— Billy. You get your arse back here. —
Instead, the boy turned and fled from the courtyard, fading like a jerky marionette into the mist.
— Useless, — grunted Jack. He took a breath, hauled up the shrouded body, and rolled it out of the coffin. It thudded onto the cobblestones.
Daylight was brightening fast. He had to work quickly, before anyone saw him. He heaved the log into the coffin, positioned the lid, and with a few swings of the hammer nailed it back into place. May you rest in peace, Mr. Log, he thought with a laugh. Then he dragged the corpse, still sewn into its shroud, across the courtyard to his wagon. There he paused, panting, to glance around at the street. He saw no one.
And no one sees me.
Moments later he was back on the dray, guiding his horse down North Allen Street. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked his tarp-covered cargo. He had not laid eyes on the corpse itself, but he didn't need to. Whether young or old, male or female, it was fresh, and that's all that mattered. This time, the fee needn't be shared with anyone, not even Dim Billy.
He'd just saved himself ninepence. That was worth a bit of extra effort.
Nine
ROSE AWAKENED to find Meggie sleeping beside her, and she heard the clucking and flapping of chickens, the rustle of straw. None of these sounds was familiar, and it took Rose a moment to remember where she was.
To remember that Aurnia was dead.
Grief seized her in its fist, squeezing so hard that for a moment she could not breathe. She stared up at the barn's rough-hewn beams, thinking: This is more pain than I can bear.
Something nearby beat a steady tattoo, and she turned to see a black dog staring at her, its wagging tail slapping against a bale of hay. It shook itself, sending straw and dust flying, then trotted over to lick her face, leaving a trail of slime on her cheek. Pushing it away, she sat up. The dog gave a bored whine and headed down the stairs. Peering over the edge of the hayloft, she saw it trot past a stabled horse, moving purposefully as though late for an appointment, and it disappeared through the open barn door. In the distance, a rooster crowed.
She looked around the loft and wondered where Billy had gone.
So this was where he sheltered. She saw hints of him here and there, amid the bales of hay and the rusting implements. A depression in the straw marked where he had slept last night. A chipped cup and saucer and trencher were set upon an overturned crate, like a place setting for a fine meal. She had to smile at his resourcefulness. Last night, Billy had disappeared for a short time and returned with a precious cup of milk, no doubt squeezed furtively from someone's cow or goat. Rose hadn't questioned his source as Meggie had sucked on the milk-soaked rag; she'd been grateful for anything with which to satisfy the baby's hunger.
But while the baby had been fed, Rose had eaten nothing since yesterday noon, and her stomach rumbled. She prowled through the hayloft, rooting in the straw until she found a hen's egg, still warm from that morning's laying. She cracked it open and tipped back her head. The raw egg slid down her throat, the yolk so slick and rich that her stomach instantly rebelled. She doubled over, nauseated, fighting to keep the egg down. It may be the only thing I eat today, she thought, and I will not waste it. At last her nausea eased, and as she raised her head, she spotted the little wooden box, tucked into a corner of the loft.
She lifted the hinged lid.
Inside were pretty pieces of glass, a seashell, and two whalebone buttons, treasures that Billy had collected as he roamed the streets of the West End. She'd noticed how his gaze was always fixed on the ground, his thin shoulders hunched over like an old man's, all to glean a penny here, a lost buckle there. Every day was a treasure hunt for Dim Billy, and a pretty button was enough to make him happy. For that he was a lucky boy, perhaps the luckiest in all of Boston, to be so easily pleased by a button. But you cannot eat buttons, and you cannot bury the dead and pay for it with worthless glass.
She shut the box and crossed to the window to peer out through smudged glass. In the yard below, chickens scratched in a garden that was little more than brown stalks and vines, withered in the cold.
Billy's treasure box suddenly reminded her of something she'd put in her pocket, something she'd completely forgotten until now. She pulled out the locket and chain and felt a sudden flash of grief at the sight of Aurnia's necklace. The locket was heart-shaped and the chain was feathery light, a delicate strand meant for a fine lady's neck. She remembered how it had gleamed around Aurnia's cream-white skin. How beautiful my sister was, she thought, and now she's merely food for worms.
This was gold. It would buy Aurnia a proper burial.
She heard voices and peeked out again through the window. A wagon filled with bales of hay had just rolled into the yard, and two men stood dickering over the price.
It was time to leave.
She scooped up the sleeping baby and made her way down the steps. Quietly, she slipped out the barn door.
By the time the two men finally agreed to the price of hay, Rose Connolly was already well away, shaking the straw from her skirt as she carried Meggie toward the West End.
A freezing mist clung to the ground of St. Augustine's cemetery, hiding the legs of the mourners who seemed to float, unattached to the earth, their torsos drifting only on fog. There are so many here today, thought Rose; but their sorrow was not for Aurnia. She watched the procession trail behind a small coffin that skimmed above the mist, and she could hear every sniffle, every sob, the sounds of heartbreak trapped and magnified, as though the air itself were weeping. The child's funeral moved past, black skirts and cloaks churning the mist into silvery whirlpools. No one glanced at Rose. Holding Meggie in her arms, she stood in a forlorn corner of the cemetery, beside the newly turned mound of earth. To them, she was but a ghost in the fog, her grief invisible to those blinded by their own.
— She's 'bout deep enough, miss. —
Rose turned to look at the two gravediggers. The older one dragged a sleeve across his face, leaving streaks of mud on his cheek, where the skin was deeply seamed from years of exposure to sun and wind. Poor man, she thought, you're too old to still be wielding a shovel, to be hacking away at the frozen ground. But we all need to eat. And what would she be doing when she was his age, when she could no longer see well enough to thread her needle?
— Will there be no one else to see her laid to rest? — he asked.
— No one else, — she said, and looked down at Aurnia's coffin. This was Rose's loss, hers alone, and she was too selfish to share it with anyone. She fought the sudden impulse to tear off the lid, to gaze once again on her sister's face. What if, by some miracle, she was not dead? What if Aurnia were to stir and open her eyes? Rose reached toward the coffin, then forced her hand back to her side. There are no miracles, she thought. And Aurnia is gone.
— Shall we finish, then? —
She swallowed her tears and gave a nod.
The old man turned to his partner, a blank-faced teenager who'd shoveled with lackadaisical effort, and who now stood slouched and indifferent. — Help me put her in. —
Ropes creaked as they lowered the coffin, dislodging clots of dirt that thudded into the hole. I have paid for a grave all your own, darling, thought Rose. A private place of rest that you'll not need to share with some husband who paws you, some beggar who stinks. For once you'll sleep alone, a luxury that escaped you while you lived.
The coffin gave a jolt as it hit bottom. The boy had let his attention wander, and had played out the rope too quickly. Rose caught the look the old man gave the boy, a look that said, I'll deal with you later. The boy didn't even notice, and simply yanked his rope out of the hole. It came slithering up like a cobra, and the end slapped smartly against the pine box. Their task almost completed, the boy worked with more alacrity now as they filled the hole. Perhaps he was thinking of his lunch by a warm fire, and how all that kept him from it was this one grave. He had not seen the occupant of the coffin, nor did he seem to care. All that mattered was that this hole must be filled, and so he put his back into it, shovel after shovel full of soggy earth landing on the coffin.