Bat #3
I tugged Charlie over to the window, gazing out at the grounds.
The sun hung low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of burnt orange and deep purple.
Long shadows stretched across the overgrown lawn.
The dead gardens looked almost beautiful in this light—skeletal trees silhouetted against the darkening sky, brambles turned to lace by the dying rays.
There was a strange sort of beauty to it, in this light.
But nothing like what was to come later, when true darkness fell.
“Come on,” I said.
“Where are we going?” Charlie’s fingers tightened around mine.
“Lady G does know everything that goes on in the manor.” I pulled him toward the door. “But I don’t think she ever stepped outside it after it was built. Too busy being lady of the house.”
I dragged him through the corridors, taking the servants’ passages to avoid the main routes. The last thing we needed was to bump into Brad. My ears strained for any sound of his heavy footfalls or his insufferable voice pontificating about witch-hunting strategies.
Nothing. Just the creak of old floorboards and Charlie’s breathing.
We emerged through the kitchen door into the garden.
The temperature had dropped. Not that I felt it, but Charlie shivered. He still hadn’t let go of my hand. I pretended not to notice how pleased that made me.
We wandered in silence through the overgrown paths. A light breeze stirred the dead vegetation, all whispers and rustles. Charlie’s trainers crunched on gravel and dried leaves. Above us, the first stars began to prick through the deepening twilight.
Finally, I spotted Thomas in the distance. He knelt by the well, pulling at weeds that had grown up between the stones. Yanking and tossing, yanking and tossing, building a pile of withered plants beside him.
Charlie mumbled something under his breath.
“What?”
“It’s just…” He gestured at Thomas. “I still can’t get over how sad it is. That he spends all day tending to this jungle of a dead garden.”
“I told you already, he’s not sad.” I squeezed his hand. “You just need to wait a bit longer.”
Charlie frowned, looking up at me with those blue eyes, puzzled and concerned.
Oh, he was lovely. The urge to kiss him slammed into me with dizzying strength. Instead, I reached over with my free hand and pushed his glasses up his nose where they’d slipped down.
His breath hitched. Colour flooded his cheeks.
We continued walking.
When we reached Thomas, he was so engrossed in his work he didn’t notice us until I tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up, brushing dirt from his hands.
Thomas had been a big man in life—broad?shouldered, thick-armed from years of manual labour.
Death hadn’t changed that. His dark brown skin still had that weathered look of someone who’d spent decades outdoors, lines carved deep around his eyes and mouth.
Grey stubble covered his jaw. He wore the same clothes he’d died in: rough wool trousers, a simple shirt, heavy boots.
We’d never been particularly close. Thomas kept to himself mostly, preferring his gardens and his routine.
Occasionally I’d see him with another ghost in the drawing room, but mostly he seemed content in his solitude.
The sole exception was Molly. He definitely had a soft spot for her.
Once I caught him watching her for a full twenty minutes, even though she was only rearranging teacups.
He grunted. “Need to finish this well.”
“I’m giving Charlie a tour of your magnificent gardens,” I said.
Thomas stared at Charlie. Really stared, like he was assessing whether this living man deserved to walk on his dead grass. “I didn’t know we did guided tours now.”
I winked at him. “We do for very special guests. Anyway, I was wondering if you could help us. Charlie has a book about the manor, which claims there’s a witch haunting the place. Do you happen to know anything about that?”
Thomas squinted at me. Then at Charlie. Then back at me.
“Witch?” His weathered face crinkled. “Haunting the place?”
A beat of silence.
Then he threw his head back and laughed. Deep, booming guffaws that shook his massive frame. He slapped his thigh, nearly doubling over.
Relief flooded through me. I joined in, my own laughter bubbling up. “Right? Absolute bollocks, isn’t it?”
“A witch!” Thomas wheezed between chuckles. “That’s rich, that is. Has Molly heard this? I bet it would give her a right giggle!”
Charlie shifted beside me, confusion written across his face. His hand remained in mine, thumb pressed against my palm.
“So, there’s no ghost called Margery Darke here?” Charlie asked.
Thomas wiped at his eyes, shoulders still shaking with residual mirth.
“See?” I squeezed Charlie’s fingers. “Told you. No witch. Brad’s chasing shadows.”
“Aye, no witch haunting anything.” Thomas bent back to his weeds, tugging at a particularly stubborn root. “Her bones cause me a right barrel of grief, though.”
The laughter died in my throat.
“What?”
Thomas yanked the weed free, tossed it onto his pile. He gestured vaguely toward the east side of the property.
“Her bones. Over by the apple tree. Nothing will grow over them.”