29. Julian
Julian
Iam standing in a room that smells of lilies and stagnant air. Watching the girl I love disappear in front of my eyes. Again…
June is sitting in one of those god-awful, high-backed velvet chairs, her skin so pale she looks like she’s carved from the same cold marble as the statues at the Manor garden.
Her eyes are fixed on a singular, invisible spot on the wall—a gaze so empty it causes a physical ache in my chest. She hasn’t blinked in minutes.
She hasn’t eaten or slept in days. The vibrant, fiery girl who once laughed at an oversized stuffed elephant is being systematically replaced by a hollow-eyed zombie.
The funeral director is a man who speaks in hushed tones, droning on about the “timeless dignity” of mahogany versus the “earthy warmth” of oak.
I am just nodding, my hand gliding over the paper to sign whatever he slides across the desk.
My hand is steady, but my chest feels like it’s being crushed by a hydraulic press.
Every time I look at June, the guilt hits me.
I should have seen the fragility in Nana’s steps.
I should have been there to catch her. I was playing house with her granddaughter while her foundation was turned into rubble.
I’ve spent the last three days being the version of myself June needs—the planner, the protector, the one who handles the formal overwhelming reality of words, like autopsy or burial plot so she doesn’t have to hear them.
“June? Junebug, look at me.”
She blinks, and it’s like watching a screen flicker to life after a power surge. The hollow, thousand-yard stare in her eyes nearly breaks my resolve.
“It’s time to pick out the plot,” I say, my voice sounding like gravel. “We need to go outside.”
The memorial gardens of the town cemetery are pristine and manicured to an impressive degree. We walk past the polished granite and the weeping angels. I can feel the tension radiating off June in cold, detached waves.
“What about this one near the old oak tree?” I ask, pointing to a quiet, shaded corner. “Or the one by the fountain?”
“No,” she whispers. It’s the only word she’s said in hours. “Not that one.”
We move from plot to plot, and the answer is always the same. I can see the frustration building in her—the fresh grief and anger that is desperate for a target. My palms are still tender from dragging Billy through the forest; a stinging reminder of my own volatile duality.
“I know it’s hard,” I say, my voice straining with the effort to stay patient. “I know this is the last thing you want to do. But she can’t stay… she can’t stay at the morgue.”
“None of them are right, Julian!” she cried.
For a heartbeat, the fire is back in her eyes, a flash of the girl who once challenged me at the diner.
But then she crumbles, her voice turning into a broken sob.
“None of them suit her. It’s all so far away.
The energy here… it’s cold. It’s sterile.
It feels like I’m just leaving her here to be forgotten. ”
She wraps her arms around herself, shaking so hard I can hear her teeth chatter.
Seeing her like this, so vulnerable and untethered, makes something change inside me.
I look to the horizon, towards the dark, looming silhouette of the Manor standing on the hill.
I think about our private gardens. I think about the soil that has been in our family for centuries.
If I do this, June never leaves the property. She’ll be bound to the Manor, to the Blackburn name, and to the Ritual in a way she can never escape.
But I can’t stand to see her heart break one more time today.
“Stay here,” I tell her, my pulse hammering in my ears. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I stride away before she can ask questions, pushing through the heavy timber doors into the facility's main office. The funeral director looked up, startled, but I ignore his expression as I gesture to the heavy rotary telephone sitting on the desk.
"I need to use the phone," I tell him, my voice leaving no room for argument.
He steps back with a nervous nod. I pick up the receiver, listening to the hollow click of the dial tone before spinning the numbers from memory. Cain answers after the second long, echoing ring, his voice cutting through the static like ice.
“We aren’t burying her in the town cemetery,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. “June’s grandmother. Nana. She’s coming home. I want her buried in a private garden, near the white rose bushes. I want June to be able to see her from the parlour window.”
There is a long, terrifying silence on the other end. I can practically hear the gears in Cain’s mind turning, calculating the risks and the undeniable leverage this gives us— gives him.
“You realise what you’re asking,” Cain says finally. “You’re making the girl a permanent fixture of the estate.”
“She is already a permanent fixture,” I spat.
I hang up before he can argue further. I turn back to the cemetery garden, watching June stand among the headstones. I am about to give her exactly what she wants—proximity—and in doing so, I am sealing her fate with a tombstone.
The funeral was small, quiet, and exactly what Nana would have wanted, if it weren’t for the fact that she was being laid to rest on the grounds of a house that belonged in a Gothic horror novel.
The spot I picked is perfect. It’s in the private garden, nestled between the sprawling white rose bushes and an ancient, weeping willow tree.
When the sun hits the Manor just right, the light reflects off the library window and pools over her headstone.
June can see it from her new bedroom. I made sure of that.
I want her to feel watched. I want her to feel held.
Now, we are standing in the kitchen of Nana’s house for the last time.
The air smells of stale bread and the memories of Sunday roasts that will never be served again.
The floorboards upstairs creak, and a moment later, June appears in the doorway.
She’s clutching a small bag to her chest—her childhood journals, a few photos—the things that define her.
“I’ve got it, Junebug,” I whisper, my hand brushing hers.
The bracelet I gave her earlier today catches the light, a bright spark in the dim room.
It matches the heart locket necklace I gave her all those years ago—the one she never takes off.
I’d missed her last birthday when we were on our break, so I owed her a present.
But more than that, I just wanted to give her something to try and lift her spirits.
She doesn’t argue. She just leans her head against my shoulder for a brief second. I help her carry the remains of her life out to the car. I feel like a thief, stealing the last remains of her normalcy.
I close the passenger door for her and shift the car into gear, driving towards the Manor. To her new home. To her gilded cage. I reach across the centre console and take her hand, my thumb tracing her knuckles. She squeezes back—a silent thank you that makes me want to scream.
As we pass the heavy stone gates of the estate, I realise that I’ve finally done what Cain wanted. I’ve brought the lamb to the centre of the slaughter, and she’s holding my hand the whole way there.