very active cemetery, with only the newer section at the other end being used for the occasional burial. Even with the harbor on one side of the hill and narrow brick houses on the other, the cemetery felt remote, safe.
She wondered what the caretaker did when he was not collecting old flowers and pulling weeds. He looked like a nice enough man, and more than once Tabby was tempted to show herself, to ask if he could help her find her sister, but she knew that while adults might look kind, they could be cruel and ruthless if you had something they wanted.
When she was satisfied that he had gone for the night, and the cemetery was empty of the living, Tabby stole out of the crypt. It was a brisk, damp night, probably one of the last before the frosts came. She tried not to think about how cold she would be down in the damp stone crypt soon without a blanket or a warm cloak. But those things cost money, and she didn’t have a penny to her name. If only there was some way for her to earn money.
There was a way, but it was her aunt and uncle’s way. It was sitting in a dark room full of the bereaved, the curious, the skeptical. It was opening her mind to terrible specters. It was a waking nightmare.
Tabby shuddered; she would rather beg or steal.
Just as she was preparing to slip out into the city night to scavenge for food, a rustling in the weeds stopped her. Ducking behind a grave, she held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Please, don’t be a spirit or the caretaker come back.
It took her several long, drawn-out moments to understand what she was seeing, and when she did, she wished it had been a spirit.
The man was impossibly large and might have been Death himself, with his caped overcoat and black hood. But instead of a scythe, he carried a shovel and a bundle of cloth under one arm.
He might not have been the grim reaper, but his presence struck Tabby with no less dread. She watched in horror as the man plunged his shovel into the soft dirt of a grave. He gave a low whistle and a moment later another man appeared, this one carrying some sort of iron bar. After what seemed an eternity, there was a dull thud, and then the splintering of wood. Between the two of them, they hefted the shrouded corpse out of the grave and carried it to a waiting cart just outside the gates.
She had heard of such men before, whispered about by adults when she was little. Robbers whose quarry was the dead, men who had no scruples when it came to the sanctity of eternal rest.
She waited until the uneven sound of wheels on cobbles had faded into the night, hardly daring to breathe. Tabby sat crouched, motionless, until the first traces of dawn were just visible in the sky.
She thought of the caretaker and wondered what he would do come morning. Though he didn’t know she existed, she had come to see the older man as an ally, a living friend amongst the dead. Maybe she could pat the earth back down, and at least tidy things up so it didn’t look as bad. She was just about to uncurl her cramped legs when the rustle of movement stopped her. Her breath caught in her throat; had the men come back?
But it was not the men, nor yet a spirit, but a boy of flesh and blood.
No, not a boy. A young man. For a home of the dead, the cemetery was well trafficked by the living that night. What was he doing here? Over the last week, the cemetery had become a sort of home, her home, and he was trespassing.
Though he wasn’t much taller than Alice, he must have been at least sixteen, and was lean with fair hair that fell over his temples. If Tabby hadn’t been so stricken with fright, she might have thought him terribly dashing.
Had he crossed paths with the grave robbers? A tear ran down the length of his breeches, and an angry bruise was blossoming across his cheekbone. He was leaning against a large column dedicated to the memory of those lost at sea, eyes squeezed shut as he gripped his right leg. He must have been fighting hard not to let out any noise, though she could see