“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d ask these questions and not let up until you had all the gory facts, well—” he stopped with a non-committal shrug, “—either that or not speak to me for three days.”
“Okay, well, with that in mind, a paper on angels will be great.” I pointed into his face. “And I better get an A.”
David laughed. “Don’t worry, you will. So—” he scratched his nose, “—an outing then?”
“Where to?”
He walked away and opened my bedroom door, then turned back with a grin. “I thought I might teach you a little about history.”
“You know, I live with a History professor.” Our hands linked back together. “There’s not much you can teach me.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he mused. “Come on, meet me at the front door in twenty seconds.”
“Twenty?”
He kissed my cheek and, with less than a sweeping breeze, disappeared out the window—closing it behind him.
“Ara?” Sam called. “Prince Charming just pulled up.”
“I told you not to call him that, Sam.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Argh. You’re such a pain!”
“Better than being a troll.” The front door opened. “Hi, David.”
“Sam,” David said.
Do me a favour, I thought, for David’s purpose, tie his shoelaces together when he’s not looking?
“I see you two still haven’t managed to find common ground.” David walked in and looked up expectantly at me.
“Hard to find a way to relate to a serpent,” Sam said, keeping his nose in his book. “Maybe I’ll just have to dumb myself down a little so we can hold a decent conversation one day.”
“See what I have to put up with?” I said to David, grabbing my coat as I shut my door.
“Good morning, Ara.”
“Morning.” I stomped down the stairs.
“Sleep well?” he asked, pecking me on the cheek.
“Better than ever before.” I grinned suggestively.
Sam groaned, rolling his eyes. “Get a room.”
“Grow up, Sam,” I said, slamming the front door behind David and I, but an almighty crash from inside stopped me in my tracks.
“Hey!” Sam’s high-pitched screech echoed across the street. “Who tied my laces together?”
I looked up at David.
He shrugged and smiled.
The car door opened, and a cool breeze eased the dread compressing my lungs. Across the road, wiry branches guarded iron gates, warding visitors away from the dwelling of the dead or, perhaps, imprisoning them. And the worst part was, something told me that was our destination.
“David?” I grabbed his sleeve, folding myself against his arm. “What are we doing here?”
“Come on—it’s okay. I wanna show you something.” He took my hand and led me through a gap in the creaking gates, lifting the heavy chain so I could duck under. The air smelled murky with rotting leaves under the diluted scent of dead roses, their brown petals blown away in the wind, littering the cobblestone path like confetti.
“I don’t like it here.”
“You will. I’m taking you to an older part of the cemetery—there are trees there and it’s not so—” he looked around the yard; I looked too, at the way the low cloud in the sky made everything look dark grey and… “Eerie,” he said finally.
“Yeah, eerie is exactly what I was thinking.”
He laughed softly and held me close as we strolled past rows and rows of headstones.
In the distance, a murder of crows blackened the day, gathering at the feet of a caretaker tending a grave. They cawed loudly, their sinister fables setting me on edge.
“See that grave there?” David pointed to a cracked plaque, barely able to stand within the stone grasp of its template.
“Mm-hm. Marcus Worthington—died eighteen-forty?”
He nodded. “He’s a friend of mine. Goes by the name of Philippe now.”
“So...he’s not actually buried there?”
“Nope. In fact, many of the graves in any ancient cemetery are actually empty. The bodies either still living, or removed for scientific research hundreds of years ago.”
“Freaky.”
“Mm. I suppose it is.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not in one of these graves.” I snuggled against his shoulder.
“That’s just the thing—” He pointed to a towering oak tree at the top of a small hill, sheltering five small headstones from the threatening storm. “See that group of graves up there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my family’s plot.”
I stopped walking. David grinned and walked ahead.
Oh boy, when he said history, I had no idea he meant this kind of history. I caught up to him, huffing and puffing a little, and stood by his side, watching his nostalgic smile fall on the first headstone.
“See this?” He pointed down.
“Here lies Thomas Arthur Knight. Beloved father and husband. Died nineteen-oh-four,” I read aloud. “Who was he?”
“My father.”
My head whipped back up to look at David. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, wearing a cheeky grin.
“You were nine when he died?”
“Turning ten.”
“Well, who was this?” I stepped around the base of the grave, so as not to walk on the dead, and dusted some dried orange leaves off the next stone. “Mary Elizabeth Knight?”
“My mother,” his tone softened on the word.
I looked back at the grave with wide eyes, kneeling down to dust a few more leaves from the base, then traced my fingers over the stone carving of letters. “Died in childbirth, eighteen-ninety-four.”
The inscription on her headstone made me sad. She never made it to motherhood; they couldn’t even give her the dignity of citing that she’d been a beloved wife and mother? Only died in childbirth. It seemed so cold.
“It wasn’t cold, sweetheart. Not intentionally.”
“Even still,” I said, dusting off my jeans as I stood back up, “it sounds cold.”
“I know.” He nodded, considering the grave. “My father was destroyed when she died. He was expected to put up a strong front, but his grief was so deep that he became a recluse—couldn’t even make arrangements for her burial. In the end, Father John had to step in and take charge.”