“Hello, Oliver,” Cordelia said, her voice soft and gentle.


    The boy raised his eyes to meet hers, confusion still clouding his expression. “W…where am I?”


    Cordelia glanced around, her eyes moving between the mounds of dirt, the twisted shadows of trees, the stark headstones, and finally the cold, open grave where they stood. She waited a moment, letting the stillness settle as recognition slowly crept into his mind.


    “We are in the cemetery on the hill overlooking Widdershire,” she said gently.


    “This is where your body lies, buried just seven days past.”


    The boy’s dark eyes dropped to the dirt at his feet. He nodded slowly, his tiny hands trembling as fragmented memories stirred.


    “I’m so sorry for what happened to you,” Cordelia continued, her voice laced with sorrow. “And I’m sorry for this. But I need to understand—I need to know what happened.”


    For a long moment, Oliver said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line.


    “I know it’s hard,” Cordelia murmured, her words both soothing and insistent.


    “But if you tell me what happened that night, we might find the truth. And perhaps that will help someone.”


    His lips trembled as he lifted his gaze to hers. Confusion and pain swirled in his wide, dark eyes—puzzle pieces struggling to find their place.


    "It was around my throat... squeezing," he said, panic clear in his eyes. His hands twitched as if yearning to reach for his neck to ensure whatever had strangled him was truly gone.


    “What was around your throat?”


    “I… I don’t know. It was black—cold.”


    Cordelia studied the boy with silent intrigue.


    “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”


    The boy considered this, then nodded.


    “I… I had a bad dream,” he whispered at last. “I was afraid.”


    Cordelia nodded, careful not to rush him. She could feel the spell’s power ebbing with each passing moment.


    “I went to Papa’s room—but he wasn’t there. I think he was still downstairs—” Oliver bit his lip, guilt flickering in his expression. “He works when he’s sad.”


    Cordelia caught the lie but let it pass.


    “I was scared—from the dream. I tried to sleep. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs— I was happy for a moment—thinking it was papa.”


    Cordelia remained silent, letting the words settle.


    “The door opened,” he continued, his voice uneven. “I saw someone standing there, watching me. It was dark, I think… I think it was Hetty.”


    He hesitated, frowning in thought.


    “I went to speak, but—” His voice wavered. “She had a box. She said scary words. Then… it opened.”


    The boy’s fingers dug into the fabric of his trousers. “Something came out. Something dark. I heard it hit the boards.” His voice dropped, barely audible. “It was blacker than coal.”


    Cordelia’s stomach twisted.


    “That’s how I could see it,” he whispered. “It was so black.”


    He stopped, his eyes wide, pupils blown with fear as he relived the moment.


    “It’s all right,” Cordelia soothed. “You’re safe here. Take your time.”


    He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “I started to sit up. But before I could—” He sucked in a sharp breath.


    Cordelia remained still, waiting.


    “A hand. Cold. Like ice. Pushed me down. I struggled, but—” His breath came faster. “It pressed down harder.”


    His fingers twitched as if feeling the pressure all over again. “Then it let go—just a little—and I opened my mouth to scream.”


    His whole body tensed.


    “It went inside like a snake. Hurt my throat. I couldn’t… couldn’t breathe.”


    The words came out hoarse, broken.


    His gaze locked onto Cordelia’s, pleading.


    “I gagged, but it just kept going. I kicked, bit down, and clawed at it—but it didn’t stop.”


    His hands clenched into fists. “It was inside me.”


    Cordelia’s heart sank. “Oh, Oliver.” Her voice was gentle and steady, though she reeled at its horror. “I’m so sorry.”


    The boy’s shoulders slumped, his fingers knotting into the fabric of his cuff.


    “I’m dead, aren’t I?” It was almost a statement.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Cordelia held his gaze and gave a slow, solemn nod.


    The boy exhaled shakily. “It was like a snake, but it changed. It moved like a shadow but felt solid. It had feet and a tail… I remember that because—” His voice faltered, eyes dark with memory. “Because it wrapped around my throat.”


    Again, his small hands twitched with the urge to raise his arms to his neck.


    “It squeezed,” he whispered.


    “Even when it left my mouth, I had no breath. And Hetty—” His voice broke. “She was gone. The door closed, and I heard her go down the stairs.”


    Cordelia felt a cold weight settle in her chest.


    “Do you remember anything else?” she asked, though her voice felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else.


    Oliver nodded sharply.


    “I heard a voice cry out— No!”


    His brow furrowed.


    “Then… footsteps coming up the stairs. I only saw black. The tail around my throat, still squeezing. I felt light-headed—spinning.”


    His breath came in short, shallow gulps.


    “It was all very far away. The door crashed open. Screaming. A woman—but I couldn’t see. And then… nothing.”


    The boy looked down mournfully, his chin sinking to his chest.


    Cordelia let a beat of silence pass.


    “Did your father work late often?”


    “No.” The boy shook his head, not looking up.


    “He… he drinks sometimes. He misses my mum.”


    Cordelia’s chest ached at the quiet, truthful confession.


    “She died too,” he added, even softer.


    Cordelia squeezed his hand.


    “That’s all you remember?” she prompted gently. “Smells, sounds… anything?”


    The boy shook his head.


    “I miss Papa,” he whispered. “And Mama.”


    She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.


    Her voice was warm but steady.


    “You are very brave, Oliver. A brave little soldier. Thank you for telling me. You’ve helped so much.”


    The boy looked at her, sadness deep in his gaze.


    “Can I go home now?”


    His voice was so small it made her heart ache.


    She crouched beside him, taking his hand in both of hers.


    “Of course, my sweet boy. Let me take you there.”


    She touched his brow and murmured a soft, final incantation. His chest rose with one last breath—deep and slow. Then he exhaled, and the magic ebbed away.


    Oliver Wright was gone.


    Cordelia brushed a stray lock of hair from his face, her cheeks damp with tears. The boy’s face was peaceful, but the weight of his story lingered, a heavy burden that would haunt them all.


    She drew her athame, her voice low as she whispered a blessing over the grave.


    Hex and Elsbeth bowed their heads, each murmuring quiet prayers.


    For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves.


    Finally, Cordelia stood and extended her hand. Hex pulled her up, steadying her as she regained her balance.


    “He must be returned to rest with care. And then we must go.”


    Elsbeth exchanged a glance with Cordelia, emotions flickering just beneath the surface. There would be time for tears later. For now, their focus had to be on restoring the dignity of the grave—and covering their tracks.


    The ride home would be long and silent, each replaying the night’s events repeatedly in their mind. When sleep finally came, it would offer no solace, only restless dreams and lingering shadows.


    <hr>


    Cordelia watched as Hex sealed the boy’s coffin. Then came the shuffling sound of dirt striking wood, all else swallowed by the hush of the cemetery.


    She traced the edge of the ritual circle with her boot, blending the scattered salt into the soil, erasing the evidence of their trespass. Leaves, piled high at the circle’s edge, proved helpful in concealing the freshly disturbed earth. No casual onlooker would know what had transpired here, but the truth could not be so quickly buried if someone knew what to look for.


    They worked quickly. Each wanted to be far from this place, someplace warm, someplace where the weight of their actions did not press so heavily on their chests.


    Cordelia knew peace would not come until they understood what had happened to Oliver Wright. Whatever lay behind the unnatural force that had taken him remained a mystery. So far, they had only managed to scratch the surface. The housekeeper, Henrietta Hampstead, also known as ‘Hetty’, had been instrumental in killing the boy, but an unrevealed truth lay deeper still—like the body of the young boy—waiting to be unearthed.


    Her thoughts were interrupted when Corvus took flight, the rush of wings breaking the silence.


    His sharp caw cut through the cold air —a warning.


    Harrow stiffened, hairs along his spine bristled, and a low growl rose in his throat as he turned toward the dark woods along the rise.


    Cordelia’s pulse quickened.


    Something was out there.


    She met Hex’s eyes and mouthed the word "hurry." He nodded quickly and moved faster, scattering the last leaves with deliberate, measured steps. Elsbeth stowed her tools with quiet efficiency, her face pale but composed.


    “Is someone out there?” Elsbeth asked, her voice steady but low.


    Cordelia’s gaze flicked to the shifting shadows beyond the trees. The night had its own kind of stillness that could be deceiving—but this was different. The air felt charged, like the moment before a thunderclap.


    “Someone—or something,” she murmured.


    Elsbeth and Hex exchanged glances, then moved in tandem, closing ranks.


    “We have everything,” Hex said. “Let’s go—now.”


    Cordelia gave a low whistle, summoning Harrow to her side. He obeyed, but his gaze remained on the woods, muscles coiled, ready to spring.


    As they moved, they kept their pace measured—unhurried, but purposeful—pushing down the panic.


    Corvus circled high above, a black shape against the dim glow of the encroaching dawn. The raven might see what they could not.


    The cemetery gate loomed ahead. Beyond it, the dirt road stretched into the darkness, leading back to the carriage where Percy waited.


    Harrow let out a quiet whimper, and Cordelia reached down, brushing her fingers over his head. It was a reassurance, but for whom, she wasn’t sure.


    <hr>


    They passed through the gates and onto the dirt road, moving with steady, measured steps. Hex led the way toward the brougham, his shoulders tense, eyes scanning the woods for movement.


    It wasn’t long before the carriage''s shape emerged from the gloom, and they saw Percy leaning against the side, his coat pulled tight around him. Relief washed over his features as he spotted them, and he jogged forward to help carry the boards.


    In silence, they stowed the items along the back and roof of the carriage.


    Percy opened the door for Elsbeth, who stepped inside without a word.


    Cordelia paused, leaning against the carriage as she rolled a smoke, her eyes fixed on the shadowy hill behind them. Satisfied there was nothing following, she called softly to Harrow, who padded to her side.


    Together, they climbed into the passenger compartment.


    As Percy closed the door, a rush of wings startled him, and he ducked instinctively. Corvus swooped low, landing on the seat beside Hex with a triumphant squawk.


    “Bloody bird,” Percy muttered.


    “I heard that, Percy,” Elsbeth said, her tone sharp.


    “Sorry, Miss Elsbeth. Won’t happen again,” he mumbled, glaring at the raven, which seemed to smirk back at him.


    “Go easy on him, Els,” Cordelia said, still on edge. “He’s not wrong. Corvus can be a right arsehole sometimes.”


    Elsbeth gave her a pointed look. “Please, Cee, let’s not encourage vulgarity. Otherwise, it’ll be ‘bastard’ this and ‘bugger’ that, and before long, someone will drop the C-word over tea. Mother won’t stand for it.”


    Percy gawked at her, his expression a mix of shock and confusion.


    Cordelia slumped against Elsbeth, eyes closed, weary from the strain of the ritual.


    “Percy, let’s go,” Elsbeth said, almost pleading.


    Percy went toward the front but froze when Corvus threw a sharp squawk and flapped his wings threateningly.


    “Looks like you’re riding on the back,” Hex said, smirking. “Corvus has staked his claim up front.”


    Percy muttered something unrepeatable as he climbed onto the rear step.


    “All set!” he whispered, his annoyance clear to all.


    Hex urged the horses forward, and the wheels creaked as the carriage moved over the dirt road.


    The group gave a collective sigh of relief as the cemetery began to fade from view.