregor’s expectant face. “The craftsmanship — and you worked on it so quickly, too.”
Gregor beamed, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I do have a lot of spare time here, you know. Slow business in graveyards? It’s paradoxical, but it’s generally good news. Best to fill the empty hours with something enjoyable, perhaps even productive.”
“Now maybe this is a stupid question,” Bones said.
“It probably will be,” the gravekeeper grumbled.
Bones ignored him and carried on. “I’m not so fond of the idea that we have to set this thing up with special strings. Whatever happened to good old steel string and catgut and horsehair?”
The subterranean culture of ancient Hyberidia would have had access to plenty of ore and metal for manufacturing strings for string instruments — another factor for why the burrowfolk didn’t have their own, Braiden noted.
