Pax ever so gently removes my ballet slipper, then examines my cut. My ankle, the arch of my foot, caressed by Pax, steals my breath away. I want to pull him toward me, place my lips on his, and stealhisbreath fromhim.
No. Why do these thoughts sneak into my mind? I knewbeforethe heist that my loneliness was making me yearn for things I don’t need. That is still the case.
Pax looks to William. “Do you have a flask?”
“Always.” William digs out a flask and passes it to Pax.
“This will sting,” Pax says, but before I can react, he pours whiskey over my open cut. My breath sizzles through my teeth.
Pax wraps my foot gingerly but firmly and tugs the belttight. “Better?” He’s kneeling at my feet, eyes shining, and I’m reminded of the day we met: prince and pauper. Cinderella and her slipper, placed on her foot by a prince. Her Mr. Princip.
No, I reprimand myself again. I cannot trust my own thoughts.
“Better,” I say, but I still wince when I walk. We continue until we stop abruptly at 52 East Second Street.
“Are you joking, Pax?” It’s a wrought iron fence, and it surrounds the next several blocks. His gaze won’t meet mine.
We are at the New York City Marble Cemetery.
Pax swings open the gate with a loud creak. We step inside, into a small park filled with trees and tombstones, moss and mausoleums.
The voices that bombard me are immediate:
Oi, I need ye to help an old man apologize to his brother, lass.
You can hear us? Oh, I have so many regrets I need you to right.
Died of the yellow fever, we did. Most of us here, anyways.
Help us!
Help me!
Help!
I squint and instinctively cover my ears, though it does nothing to muffle these voices that speak directly into my soul. “A cemetery, Pax?” The trees reach for us with their long, spindly arms, and the darkness feels alive here among the dead.
Pax’s voice strains: “This is where Julia is buried.”
My husband!
My mother!
My sister!
These messages echo the rise of my own guilt and regret.“Julia is here?” I say, too loudly. They are here, in the shadows: the Dark Trio, their Legion. I can smell their rot.
“I thought you said you haven’t been here before,” William adds in a whisper.
Pax chews on his thumbnail. “I haven’t.”
My choices!
My regrets!
My shame!
My shame.
