15. VERENA GRAVENHURST #2
Reed’s jaw flexes, but I tear my arm from his grasp, heading straight for the academy exit without a second glance behind me.
The ride home today feels a lot longer than usual. My driver must notice my glum mood, because every few minutes his eyes flicker to me in the rearview mirror, though I’m thankful he has yet to ask questions.
“Thank you.” I give him a tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, and slide out of the vehicle.
“My pleasure, Miss Gravenhurst,” he says, nodding his head slightly.
The door shuts with a quiet thud, and gravel kicks from beneath his tires as he drives away.
I stand still, my eyes trailing up the spires jutting from the manor, spearing through the heavy clouds that loom above it.
A million thoughts fight for attention, conflicting emotions twisting inside of me so tight that I can hardly think.
Can hardly breathe. Balling my hands into fists, my nails dig into my palms, heart jackhammering in my chest. My frantic gaze wanders to the garden, and my legs are quick to move.
I run straight for the gates, past the fountain, and deep into the garden where I know I’m likely to find a bit of solace.
The place I’ve been avoiding from the moment I laid eyes on it, the place where my mother is laid to rest.
Expelling a shaky breath, I reach for the lock hanging from the gate of the mausoleum.
The cold metal bites at my skin when I wrap it in my palm.
Tugging once, the lock springs free. The small gate swings open on creaky hinges, inviting me inside, but my feet stay rooted by the door.
I stand at the entrance, staring into the small space.
The only light illuminating the crypt is the faint beams glimmering through the dainty stained-glass windows, reflecting a violet hue.
I take a step inside, the air shifting into something calmer, quieter, a stark contrast to the violent wind rustling the trees outside.
I amble through the stone room. Three gravestones stand proud against the far wall.
The first stone is engraved with the name Beatrice Gravenhurst, with tiny butterflies etched in the empty spaces around it. My grandmother.
The one next to it, a little taller than the other two, is my grandfather’s.
Ambrose Gravenhurst. Son, Father, Grandfather.
My eyes linger on the last word, and I swallow, moving to the next tombstone, feeling a little vexed towards the man who never gave me the chance to know him. Tears don’t hesitate to blur my vision.
“Lilliana Gravenhurst,” I whisper to myself, running my fingers over the deep grooves of the stone, a knot forming in my throat.
The name sounds strange on my lips, heavy with absence, as if speaking it aloud would somehow summon her back to me.
A black iris rests atop it, fresh, like it had been plucked from the soil only this morning.
“Why did you have to leave me?” The question comes out broken, unrecognizable, slicing through the silence. Grief twists beneath my skin, turning into an anger I’ve tried to snuff out since I was fourteen. A wrath for the child who had everything taken from her: her mother, her home, her hope.
“Don’t you know how much I need you? I can’t do this without you!
” A sob tears through me as I run my hands through my hair.
Pressing my back against the wall next to her, I let my tired limbs slide down into a crouch and tuck my head between my knees, allowing myself to completely break down.
My mom always said life was better with just the two of us, that all we needed was each other.
She was usually right about most things, but I think maybe she was wrong about that.
There were people who loved her, family we could have relied on and maybe if given the chance, they would have loved me, too.
We didn’t need to struggle alone; she didn’t need to work two jobs to keep a roof over our heads.
I can’t wrap my head around why she would keep me from them.
My chest tightens, and I shiver when a soft breeze blows through the crypt, making me wonder if she’s listening from somewhere just beyond reach.
I’ve been sitting here for hours, maybe centuries, with my head tucked between my knees, when I hear the sound of gravel shifting beneath boots.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Go away, Loxen, I’m really not in the mood for your hot and cold theatrics today,” I choke out in the steadiest tone I can manage.
He stays quiet, and I sniffle. The sun has long since drained from the sky, and when I look up, expecting to see unruly dark hair and annoyingly beautiful blue eyes, I’m at a loss for words.
Archie stands just past the entrance, his eyebrows pulled taut, looking at me with concern.
He wears a pair of oversized rubber boots, in an unusual shade of plum, his dress pants tucked haphazardly inside of them, like he wouldn’t even think of risking his Oxfords getting muddy this far from the manor and threw them on in haste.
“Oh. Hi, Archie,” I greet the old man, swiping at my tears in a futile attempt to hide the fact that I’ve been crying. Judging by the heat I feel in my cheeks, I can tell without a doubt they’re pink and blotchy.
He observes me for a moment, his worry for me swirling behind his whiskey eyes.
His demeanour seems off tonight, reserved, less himself.
I expect him to pry for answers. Why I’m here, if I’m okay, why my white shirt is stained with coffee.
But he doesn’t. Archie moseys past me and runs his long fingers across my grandfather’s headstone, seemingly lost in memories.
He crouches low, wiping away a layer of dirt that coats a cursive quote etched into the lower half of the stone. I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death,” he reads. His voice is low and comforting. Archie huffs a laugh. “Your grandfather loved poetry, specifically anything by Oscar Wilde.”
“What does it mean?” I ask after a long, quiet moment.
“It means you may grieve the dead, but do not let grief rule your heart, don’t let it smother the love that resides there,” he explains, twisting his head towards me, and I swallow the burn forming in my throat.
“Love is the true mystery, far greater than death itself, and it’s what your mother would want you to cling to, Miss Ren. ” His eyes soften, and I nod my head.
I sit in silence for a moment, mulling over the words that hold such truth. Archie says nothing, giving me a moment to simply be.
“Hey, Archie?”
“Yes, Miss Ren?”
“Why didn’t Ambrose ever reach out to me?”
He looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “He wanted to, believe me, he did. But his wishes to keep you safe were far greater than his desire to know you, potentially putting you in harm’s way.”
I nod, accepting his words, even though I’m unsure of what harm he’s speaking of.
“I wish things were different.”
“Me too,” Archie says, his gaze returning to Ambrose’s headstone. “Me too.”
The crack in his voice has my heart twisting painfully in my chest, and I push up from the ground on shaky legs.
“Come on, Arch, let’s get you back to the manor and get you out of those ridiculous boots,” I tell him, stifling a laugh, and he squares his shoulders.
“Hey!” He gives me a sidelong glance. “I’ve grown quite a liking for these boots.” Archie kicks one leg up, hiking his foot up to offer me a better view, and there’s no stopping the laugh that escapes me.
As we exit the mausoleum, I spot a familiar tall figure leaning up against the billowing willow tree, watching us.
My throat tightens as Loxen takes a long drag from his cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke into the night air.
My legs and heart ache to walk over to him, but I know better, and if I’m not good enough for Reed, I’m sure as hell not good enough for Loxen either.
I don’t know what my strange fixation for him is, but it ends tonight.
I reluctantly break my gaze away from him and follow Archie back to the manor.
I don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching me.