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Authors: Kristin Bailey
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crossed. He scowled, but he inclined hishead toward a large pedestal gravestone with a cross. The halo circling the center of the cross resembled a gear wheel.
He found it.
I ran to the grave, stopping short as Will speared me with the intensity of his gaze. What was he about? One moment he took great pleasure in chastising me, the next he helped. I didn’t understand. “Thank you,” I said, unwilling to think on it further or give him any more than that.
“Whatever you’re after, I hope this puts it to rest for both our sakes.” He flicked a small rock at a tree across the path, hitting it with a sharp snap .
I fought the urge to huff at him as I knelt and carefully inspected the grave. The pedestal below the cross was smooth marble with a single name carved in crisp block letters.
P RICKET
A darkened brass plaque was attached to the front. I felt along the thin edge of the plate as I read. The first inscription was for Georgiana Pricket, wife, mother, so on and so forth. Then came Harold Pricket, husband, father, yes, yes yes . . . Finally my eyes reached the one name I had hoped to find.
S IMON P RICKET
B ELOVED HUSBAND AND TRUSTED FRIEND
W HO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE 8 TH OF J ULY 1858
A GED 22 YEARS
Etchings of overturned torches marked the plate on either side of his name, a symbol of a life cut short. I touched them lightly, knowing in my heart they did not lie. Simon Pricket had died too young.
I couldn’t let myself dwell. I was here for one thing. My grandfather had been here. He had to be alive somewhere. I knew it.
I ran my fingers over the brass plate, looking for a button or lever, something that would reveal the three-petal flower I’d found on the clock.
Nothing.
I stood and circled the grave.
“What are you looking for?” Will stepped away from the tree, but didn’t uncross his arms.
I didn’t bother to answer. I checked the base, the cross, the gear-like crown of the memorial.
Nothing.
“It has to be here.” My hands slid over the gritty stone.There had to be some sort of groove or chink that would reveal the flower medallion.
Pressure mounted in my head until I couldn’t think. I was wasting precious seconds. I felt the heat in my face as I clenched my hands. All around me, death. Nothing but dirt and rotting bones beneath my feet.
I kicked, the heel of my boot connecting with the corner of the brass plate.
“Meg!” Will grabbed me from behind, locking his arms around my chest as I struggled against him. He pulled me back, but I continued kicking. I couldn’t help it. Death, it was all death. Everyone that had cared for me was buried and gone, rotting in the grave. Only my grandfather remained, but the dead wouldn’t give up their secrets.
Will placed my feet squarely on the ground and spun me, then grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His eyes were filled with worry, worry that shouldn’t have been there. Not for me. I felt a tear slide over my cheek. He brushed it with his thumb.
“They’re dead, Meg.” His voice was clear, reasonable, and I couldn’t speak. “Let them go.”
He brought me into the circle of his arms. I tucked my chin and allowed him to hold me. I couldn’t stand on my own.
Will’s threadbare coat pressed against my cheek. I nodded against his chest. He was right.
He was right.
“Let’s go home,” I whispered.
I collected myself and pushed away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not completely daft.”
He shrugged. “Are you sure?” He gave me a hearty thump on the shoulder, as if I were a friend. I don’t know why but I was both heartened and disappointed by it.
He stepped to the grave. “You knocked the plate out of its setting. Wait, what’s this?”
I wiped my eyes on the backs of my hands. Will carefully lifted the plate, prying the metal pegs in the back out of the fitted stone slots in the pedestal. As the plate came free, sunlight filtered through the branches of the barren trees and the light glinted
He found it.
I ran to the grave, stopping short as Will speared me with the intensity of his gaze. What was he about? One moment he took great pleasure in chastising me, the next he helped. I didn’t understand. “Thank you,” I said, unwilling to think on it further or give him any more than that.
“Whatever you’re after, I hope this puts it to rest for both our sakes.” He flicked a small rock at a tree across the path, hitting it with a sharp snap .
I fought the urge to huff at him as I knelt and carefully inspected the grave. The pedestal below the cross was smooth marble with a single name carved in crisp block letters.
P RICKET
A darkened brass plaque was attached to the front. I felt along the thin edge of the plate as I read. The first inscription was for Georgiana Pricket, wife, mother, so on and so forth. Then came Harold Pricket, husband, father, yes, yes yes . . . Finally my eyes reached the one name I had hoped to find.
S IMON P RICKET
B ELOVED HUSBAND AND TRUSTED FRIEND
W HO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE 8 TH OF J ULY 1858
A GED 22 YEARS
Etchings of overturned torches marked the plate on either side of his name, a symbol of a life cut short. I touched them lightly, knowing in my heart they did not lie. Simon Pricket had died too young.
I couldn’t let myself dwell. I was here for one thing. My grandfather had been here. He had to be alive somewhere. I knew it.
I ran my fingers over the brass plate, looking for a button or lever, something that would reveal the three-petal flower I’d found on the clock.
Nothing.
I stood and circled the grave.
“What are you looking for?” Will stepped away from the tree, but didn’t uncross his arms.
I didn’t bother to answer. I checked the base, the cross, the gear-like crown of the memorial.
Nothing.
“It has to be here.” My hands slid over the gritty stone.There had to be some sort of groove or chink that would reveal the flower medallion.
Pressure mounted in my head until I couldn’t think. I was wasting precious seconds. I felt the heat in my face as I clenched my hands. All around me, death. Nothing but dirt and rotting bones beneath my feet.
I kicked, the heel of my boot connecting with the corner of the brass plate.
“Meg!” Will grabbed me from behind, locking his arms around my chest as I struggled against him. He pulled me back, but I continued kicking. I couldn’t help it. Death, it was all death. Everyone that had cared for me was buried and gone, rotting in the grave. Only my grandfather remained, but the dead wouldn’t give up their secrets.
Will placed my feet squarely on the ground and spun me, then grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His eyes were filled with worry, worry that shouldn’t have been there. Not for me. I felt a tear slide over my cheek. He brushed it with his thumb.
“They’re dead, Meg.” His voice was clear, reasonable, and I couldn’t speak. “Let them go.”
He brought me into the circle of his arms. I tucked my chin and allowed him to hold me. I couldn’t stand on my own.
Will’s threadbare coat pressed against my cheek. I nodded against his chest. He was right.
He was right.
“Let’s go home,” I whispered.
I collected myself and pushed away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not completely daft.”
He shrugged. “Are you sure?” He gave me a hearty thump on the shoulder, as if I were a friend. I don’t know why but I was both heartened and disappointed by it.
He stepped to the grave. “You knocked the plate out of its setting. Wait, what’s this?”
I wiped my eyes on the backs of my hands. Will carefully lifted the plate, prying the metal pegs in the back out of the fitted stone slots in the pedestal. As the plate came free, sunlight filtered through the branches of the barren trees and the light glinted
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