by Jo Raven
Tonight, I need to be all business. Be strong, Constance.
I know he hears me coming because my feet make crunching sounds on the pebbles that cover the path in the cemetery. He doesn’t look up, though, and I realize now how distraught he looks. I kneel in front of him, worried about his facial expression.
“William? Are you okay?” I ask, cursing myself in my head.
He takes a second before answering, still not meeting my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Constance. I have no excuses for what I did to you. Morally…and physically, I guess.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask softly, shaking my head. “There are no excuses to give, you did nothing wrong.”
“I didn’t?” he asks, his head darting up all of a sudden and looking angrily into my eyes. “How can you say that? I saw the way I hurt you yesterday.”
The hand I had laid on his knee comes through him as he stands up and takes two steps away from me, facing the other way. I close my fingers on the place he was just now, feeling like I’m imagining things but knowing I’m not. This is another painful reminder that William is not alive—not normal—anymore.
How does this work? Does he need to wish to be touched for it to work? He was not intangible last night … One more mystery to solve.
“I can never forgive myself. I’m so sorry, Constance.”
His voice is not much more than a whisper. I get up in turn and walk to him. I put my hand on his shoulder, half expecting it to go through him again—but it doesn’t. I can feel his heat—not the kind coming from the flames that never extinguish, but the kind coming from his own body. He seems warmer to the touch than he was before.
“You have nothing to forgive yourself about. I am not angry, and I am not hurt. I am the one who needs to apologize for my reaction.”
I feel him tense under my fingers as I try to soothe him. His head turns a little to the side, and I know he can see me from the corner of his eye.
“What are you talking about?” he says. His anger at himself is waning; I can feel it in his tone.
“That you did not hurt me yesterday. I was stupid. It was … I think it was the best night of my life. I can’t recall any better night, anyway.”
“I … I did not?”
He turns around, grabbing me by the elbows and pulling me to him.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“You did not. I’ve been stupid. I had persuaded myself of something and … I can’t even tell you, it’s too stupid,” I say, shaking my head.
“What did you persuade yourself about, Constance? Please, tell me.” His arms move up to brace me around the waist.
I need to bend my head back to look at him. From where I stand, his face is amazingly handsome, but it’s nothing compared to the depth I see in his eyes. I can see so clearly into them—there is no way to doubt his feelings for me. They’re all there, just under the surface. But beyond them there’s also a well full of darkness as well, something I cannot quite make out.
“You’ll think I am self-centered,” I say.
“Tell me,” he insists. “Because the alternative in my mind is haunting me, and I really want to know I’m not the monster I’ve thought I was all day long.”
I have no choice but to tell him everything, now. I can’t let him think that.
“I was reading up about ghosts. I thought you were still here because you had unfinished business.”
“I remember, you talked to me about that yesterday, after we…”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, “and I was so vain I thought your unfinished business was our wedding night. I thought you wouldn’t be able to move on until we had sex. And when I discovered that was not it, that you were not vanishing after we made love, I put two and two together. I’m not your unfinished business.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, his hand cupping my face and his thumb stroking my cheek.
“I’m sorry I was so vain, I’m sorry I assumed, and I’m sorry I minded.”
He shakes his head, disconnecting our gaze. “I can’t let you think that. You’re not vain, you’re amazing.”
“Shush. I want to apologize. And also I want to help you achieve whatever you need to achieve and help you find peace. I don’t want you to wander forever as a ghost, angry, restless, sad … I want you to find heaven.”
He sighs and let his hands drop to his side. His eyes are looking down again—not the reaction I expected.
“What’s up?” I ask, feeling confused.
William takes my hand and pulls me to sit with him on the marble stone.
“I’m not a ghost, Constance.”
A moment of silence falls between us, as I register this new information. So I was mistaken. It was to be expected, of course. I don’t know anything about the supernatural. It was a wild guess, and of course, me being me, I could only jump to the wrong conclusions.
“Okay,” I breathe out. Where do I go from here? “Do you know…”
There’s no way to ask this that doesn’t come out wrong.
“Do you know what you are?”
I cringe as I hear myself talk. I sound so insensitive.
“Not a ghost,” he says mysteriously.
I don’t like not having answers, but I realize maybe he doesn’t have them either. Why should he know anything about all this?
“So … you don’t know why you’re still there?”
He’s silent, and even though a second ago I was sure he knew nothing about all this, I now start suspecting he’s not telling me everything.
“’Fess up,” I say.
“He’s not gonna tell you anything,” says a voice behind us. I jump and turn around, my heart beating like a mad horse.
I don’t have time to ask who’s there—the guy steps out of the shadow of the tree, and I can see his face in the moonlight. The grave keeper. The one my mother-in-law doesn’t know about. I had forgotten all about him until now.
William has gotten up too and is facing him. His stance shows me that he thinks we’re in danger: he’s stepped in front of me, his body shielding me, and his arms are extended behind him to keep me from coming forward.
“Constance, go!” William commands—but I’m not moving. I don’t know if it’s because I want to be with William if anything happens, or if it’s because I don’t feel threatened … Or even because my feet are not obeying me despite my attempts to step to William’s side to get out of this confrontation funnel.
“She needs to hear this, William,” the guy says. His face is not wearing its devilish grin as usual—it’s more serious and grim.
I really don’t like this guy. He’s confident and handsome, and it gets on my nerves because all he wants to do is piss me off. But tonight? He seems like a different person. Is this a trick?
“Why should I even listen to you?” I ask, defiant anyway just by habit. “I don’t even know your name.”
“You didn’t need to know my name. It’s not relevant. But I’m sure you need to know why Mr. Wayworth is still here … and what he is.”
“No,” William growls.
This sentence has hit me like a bomb, making all my resolve explode in tiny pieces. I do need to know what happened—because it’s my life, my loss, my love. Because it’s about my Binniboy. I’m confused why William doesn’t want me to know, and my stomach knots, a dull pain spreading, shooting up through my spine to my brains.
In a few seconds, a pulse into my head makes me experience one of the worst migraines I have even known. I feel like I could puke.
“I don’t think you have a say in this,” says the nameless guy, chuckling, his devilish ways coming back.
William turns to face me, hands extended as if somehow he knew I was going to fall. “Please don’t do this. You can’t do this to me,” he begs—William begs! My proud, strong, fierce William … he begs.
“I’m not doing anything to you,” the grave keeper says, his tone dark. “You’re dead. Nothing can help nor hurt you. You’ll be in th
e afterlife forever.”
I try to step back to the tomb, feeling the need to sit, but I trip and William grabs me in his arms to stop me, preventing me from hitting my head on the marble stone.
“What are you doing to her?” he exclaims, a pang of fear in his voice.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be over in a second.”
The ache in my head pikes higher still before receding quickly. I have no idea what is happening to me, but what I do know is that I never want to experience that, ever again.
“Constance?” whispers William. I’m feeling safe in his arms, in the cocoon of protection he casts around me. “Are you all right?”
I nod, realizing I’m half lying on the ground. I try to get up, but his hands restrain my movements and keep me down. “Don’t get up,” he commands, and I stop struggling.
I have the faintest idea that I should be worried—William clearly is uncomfortable with that guy being here, and I felt horrible for a few seconds—but as I look toward the grave keeper, I don’t feel threatened. He’s annoying and pushy, but I have the strange feeling he doesn’t mean me any harm.
As the guy steps toward us, William gets up and faces him, his hands shaking and moving into fists, putting himself on his path.
“What do you think you’re gonna do now?” the grave keeper chuckles. “You can’t hurt me, and you can’t help her back to the mansion.”
“You’re not getting near her,” William says. There is no flexibility in his voice. “I know what you want, and you won’t have it. So step away.”
The grave keeper walks to me, passing by William and ignoring his threats. William seems fragile, powerless. He doesn’t fight him, even though he seemed ready to a few seconds ago.
As he kneels in front of me, the grave keeper’s eyes drill into mine. They’re a gorgeous green, and his pupils look like a bottomless pit. His skin smells like earth and moss and something spicy. My eyes take in his lean muscles and I have to force myself to look the other way. William is still facing the other way, his head hanging in defeat.
“May I help you, madam?” says the grave keeper.
“Help me how, Mister…?”
“My name’s Derrick,” he says, after a moment of hesitation. “I’ll help you get back home. You look like you need a good night of sleep.” Suddenly I realize how much I do want to go to bed. My eyes are closing slowly, and all I can do is nod my assent.
His arms snake around me, and I don’t even have the will to complain or worry about William. Not walking feels such a good idea. My head lolls on his shoulder as he looks back at William, still not moving.
“Don’t worry. Now is not the time. I’ll take good care of her.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE TRADE
I don’t remember what happened after that. I wake up in my bed around ten in the morning, in my nightgown, and the grave keeper—Derrick—is long gone. Both relief and frustration wash through me in continuous waves. I’m glad he didn’t stay because I have no idea what he wants from me and I don’t want to find out anything about that jackass—I’m in love with William, even though he’s dead, and I don’t want some guy with a lot of charm circling around me and making crude jokes. Yet I’m also worried I’m not going to find out what is happening. He seemed to have great insights on my situation, and I hate feeling left out.
A soft knock on my door startles me. “Who’s there?” I call.
The door opens on Emily, wearing a big grin. Behind her, Sandra is holding a tray with tea and toast, waiting to be invited in.
“Please come in,” I say. Emily comes straight to the bed while Sandra closes the door behind them and starts working in the room—opening the windows and serving the tea.
“Good morning, Constance,” Emily says, sitting on the side of the bed. She slides a brand new cellphone in my hand. “Devon got you this.”
“Thanks,” I say, a bit astonished by her mood. She seems chipper today, a big improvement on the previous days.
“What’s up?” I eye her suspiciously. Something is different. They both look at each other, as if they were searching for one another’s approval.
“We have news,” Emily says.
Sandra is no longer working, she’s facing me—her hands are unable to stay still as she waits for the other shoe to drop.
“News?” I ask, getting out of bed and putting on something warmer—the fresh air of the morning feels good on my skin but I’m feeling a bit chilly for the first time in weeks.
“About William.”
I stop dead in my tracks. What do they know? What did they find out? How do I need to react? What would William want me to do?
“What about William?”
“Please come sit with us,” she says, ushering me to the table and chairs in my room where Sandra has set the tea up. I comply.
“We have researched a lot about William’s death,” she says, sitting in front of me. “Sandra and I.”
I look at Sandra, and she looks like more than the hired housekeeper all of a sudden. She seems completely at ease discussing my husband’s death with my mother-in-law, and I wonder what changed since yesterday.
“Sandra has found some interesting texts in the small library we have near the dining room. She’s been browsing the books we have there every day since—since William died,” she continues, tears almost reaching her eyes. “And she found some interesting facts.”
“Interesting facts?” I play dumb. “What could there be of interest about my husband’s death?”
I really wasn’t expecting Emily’s obsession to spill over to Sandra as well, and I wonder all of a sudden if she hasn’t been trying to convince everyone in this house in the past few days about that hole in the fence she thought she saw.
On the other hand, I know something about William, and I’m not giving her any clue about it. Could she know? Could she have any idea?
The thought of having someone else know about William is both liberating and scary. I really don’t know which I’d prefer. For the moment, this is not my secret to tell anyway.
“I think William is still here,” she says.
“Still h-here?” I say, trying to give a little chuckle, to hide my worry, but not succeeding. I stutter a bit on the last word instead.
She nods, and I look at Sandra, who nods as well.
“What are you talking about?” I say, a frown on my face.
“For you to understand, I need to tell you more about these past fifteen years—the years you weren’t a part of.”
Emily waves Sandra closer, and she sits at the table with us—a very unusual move for a housekeeper, but somehow she looks like she belongs there.
“Do you remember why we stopped coming to visit your parents?” Emily asks.
“Not really,” I say. “I talked about it with Mom the other day, but all I can remember is that I became ill, and then you never visited anymore.”
“Do you remember how you became ill?” she asks.
I shake my head, wondering what this has got to do with anything.
Emily and Sandra exchange a look again, and I feel like what they’re going to tell me is huge—they seem really anxious to bring this up but also concerned about how I’ll react.
“Let me tell you as I remember it.” Emily’s gaze is fixed on something invisible in front of her eyes as she reminisces about the past.
“You and William always ran free on your parents’ property. William was very fond of you already at that young age, and we knew he would take great care of you. We weren’t concerned at all about your whereabouts.
“That day, we were having lunch with your parents, talking and laughing like we always did—we used to all be very close. You two had left the table even before dessert because you were anxious to go see the ducklings that had hatched the previous week. William knew where the pond was, and he was confident that he could get the ducklings to come meet you both at the edge of the water. Your parents had given you bread to lure them, but
of course, we knew that with William’s gift with animals, it wasn’t necessary.
“We didn’t hear from you for about an hour when we started to feel a little bit worried. We generally saw you running past where we were sitting, exploring around the property, starting new activities, and it was unusual not to hear about you and all your exciting adventures for such a long time.
“We all separated, going our own ways to look for you, agreeing to meet again fifteen minutes later at the property in order to go on with our day. We were worried, but not that much—we knew William or you would have come to get us if something had happened to either of you.
“Devon went to the pond to see if you still were playing with the ducklings. Your parents went searching in the house and in the gardens, calling your names. But I had a feeling you weren’t there.
“I went to the barn, the one where you often spent a lot of the day playing house in the horse stalls. There was a lot of hay there, and you two loved to roll in it and hide, looking at picture books that William tried to decipher for you.
“As I came closer to the barn, I heard him crying, a tone of begging in his voice. I rushed in, fear clawing at my stomach. But I never would have believed what I saw that day if I had not seen it with my own eyes.”
Emily’s hand covers mine, communicating warmth and compassion.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What happened?”
“You died that day, Constance.”
Shock flows right through me. Incomprehension.
“I died?” I say, feeling my eyes ready to pop out of my skull. A humorless chuckle croaks out of my throat. “It’s impossible—I didn’t die, I’m here, aren’t I?”
Emily looks down, her eyes looking something to latch on to.