A Lesson in Vengeance(80)

Of course she did. She could have. Her career was over, her reputation ruined. Everyone thought she was violent now, too emotional, too unprofessional. She’d told me there was no escape, that she could run and run as far as she wanted, but she’d never stop being Alex Haywood.

She dug up her own grave and read the letter I wrote. That’s why the snow is disturbed. That’s why the inscription appeared in the book. Because Alex did write it.

Then what’s in her grave that she wants me to find so badly?

All at once, I no longer feel the cold. It’s a strange heat that blooms under my skin, smoldering in my chest like fury. I push to my feet and make my way along the winding path that leads to the caretaker’s shed. The padlock hangs unlocked around the door, not even frosted over. I kick the door open and stumble into the dull warmth of the interior.

The dust knocked down off the rafters makes me cough. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and flick on the flashlight app, the beam illuminating the dark corners of the space. There. A shovel rests against the far wall, tip down. I drag it out of the shed. I should have brought gloves; my fingers are already white-tipped and numb where they curl around the handle.

When the blade cuts into the snow, it makes a crunching sound, like ice snapping. I dig up that first shovelful and pitch it to the side, my heart already pounding as I thrust down for another load.

I feel oddly dizzy—light-headed—with a sense of double vision, as if I can see a second pair of hands alongside my own, a second shovel, black soil breaking beneath the blade. My palms ache with phantom blisters; I taste old salt on my tongue.

It’s at least ten minutes before the tip of my blade hits dirt. I’ve cleared a rectangular space the approximate length and width of a coffin. My chest aches, sweat sticky under my coat. But this isn’t over. Not yet.

I dig the shovel down once more, cutting through frost and soil and heaving, again, again, again. The sun starts to rise over the distant horizon, a dull gray glimmer that only casts the shadows into sharper relief. I stare at the name on Alex’s headstone, the letters blurry through the sweat that beads on my lashes.

I’ll find you, I tell her. I’ll fix this.

I don’t know what I’m fixing.

I start to lose track of time. The world condenses down to this: the snow soaking into my socks, the dirt under my nails. My breath clouding at my lips, and the calluses that swell on my palms—swell, then burst, then bleed.

I never thought how long it would take to dig up a grave. I never considered how the shovel handle would get slippery under my grip, that I’d end up stomping on the shovel blade to force it deeper into the ground, that I’d be on my knees in the dirt as the hole got deeper and deeper, until I’m standing in the pit and digging beneath my own feet.

The spade thumps against something solid, and I stop. The sky overhead is slate gray as I tip my face toward it, gasping for air and shutting my eyes. I’ve forgotten how to be afraid. Even the mist that rolls in off the mountains and wells up around the tombstones doesn’t frighten me anymore. I am closer to shade than girl. I am no more substantial than bone dust.

I scrape the dirt off the lid of the coffin, exposing wood gone dark with too much soil ground into its veins.

All I have to do is open the casket.

Yet I find myself kneeling down in the chasm of Alex’s grave, both hands pressed against the lid of her coffin and my eyes squeezed shut, taking in a shuddering breath and trying to chase away the sense, even now, that I am being watched.

I wish her body were in here. I wish I could press my cheek against the cold wood and feel some shadow of her on the other side. I could practice the same necromancy as Alex and I did that night we spoke to Margery Lemont—inscribe letters on the coffin lid, let Alex’s spirit move a planchette from word to word.

But a ghost didn’t dig up this grave. That work was done by living hands.

The seal on the casket is broken; it’s easy to hook my fingers under the lid and yank it up, the hinges creaking as the coffin opens.

And even in this dim light, dawn still pewter over the hills and the cover of snow draping everything in silence, I recognize her.

Alex.





Alex was on her fifth cigarette—the fifth cigarette to go with her fifth drink—her dress disheveled and her cheeks sunset red as she spun little Hannah Stratford around in a circle. The lit cigarette left a stream of smoke in its wake; I flinched every time it careened past the drapes.

“Let me take that,” I said, edging closer. “You’re going to burn the house down.”

But Alex just laughed and twirled Hannah again, who was tipsy and giggling and clearly delighted just to have caught Alex’s attention at all. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Felicity. Dance with us.”

“I don’t dance. You know that.” My glass was slippery against my palm; I downed what was left.

Hannah reached for me with her free hand. “Come on, Felicity. It’s fun!”

People were starting to stare. Whispers exchanged behind hands, glances darting between Alex and me.

I shifted closer and lowered my voice to little more than a hiss. “You’re making a fool out of yourself, Alex. Let’s go home.”

Alex stopped dancing. The centrifugal force sent Hannah spiraling, staggering until she was caught by the helpful arms of a senior girl I distantly recognized from Greek class.