Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Roz wandered through the Pumpkin Hollow museum, pretending to read the placards beneath the paintings.
“I’ve always found this painting morbid,” said the curator, Martha. She was an older woman that came up to Roz’s chin.
“I rather like it,” Alaric said, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed up at it. Roz nodded her agreement, forgetting that Martha could neither hear nor see Alaric.
“It’s beautiful,” Roz said.
“I guess, if you like paintings of women dying,” Martha muttered before tottering off.
Martha had trailed Roz through the museum all afternoon, hovering close while pretending not to.
Roz needed her to leave so she could look through the old grimoires and see if there was any mention of the Graves family.
“We should have snuck in after hours,” Alaric said, watching her go.
“Easy for you to say,” Roz replied. “You don’t show up on camera.”
“I also cannot pick up a book, so I am of no use,” he said forlornly, turning back to the painting. “You find this painting beautiful, truly?”
“Yes,” Roz admitted. The painting was large, at least six feet tall.
It showed a cold morning three hundred years earlier, people fleeing their commune for Pumpkin Hollow.
It was a blur of activity, children and adults alike carrying anything they could as they escaped in the night.
In the distance, smoke rose from a pyre, with three bodies hanging from the gallows.
Despite the chaos of the scene, the people smiled and laughed.
“They knew they’d be safe,” Alaric said quietly.
“Did they?” Roz asked, regarding him from the corner of her eye.
“Yes,” Alaric replied, turning from the painting.
The next one was smaller, more detailed, encased in glass to protect it from the elements. It was a man with a rope around his neck, standing at the gallows, defiant.
“Does it bother you?” Roz asked, nodding to the painting.
“I’m sure just as much as it bothers Jesus that all his followers wear crosses,” Alaric said with a shrug.
Roz scoffed and swatted at Alaric, her hand bumping against his arm instead of going through it. They both stared at the spot, Roz’s mouth open, Alaric’s eyebrows raised.
“Are you scandalized by my answer, or surprised you can touch me again?” Alaric asked, his voice hoarse.
“Both. Are you calling yourself Jesus?”
“Blasphemous. I’d never say such a thing. I also don’t possess any of his powers. Water to wine? Healing? Quite the witch,” Alaric said, turning to the sections of the museum with old books.
“The church crowd would love to hear Jesus called a witch,” Roz said, hurrying after him.
“I’m sure it’s less entertaining than it was three hundred years ago. They had no sense of humor then,” he said, pausing before the wall of grimoires. There were multiple signs that forbade touching them.
“We’ll find a promising title, then I’ll stand guard while you read it,” Alaric said, leaning closer to examine the titles. Roz stood on the opposite end of the shelf, her gaze trailing over the spines.
Alchemy Through the Ages
Baking With Soul
Magna’s Grimoire
“Goddess forbid they put these in any sort of order,” Roz muttered.
“I have a promising one,” Alaric called, pointing to a book. The Grimoire of Life.
“This?” Roz asked.
“Well, yes. It is exactly opposite of what your family preaches, it feels like a good place to start.”
“It’s huge. It will take us hours to read it,” Roz lamented.
“We’ll come back,” Alaric suggested.
Roz glanced around before grabbing the book and shoving it into her bag. Alaric gasped. “Did you just steal a book from the museum?”
“Borrow,” Roz said. “Let’s find a few more to make it worth it.”
“That is an ancient tome, filled with all sorts of knowledge…”
“Okay, all the more reason to read it at leisure in my house and not quickly in a museum. Quickly, Martha’s been gone awhile.” Roz speed-read the titles, pulling two more books off the shelf and into her bag while Alaric grumbled.
Roz hurried out of the museum with Alaric on her heels, breathing a sigh of relief once they were halfway back to her house.
“That was exhilarating,” Alaric said.
“Why? You weren’t at risk of getting caught,” Roz said, then winced when a few heads turned. Two crossed the street to walk opposite her.
“Why do they do that?” Alaric asked, glaring at the townsfolk as they avoided her.
“They fear what they don’t understand. Necromancy is…strange. My family also isn’t super welcoming,” she added.
“But you are,” Alaric observed. “You are always kind to the townspeople. You give them great comfort when they’re dealing with death. You treat the graves of their loved ones with respect.”
Roz swallowed the lump collecting in her throat. “It doesn’t change who I am, what I am. Even if I have no powers like my family does.”
“Perhaps your power is kindness,” Alaric said.
“Kindness isn’t a power,” Roz scoffed, crossing through the gate into the cemetery.
“It is in an unkind world. You have a rare gift, and no matter what the world has thrown you, you’ve remained,” Alaric said.
Roz ducked her head, a warmth spreading from her cheeks to her chest to…lower. Oh fuck, I have a praise kink. With a ghost. She cleared her throat and threw a smile over her shoulder, hoping he couldn’t see how flustered she was. “Thanks, that’s really nice.”
Alaric gave a nod and fell into step with her until they reached her house. Once inside, she pulled out the titles and set them carefully on her coffee table, considering them one at a time.
“Divide and conquer?” she suggested.
“I want nothing more than to conquer,” Alaric said wistfully, though he was no longer looking at the books. “Alas.”
“Alas,” Roz echoed, trying not to read into what he’d said. “We’ll do this one first then,” she suggested, grabbing The Grimoire of Life. She crossed her legs and opened it on the coffee table. Alaric moved to her side, and she thought for a moment she felt the brush of his robes against her.
“Is it uncomfortable? To wear that all these years?” Roz asked.
“I’ve long since stopped noticing, though sometimes I long for breeches, a doublet, anything else. Also, I am covered in blood and mud. I’ve envied the living since the invention of indoor plumbing,” he said.
“I can ask my mother if she knows any way you can change? I’m sure you’re not the first spirit to want an outfit change,” she offered.
“Will you finally tell her it is I that you’ve tethered?” Alaric asked.
“Maybe,” Roz said evasively.
“Hmm,” Alaric said, leaning forward to peer at the open book. They read in silence, skimming the pages together. There were a few hopeful passages, but nothing about reanimation.
“Wait,” Alaric said, putting his hand on a page near the end of the book.
Blood is a complex conduit for magic. The blood of the willing can help power a spell, just as the blood of an enemy can strengthen a hex. Blood is one of the liquids of life.
“That’s it?” Roz asked, turning the page.
“It’s missing,” Alaric said, pointing to the page numbers.
“It is an old book,” Roz said.
“In otherwise immaculate condition,” Alaric pointed out.
“So…what? Someone took out the page about blood magic?”
“Yes,” Alaric said. “That is precisely what happened.”
“Okay, so we’re on to conspiracy theories, I see. Go ahead, give me yours.” She turned to face him expectantly.
“It is a theory,” Alaric agreed thoughtfully.
“But I find it strange that your family used to participate in reanimation, and now the art is lost. It is too important to be forgotten, so I think it was intentionally discontinued. And all evidence of it”—he pointed to the book—“erased. I suspect if we look through any old Graves grimoires, we’ll find it missing. ”
“There are no old Graves grimoires,” Roz said.
“Every family has a grimoire. During the inquisition they were hidden, it was proof of witchcraft. I transported dozens of them to Pumpkin Hollow while dressed as a reverend. There is a grimoire, mark my words.” Alaric sat back.
“Okay, where then?”
“An excellent question I’m sure a Graves could answer,” Alaric said, his lips turning up into a smile. Goddess, he had a nice smile.
“Fine, we’ll ask my mom again. Then we’ll ask my aunts, or maybe my twin. I’m just saying I’ve never seen it, much less heard of it. I am willing to look, I just…don’t want to get your hopes up. I know you want this curse lifted—”
“I’m in no hurry,” Alaric interrupted. “What I mean is, it’s been three hundred years. What’s a few more?”
“Tied to me?” Roz asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I rather like your company. If I intrude upon your life, I will step back,” he said, starting to stand. Roz reached out to put a hand on his arm, surprised when her hand didn’t go through his.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I…like your company, too. I just feel bad that I tethered you against your will, and I might not have the answers you seek. I just don’t want to let you down.”
“The fact you are willing to try means a great deal to me. It is a kindness I hope I can repay one day,” he said, and she swore his gaze dipped to her lips for just a moment.
“Earlier you asked if the painting of me bothers me. It does a little, but not because it’s of my last moments.
It’s because I feel an impossible weight of responsibility to be the man in the painting.
There’s a reason it was painted decades after my death, and not by anyone who knew me. ”
“You act like you were some…scoundrel,” Roz said.
“Worse—I was aimless. I was angry after Irene died. Her family felt for me, let me stay in the coven. I tried to apprentice, I tried to learn a trade or a skill. I was no one important until I put on the robe. Those who thought I was a real reverend treated me with respect, and those within the coven humored my efforts. Maybe the witches I saved from the pyre or the gallows would have escaped on their own anyway. Maybe I was enough of a distraction for the coven to flee to Pumpkin Hollow. I don’t…
feel that way. Three hundred years is a long time to reflect. ”
Roz placed a hand on top of his, dismayed when it fell through his. He glanced down at it, shaking his head. “It’s been so long since I could speak to someone, so long since anyone has touched me.”
“It must have been so lonely,” Roz said.
“It was, so you must forgive me if I demand too much of your time or attention. Though, I am rather glad it is you that broke through at last.”
“Oh?” Roz asked, unable to tear her gaze from his face.
“Yes. I feel as if we are old friends. I hope you might get to know me as I know you,” he said, his voice low. She leaned toward him to hear better, drawn to him by an unseen force.
“I do too,” Roz admitted. “Feel as if we are old friends, that is. And I do want to know you better,” she added.
“Good,” he said. “And you’ll tell me if I am getting too close?”
“Yes,” she breathed, because he was very, very close. His face was so close to hers, more detailed than it had been since she first saw him. He had a bruise under one eye, his lip slightly swollen, blood crusted along the corner of it.
She wondered what it might feel like to kiss a ghost.
“ROSALIN CECILE GRAVES,” came a booming voice from just outside the door to her house. She jumped back, the distance between her and Alaric suddenly a chasm. The proclamation was followed by banging on the door, startling Roz once more.
Alaric was on his feet in a moment, placing himself between Roz and the door. She smothered a smile at the idea of a ghost protecting her from a mortal human. No one dead or alive could protect Roz from the woman on the other side of the door.
“It’s alright,” Roz said, slipping past Alaric to the door. A moment after she slid the deadbolt to unlock the door, her great aunt Selma burst through, her wild gaze taking in Roz’s house.
“Aunt Selma, what—”
“You’re lucky it’s me who found out. If any of the elders, or your other family members knew, there’d be hell to pay!” Selma said, slamming the door behind her.
The books. Oh goddess, how had Selma found out? Roz opened her mouth to explain, but Selma cut her off.
“Now, tell me how the hell you tethered a spirit to you. In great detail.”