Chapter 8
When I find that there are two more versions of her, she acts as if I should be scared. All I want is to know more.
The best place to start in any mission to curse-break is the beginning. And while we cannot take a trip back to medieval England—because of said curse—we can take a trip to one of Auraria’s most visited sites.
Fairlight Cemetery.
In my opinion, there’s nothing fair or light about death, but I was not around to ask when it was named. So, Fairlight it remains.
Sanders follows just slightly behind me, warm hand on my back. The memory of this morning creeps back into my head for the umpteenth time, and a shiver rolls down my spine.
“Never would have suspected that you are the type to be afraid of a cemetery, Penelope,” Sanders teases.
I huff. “I think I liked it better when you spoke Old English.” I cast a look over my shoulder to see him sporting a roguish grin. “And I’m not afraid of the cemetery! My last name is Graves, for fuck’s sake.”
His brows draw together. “Well, are you cold then?” He begins to take off the jacket he borrowed from Dane.
“No, I’m fine.” I wave him off. “Where exactly did you wake up, again?”
He takes the lead now, directing us over and down another aisle of tombstones.
I like the cemetery, actually. There are hundreds of untold stories buried six feet under.
As we walk by, I imagine the lives of Hattie Maynard (born 1903, died 1961), Marco Meza (Here lies a brother, son, and friend), and Marley Bennett (Life is short.
Or long. I guess you can see which mine was).
Marley’s has always made me laugh. He passed when I was seven years old. A good friend of our family and the first real loss I remember feeling. His life was quite long, having died at the age of ninety-nine and living out his dying wish of never turning one hundred.
I realize I’ve stopped when Sanders suddenly appears at my side. “A friend of yours?” he asks.
“He was, yeah.” I pick up a few of the fallen willow branches and use my magic to weave them into a wreath for Marley’s gravesite. “Sorry about that, let’s keep going.”
But we don’t. Instead, Sanders pulls me into a hug. “Never be sorry about remembering the dead, Penelope.”
I absolutely cannot cry for the second time today, so I awkwardly sidestep out of the hug and nod my head vigorously in response to his sentiment. “You are correct. Thank you. Lead the way.”
“That was an impressive bit of magic,” he says, instead.
Glancing at the wreath, asymmetrical and a bit scraggly, I reply, “It was nothing.”
Instead of arguing, he raises his eyebrow and takes my hand in his, guiding me again through this space I know too well. All the way to a corner of the cemetery that I’ve spent more time in than any other.
The Graves family plot.
And more specifically: My great-grandmother’s tombstone.
I didn’t want to do this. I really, really did not want to do this.
But I have no choice.
I called my mom.
And now, twenty minutes later, Sanders and I are seated at an ancient wooden kitchen table with steaming cups of tea in front of us and my mother and grandmother staring from across the table in unadulterated glee.
“Mom, I’m going to?—”
“He really is so handsome, isn’t he?” She says it in the world’s loudest whisper aimed toward my grandmother.
Dear gods. I lightly bang my head on the table a few times while Sanders suppresses a chuckle. “Like mother, like daughter,” he says, laughing even harder when I glare at him.
“He apparently has superhuman hearing, Mother. And even if he didn’t, you whispered loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.”
Grandmother reaches over to pat my hand with her frail one.
Her nails are all painted a perfect shade of fire-engine red and she has a ring on almost every finger—a stark juxtaposition to her paper-thin, wrinkled skin.
“It’s not her fault, dear. You know my hearing is shit.
She’s gotten used to upping her volume for me. ”
Each one of the Graves women is a witch and has been for millennia, I’ve been told. Mom and Grandmother each only presented with small sparks of magic and only when emotions are extremely heightened.
I’ve only witnessed their magic a handful of times in my life, though I’ve heard the story of the night my mother was conceived and Grandmother accidentally blew out all of the windows in the house far too many times for my liking.
Their magical abilities—or lack thereof—is the reason they were so surprised when they saw I was able to maintain my magic even when I wasn’t feeling particularly… passionate.
I’m brought back to the conversation when Grandmother says, “So tell us the story from the beginning, Penny.”
Sanders and I take turns regaling them both with the tale of Halloween and the almost forty-eight hours since, ending with this morning where Sanders revealed that he manifested at our great-grandmother’s gravesite this Halloween.
“What does it mean?” I ask once we’re done. “Surely there’s a meaning, that he found me and that he feels this thread thing between us.”
Grandmother purses her lips. “I agree, Penny. There would be a meaning, especially given the reading Selene gave you. I’m just afraid I don’t know what that meaning is.”
Mom shakes her head in agreement. “I do feel like maybe I’ve read something about the thread though. Let me check the library.”
The other thing about the Graves women is that we have passed down ancient texts from generation to generation. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before—if there’s an answer to our predicament, it’ll be in one of those texts.
I pop up out of my seat following Mom. After taking a few steps, I realize maybe I should have Sanders come along. When I turn to tell him as much, he’s already up, helping Grandmother into her wheelchair and that thread tugs just a bit more in my chest.
He feels it too because his head snaps up, which is my cue to pretend like it never happened and run like a coward after my mom. “Do you really think the answer is in here?” I ask when I get to her.
“It has to be,” she replies. “Graves women know all.”
Mulieres graves omnia sciunt. Our family motto. Translated it means “dignified women know everything,” but some centuries ago a great-great-I don’t know how many times great-grandmother decided Graves should be the surname of everyone in our line.
I think she was probably a bit full of herself.
I look around the room. Old. Dusty. Familiar.
“Let’s get started.”