The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

by Val St. Crowe

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  I almost wish Brice could see me in my maid of honor gown. I remember him telling me that I seemed feminine to him, but if he saw me in this dress, he’d really think I did. I’m pretty. I have my hair curled and twisted on top of my head, and I’ve been forced to wear makeup. I don’t particularly like doing any of these things, but the effect is pretty cool, I have to admit. I feel like a different person.

  I watch the wedding vows, and Antonia and Seth seem so in love with each other, the way they’re staring into each other’s eyes. For the first time ever, when I see that, I feel a pang of longing. I realize that part of me wants that too. Wants someone to stare at like that. Wants to feel that kind of love.

  My family seems so close on the day of the wedding. So warm and noisy and loving. I wonder how it is that my mother could have done something to hurt them. I wonder how it is that a group of people this good to each other could be responsible for turning people like Brice into berserkers. I feel confused.

  I go outside of the building the reception is being held in for some air. There’s a cop car sitting outside. Figures. Nothing can happen in my family without the police staking it out. I glower at the two officers inside. One turns to the window, and I recognize her. Fitzpatrick. The woman who told me my mother didn’t have a death certificate. I’ve been spending so much time trying to figure out what my mother knew, but I haven’t followed up on the weirdest thing. That as far as the police know, she didn’t die. She disappeared. Being beaten up by Vincent distracted me.

  After hours in the dress, the novelty of being pretty wears off, and I mostly feel hot and uncomfortable. I wait until it’s late, and most of my family is drunk and dancing, before going and taking it off. Out of the dress, my face scrubbed clean of makeup, I dart off into the darkness. I get in my car. I should go home and go to sleep. But I don’t think I will sleep. I feel in too much turmoil.

  There are so many things I could fixate on, but for some reason, there’s only one that fills my head obsessively. My mother. Fitzpatrick said my mother didn’t have a death certificate. Why not?

  I have a shovel in my trunk. I keep weird things in my trunk. You never know when you’re going to need them. Most of it’s on Tommy’s advice. He knows what should be in a jettatore’s trunk.

  I have to know. I drive to the cemetery. I get the shovel out of the trunk. I go to my mother’s headstone. I dig.

  It hurts. My muscles begin screaming at me almost immediately. My hands feel raw from holding the shovel. I mutter a benedetta spell that I remember, one to strengthen me and dull my pain. After a while, I don’t feel the soreness. It’s just shovel after shovel of dirt, digging and digging. I whisper the spell every time I feel myself beginning to lag. It still takes a long time, but I clear the grave much quicker than I would have been able to without magic.

  Eventually, I finally strike something, and I uncover my mother’s casket. It’s been five years, but I can still recognize it. It’s cream colored. I remember when I watched it being lowered into the ground. There were flowers all over it then. Not anymore.

  It’s harder to get the casket open than it was to dig down to it. It takes me several tries to pry it open with the shovel. I don’t look inside for a second. I don’t want to see my mother’s bones, or her rotting corpse.

  Slowly, I turn my face back to the open casket, so that I can see what’s inside.

  Nothing.