Chapter Fourteen #2
“Thank you, Tom. But really, I’m fine.” She smiled for good measure. “I’ve just been staying up late working on some new articles to feed out over the next few weeks. I’m still hopeful we can get the newspaper’s subscriptions up for the holidays.”
“I know you’re worried about the Globe,” Tom said in a lower voice. “But I don’t want you to fret, all right? I think I may have an answer to our problems.”
Vesper straightened. “You do?”
Tom nodded. “I’ve had some meetings with a few local banks. Nothing’s confirmed yet, but it’s possible we may be able to take out a business loan to cover the money we need.”
A loan from a bank was hardly a fix to their situation.
With loans came interest, and if they couldn’t pay that back fast enough, it would land them in an even worse situation in only a few months’ time.
But Tom was ever-hopeful, ever-optimistic.
She decided then that she wouldn’t be the one to douse her editor’s hope, however he found it.
“That sounds … great,” she said half-heartedly.
Tom smiled. “You keep focusing on your work, and let me worry about the rest,” he said. “Deal?”
Vesper nodded. “Deal.”
She waited until he’d returned to his office, then grabbed her things and headed out the door.
The late morning sky was dreary and gray as Vesper headed down Pierce Street.
She reached an intersection, paused, then decided to keep going.
In truth, she wasn’t walking with any purpose, she just wanted to move her feet as she tried to think of a plan.
With every step, she thought to turn around and find Maximilian, but where would she look?
She didn’t even know where the sorcerer lived.
And even if she did find him, she had no idea what she would say to him.
Already she regretted their argument, and though it felt strange to admit it to herself, a part of her even missed his company.
Just one more thing you’ve messed up.
She hadn’t realized where she was heading until she looked up and saw the wrought iron gates of the Basalton Cemetery coming into view.
Vesper didn’t slow her pace as she passed through them.
She wove through the crooked dirt paths and read the names on each of the headstones, imagining the stories and lives of people long gone.
It was obvious when she reached the end of the cemetery’s public plots and moved into the area of the site reserved for Basalton’s more affluent dead.
Here, the headstones weren’t hewn from crude granite, but precisely carved from expensive white marble.
Each one was decorated with fresh flowers.
Vesper felt a small stab of resentment; even in death, the rich found ways to set themselves apart.
She noted a white and pillared mausoleum situated among the fancier headstones.
It had to be the largest in the cemetery, and Vesper noted it was heralded by what looked like two stone hawks.
She drew closer to it, trying to read the surname etched above its door, when—
“Excuse me, miss, do you need some help?”
Vesper turned around. An older, fair-skinned gentleman in a faded white shirt, suspenders, and dark trousers was standing a few feet away. He was older and, judging by the rake he was holding, she guessed he might be a groundskeeper. She turned to face him.
“No, thank you,” she said politely. “I was just…” Suddenly, she thought of something. “Actually, I do have a question. Have there been any burials in this cemetery within the last week?”
“Just one.” The groundskeeper pointed. “Head down that path and you’ll see it.”
“Thank you.”
Vesper headed in the direction he’d indicated. She knew as soon as she’d reached the burial plot that the groundskeeper meant; a large mound of freshly turned soil set it apart from the ones surrounding it. Vesper stopped before the white headstone and read its brief inscription.
FRANCIS GLADWELL
1856–1898
Her eyes flicked from the years inscribed on the stone, then back to the name.
Was the man who’d called himself Francis Gladwell really in there, or had they buried an empty casket?
It didn’t escape her notice that his headstone was made of expensive white marble too, and a part of her still wondered who’d paid for it.
Where had Francis Gladwell gotten all his money?
She did a quick calculation and realized that Francis had been forty-two, the same age her father had been when he’d died.
Vesper hugged herself tight. There was no gravestone in this cemetery for either of her parents, or for her sister.
Death didn’t discriminate, but funeral parlors and cemetery managers certainly did.
Without warning, grief shot through her like a lightning bolt.
She blinked away tears. There was no use staying in a place like this; she needed to leave.
She started to turn when the snap of a branch to her left made her head jerk up.
She turned, squinting. A fog had descended over the cemetery, so thick that only the headstones nearest to her were visible.
It was quiet, still, but Vesper couldn’t shake the inexplicable feeling that she was being watched.
It reminded her of how she’d felt in the maze, the uncanny sense that someone was nearby that she couldn’t see. Was it the groundskeeper?
“Hello?”
No answer. Vesper’s eyes panned across the silvery mist. Slowly, she backed away from Francis’s grave, distracting herself by going over her list of to-dos.
Tom had noted that her work for the Globe lately was lacking, and she needed to make up for it.
The holidays were approaching, and there were plenty of things to write about in celebration of the season.
She was still gnawing on the corner of her thumbnail, trying as she walked to prioritize which part of her work to tackle first, when she heard it: the dry snap of a second twig, the crunch of leaves underfoot.
Vesper whirled around. “Who’s there?”
There was still no answer, but as she squinted through the fog, Vesper thought she made out an approaching gray shape. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as an internal voice gave her a single, instinctual command.
Run.
Vesper’s heart thundered in her chest as she turned on her heel and broke into a sprint.
Her pulse leapt as she heard footsteps behind her, but she didn’t dare turn around to identify her pursuer as she ran between headstones, mausoleums, and divots in the dirt.
They were getting closer to the border of the cemetery; its wrought iron gates were already beginning to appear in the distance.
Vesper picked up her pace. If she could run just a bit faster, she could get out …
The world upended as her foot caught on a tree root, and she fell forward.
She threw her arms out to break the fall, but a sharp pain shot up her ankle as it twisted.
She groaned, lying in the dirt for several seconds with her eyes screwed shut.
Slowly, she sat up. She lifted her dress’s hem slightly and examined her ankle.
Her hosiery had some dirt on it, but she was relatively unscathed.
She looked around, but the cemetery had gone silent again.
She waited several seconds before she rose, brushing the dirt off her and heading toward the cemetery’s exit, albeit more slowly.
She crossed the road, and started up the street to head back to the Globe’s office.
A dull pain had already begun in her ankle, and she suspected it might swell.
She swore again. That was the last thing she needed while trying to conduct this investigation.
“Miss Evans?”
Vesper turned, then nearly jumped. Mrs. Oelrich was heading her way quickly, her too-smooth face stretched into something meant to resemble a smile.
“I thought that was you!” she said brightly. “Are you all right, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Vesper schooled her expression quickly. “Yes, thank you. I just had a fall.”
“Oh, you poor thing!” Mrs. Oelrich put a hand to her chest. She might have been concerned, but her face didn’t move or show any expression. Perhaps that was the consequence of too much cosmetic sorcery. The woman leaned in. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m quite all right.”
“Good.” Mrs. Oelrich smiled. “Now, you must tell Mr. Kite that I haven’t forgotten about his request for the map of the maze. I intend to get it to him as soon as I can.” She sighed. “I’ve just been so busy with the children. They’re quite a handful when they’re young, you know.”
“You have young children?” Vesper didn’t quite manage to keep the incredulity out of her voice. Mrs. Oelrich had to be in her sixties. As though she could read Vesper’s mind, the woman smiled.
“I don’t have any biological children,” she said gently. “But what my womb didn’t give me naturally is made up for in other ways. I volunteer at the Heathnor House, one of Basalton’s shelters for underprivileged children.”
Vesper started. She hadn’t been expecting that. “That’s … very noble of you.”
The corners of Mrs. Oelrich’s eyes crinkled. “You’re sweet to say so, dear. I do try to stay active in the community.” She glanced up the street. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for a tea. Do take care, and I so hope to see you at the Belvers’!”
Vesper didn’t have time to ask what was happening at the Belvers’ house before the woman continued down the street. Once she was gone, her thoughts returned to the cemetery.
Who had been the figure at Francis Gladwell’s grave, and why had they chased her? They were just more unanswered questions, and ones she was less and less sure she’d ever get the answers to.
The fog lifted as morning gave way to afternoon. Vesper ambled through Basalton’s streets until she realized she’d reached City Hall. The form Tom had given her was still in her bag, and she remembered that he’d asked her to drop it off at the Treasurer’s Office. She sighed.
Better get it over with.