The Bone Houses
Page 1
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Emily Lloyd-Jones
Cover and interior art copyright © 2019 by SPIDER.MONEY (Wansiya Visupakanjana). Cover design by Marcie Lawrence. Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: September 2019
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lloyd-Jones, Emily, author.
Title: The bone houses / Emily Lloyd-Jones.
Description: First edition. | New York; Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2019. | Summary: “When risen corpses called ‘bone houses’ threaten Ryn’s village because of a decades-old curse, she teams up with a mapmaker named Ellis to solve the mystery of the curse and destroy the bone houses forever”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018054664| ISBN 9780316418416 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316418409 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316418430 (library edition ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Dead—Fiction. | Blessing and cursing—Fiction. | Supernatural—Fiction. | Gravediggers—Fiction. | Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L77877 Bon 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018054664
ISBNs: 978-0-316-41841-6 (hardcover), 978-0-316-41840-9 (ebook), 978-0-316-53647-9 (OwlCrate)
E3-20190726-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Living
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Dead
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The After
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
To my grandmothers
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THE GRAVEDIGGER’S CHILDREN were troublemakers.
They chased chickens through the neighbors’ yards, brandishing sticks like swords, claiming that the fowl were monsters in disguise. They went to the fields and returned with berry-stained lips, crunching seeds between their teeth. They tumbled through the house, slamming into walls and breaking one of the wooden love spoons their father had carved. And once they’d tied a small wagon to a pig and raced through the village, screaming with mingled fear and joy. It was widely thought that the eldest, the only daughter at that time, was filled with mischief, and her younger brother trailed in her wake.
They would settle down, said Enid, the innkeeper. Children raised so close to Annwvyn were bound to have a spark of wildness in them. Their parents were both considered decent folk. The children would follow.
And if they didn’t, said Hywel, the girl would make a fine recruit for the cantref’s armies.
Their father dug graves and when he came home at night, his fingernails were stained with dirt and his boots were muddy. When there were no deaths in the village, he would vanish into the woods, reemerging with plump mushrooms, wood sorrel, and all sorts of berries. They were never rich, but their table was laden with good food. Their mother kept account of their bookkeeping, talked with the mourners, and planted fresh gorse along the edges of their graveyard as a protection against magic.
For all their freedoms, the children had one rule: They were not to follow their father into the forest. They would trail after him until the shadows of the trees fell over the rocky ground—and then the father would lift his hand, fingers splayed: “farewell” and “no farther,” conveyed in a single gesture.
The children obeyed—at first.
“What are you doing?” asked the brother, when the girl stepped beneath the tree boughs.
“I want to see the forest.”
The brother tugged at her arm, but she shook him off. “You can’t,” he said. “We aren’t allowed.”
But the girl ignored him.
The forest was beautiful—lush with ferns and thick with moss. At first, all was well. She picked wildflowers and wove them into her tangled hair. She tried to catch small fish from a stream. She laughed and played until evening fell.
With the creeping darkness, things came awake.
A figure stood nearby, watching her. For one moment, she thought it was her father. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, but too thin around the waist and wrists.
And when the man walked closer, she realized it was not a man at all.
It could not be. Not with a face of raw bone, with bared teeth and hollow eye sockets. She had seen bodies before, but they were always gently wrapped in clean cloths and then lowered into the ground. They were peaceful. This thing moved slowly under the weight of armor, and a sword jutted from a belt. And it stank.
The girl had a vague idea of picking up a fallen branch to defend herself, but she was frozen with fear.
The dead creature came so close that she could see the fine pockmarks and cracks in its bones, and the places where its teeth had fallen out. It knelt before her, its empty gaze fixed on her face. It pulled her close.
And then it inhaled. Sucked a rattling breath through its teeth, as if it were trying to taste the very air.
She quaked with terror. Every gasp was raw with it.
The dead thing drew back, tilting its head in a silent question. Then it rose to its feet and looked beyond her. Heartbeat hammering, the girl glanced over her shoulder.
Her father stood a few strides away. In one hand, he held a basket of forest greens, and in the other he wielded an axe. The threat was unspoken but heard nonetheless.
The dead thing retreated, and the girl shook so hard she could not speak. The father knelt beside her, checking her for injuries. “I told you not to follow.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“Death is not to be feared,” he said. “But nor can it be forsaken. One must be mindful.”
&nbs
p; “What was that?” she asked. “Was it truly death?”
The father placed his hand on her shoulder. “A bone house,” he replied. “They linger beyond death. It is why the villagers do not disturb the forest.”
“But you come here,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Those of us who deal in the trade of death are familiar with it. I don’t fear them—and as long as you know how to navigate the forest, nor should you.”
She looked at the trees—their tangled branches wreathed in fog, the chill of the night settling all around them. And she was not afraid—rather, something like excitement unfurled within her.
“Teach me?” she asked.
Her father smiled. He took her hand. “I’ll show you. But hold on, and do not let go.”
For two years, he showed her how to find paths through the trees, where rabbits made their warrens, how to tell between the sweet berries and the poisonous ones. And always, he carried his axe with him. On the days when they did not go to the forest, he brought her to the graveyard. She learned how to break up rocky topsoil, how to wrap a body, and how to pay last respects to the dead.
Winters came harsh and cold, and their provisions of food dwindled. Soup was watered down, and the memory of plump blackberries and buttered greens kept the children awake at night. The village became smaller; farmers packed up their families and went elsewhere, leaving empty homes and barren fields. And fewer people required the services of a gravedigger.
The mother became pregnant a third time, and when the father was offered a job as a scout, he accepted. The local cantref lord wished to investigate a collapsed mine, and the only way to get there was through the forest. And so he asked the man who did not fear the woods.
The daughter begged to go with him, but the father refused. When she protested, he gave her half of a wooden love spoon. He had carved several for their mother during their courtship—and this one had been broken when the sister and brother were tussling in the kitchen. The whorls of dark wood were smooth against her fingers, and she traced the overlapping hearts and flowers. “Here,” he said, cupping his larger hands around hers, pressing the spoon gently. “You take this half, and I’ll take the other. So long as you have it, you’ll know I’ll find you.”
She clutched it to her chest and nodded. The father kissed his children and his pregnant wife, and he went into the forest.
He never returned.
By night, the daughter slept with her half of the spoon beneath her pillow, and by day, she carried it in her pocket. He will come back, she said, when anyone asked.
Some days, the daughter went back to the woods. She stood in the forest, beneath the shadow of the mountains and waited. She waited to see another dead man.
The forest did not scare her; rather, she wanted to be like it: ageless and impervious, cruel and beautiful.
Death could not touch it.
CHAPTER 1
THE EVENING AIR smelled pleasantly of a fresh grave.
Ryn breathed it in—the sweetness of overturned sod, mists rising from the green grass, and the woodsmoke drifting from the village. The spade felt comfortable in her hands, slotted in amidst familiar calluses. She hacked at the damp earth, dislodging rocks and thin roots. She’d marked the outline of the grave with twine and nails, and now it was just a matter of cutting through greenery and topsoil.
Her spade glanced off the edge of a rock, ringing high in her ears. She grimaced, grasped at the rock with her bare hands, and yanked it free. A worm came with it, squirming with the discomfort of a creature unused to sunlight. She picked it up between thumb and forefinger, and then she tossed it over her shoulder.
Someone made a noise behind her.
Ryn looked up.
Her brother stood over her, the worm caught in his ink-stained fingers.
“Sorry,” said Ryn. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
Gareth gave her a flat stare, walked a few steps to her left, and dropped the worm into the grass. “It never occurred to you to put the worm back, did it?”
“Usually if something crawls out of a grave, I take an axe to it,” said Ryn. “That worm should be grateful.”
His frown cut fresh lines around his mouth. Despite being the younger of the two, he carried the weariness of an old man. “You needn’t bother with the digging, Ryn.”
A snort escaped her. “Because you’re going to do it?”
Gareth’s clothes were impeccable. Not a smudge of dirt upon his tunic, nor a stray blade of grass on his boots.
“Because,” he said, and his voice was heavier, “Master Turner came by this morning and informed us that our services will not be needed for Mistress Turner. They’ve decided to burn the body.”
For a heartbeat, she remained in place—caught between her task and the knowledge that it was no longer necessary. Her hands yearned to return to the digging.
She rocked back on her heels and began rubbing her dirty hands on her leggings. Gareth made a pained noise at the streaks of grime, but she didn’t pay him any mind. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“That grave was our last hope.” Gareth took a step back. “We were counting on Turner’s ball-penny to get us through the winter.” A breath rattled through his clenched teeth. “Come on. Ceridwen will be finished making supper by now.”
Ryn rose to her full height. She was as tall as her brother, something that had always made her smile and him frown. Tall and lanky as a sapling, her mam had once said. And as graceful as a drunken colt, her father had added fondly. “I saw a bone house this morning,” she said. “Caught a glimpse of it. I went for my axe, but the sun was up before I returned. It must have fallen in the tall grass, because I couldn’t find it.” She shrugged. “I’ll wait for nightfall. Let it find me.”
“A bone house?” A crease appeared between Gareth’s heavy brows.
“Yes,” she said. “I know, I know. You’re going to tell me that bone houses don’t leave the forest. That I’ll probably just scare a vagrant half to death.”
Gareth frowned. “No,” he said. “I—I believe you. It’s just that’s the second one.” He had their mother’s eyes—the brown of healthy earth. And he had a way of looking through a person that made Ryn want to hold her secrets tightly to her chest. “They never used to leave the forest,” he said.
It had the ring of an accusation and Ryn crossed her arms. “I haven’t gone into the forest.” The words were sharp. “Well, only the outskirts.” Part of her wanted to remind him that the reason they still had food in their larder was because of her willingness to flirt with the edges of the forest.
“All right,” he said. “Take care of the bone house. But when Ceri cries because I’m not good at telling her bedtime stories, that’s on you.”
“Just read her your accounts ledger,” said Ryn. “That’ll put her right to sleep.” She softened the words with a grin and a clap on the arm.
Gareth winced, his eyes on where she had dirtied his shirt. “Just don’t get yourself killed, all right?” He began to walk away, but he called over his shoulder: “And if you do die, that’s still no excuse to be late for breakfast.”
Colbren’s graveyard was set outside the village proper. When Ryn was young, she’d asked her father why they buried the dead so far from the living. She still remembered his broad fingers carding through her hair, a smile on his mouth as he answered. “Death’s something of a frightening thing to most people. They like a bit of distance between them and eternity. And besides, the dead deserve a spot of privacy.”
The graveyard had been built before the Otherking fled the isles. As such, the old protections remained: Gorse grew at the edges of the graveyard, thick with yellow flowers. The thorny shrubs hid iron rods that had been driven into the ground. Gorse and iron. It would not stop a human from entering the graveyard, but it would stop other things.
The light faded from the sky, falling behind mist-shrouded mountains.
Ryn saw the familiar form of a man walking along th
e road leading from the village. His shoulders were bent by years of hard labor, and he carried a rusty sword. The damp, overgrown grass brushed at her fingertips as she approached him. “That looks a bit heavy for you, Mr. Hywel.”
Old Hywel snorted. “Been carrying heavier things than this since before your parents were born, Ryn. Leave well enough alone.” He spoke with a gruff fondness.
“Why does a miller need a sword?” she asked.
He grunted, and there was a shrewd edge to his words. “You know why.”
She grimaced. “They haven’t been at your chickens, have they?”
“No, no.” Hywel huffed. “My chickens can fend for themselves.” He slid her a look. “Your brother went past here a few minutes ago,” he said. “Looked a bit out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“If Gareth weren’t worrying about something, he wouldn’t be my brother.”
Hywel nodded. “Any word from your uncle?”
It was a question folded into another question, a worry that neither of them would say aloud.
Ryn shook her head. “We haven’t heard from Uncle. But you know how travel is from here to the city.”
The loose skin around Hywel’s mouth sagged in disapproval. “Never been, myself. Don’t trust those city types.”
There were those in Colbren who had never left the village. They might as well have grown up from the rocky soil like trees; they seemed to draw their lifeblood from the land, and they would not be uprooted.
“How is your sister?” Hywel asked.
“Likely baking something that would shame the finest cooks.” When she’d left the house that morning, Ceri had already been up to her elbows in flour.
Hywel smiled, showing a missing tooth. “Those rowanberry preserves she made… there wouldn’t happen to be any of those left, would there?”
There were, in fact. Ryn thought of the berries spread over sweet grilled cakes, and her stomach cramped with hunger.
“Our roof has a leak,” she said. “Would be a shame to see all my sister’s fine baking go to waste the next time it rains.”
Hywel’s grin widened. “Ah, that’s how it is. You’re a sharp one, Ryn. All right—two jars of preserves for the roof repairs and you’ve got yourself a deal.”