A/N: Wow. This one is long. And depressing. I'm trying to get back in the swing of writing longer pieces (that chapter fic I promised will come, though-eventually) and couldn't leave the events of Sweet Unrest alone. This deals with death of one's parents and the mourning thereafter. I've been adding to this story for a little more than a month and I believe it's finally ready.

Please-let me know the exact moment you started choking up. I only ask because in the midst of editing, I had to get up and retrieve a box of tissues.

Anyway, this features the Crabtree girls and all the characters we know and love. I promise, happy times are coming for this AU, and they are very near. But in the meantime, it feels good to be back!

Beyond the Blue Horizon

The first thing Holly noticed as she unlatched the screen door and stepped into their family home was that it was unnaturally, ungodly quiet. Her walk had been conducted at a heightened pace, for the city was yet cloaked under a blanket of thick fog, the result of a storm that had swept in with the sunset. All through the night, the window panes had rattled and the foundation of the house seemed to shake under them, but she had felt safe in her husband's arms. Upon waking, she had struggled to extricate herself out of the pile of children around them; even their house cat was slumbering around her ankles, making her escape quite difficult indeed.

But the gentlemen she labored for took his meetings early, and would need his secretary to take diction. And so it was with some degree of reluctance Holly Crabtree Higgins dressed and prepared herself for the day, knowing full well that it was her turn to check in on their parents before heading off to work.

Gathered around Rose's kitchen table one weekend after their mother's initial diagnosis, they had constructed a system, a schedule of visits. She and her sisters had been nothing if not organized, because time was of the essence and none of them intended to waste a moment.

It was in the twilight of the depression and Holly's thirtieth year when Emily Grace first demonstrated the signs of cancer of the breast. Their economic situation had stabilized in recent years, causing her children to vacate the home. Each of them now lived with their own families, save for Sage and her domestic partner, who lived in a tenement nearest the docks. All at once they each had felt tremendously guilty for having other obligations that tore them away from her bedside, even though their father had surrendered his position at the constabulary in order to be at her beck and call. With each passing day as their situation grew more dire, the former police inspector had only grown more optimistic in their presence, his lips drawn in a terse line as he informed whoever was at hand at the moment on how his beloved wife hadn't the strength to eat, or drink, or dress herself.

Emily had insisted that she was at peace with her impending death. With age, she had embraced religion, and firmly believed that there was something waiting for her on the other side. She had attended her best friend Julia's seventieth birthday party, and gotten to hold Holly's youngest shortly after birth. Her days were spent cuddled before the fire, having novels read to her and listening to her favorite radio programs. She was as kind as ever and tremendously gentle, and never forgot to thank her family for helping her accomplish the simplest of tasks.

It was enough to drive her daughters mad with concern.

The nature of today's visit was to make sure all was calm within the home, to prepare breakfast and possibly help her mother into the tub for her daily ablutions. This was a task typically reserved for the children, for they'd each grown up sitting at the island in the kitchen, watching her bathe whoever happened to be an infant at the time in the sink. There had been little songs and pleasant small talk, but now that the roles were reversed such merriment seemed out of place.

Holly stepped into the foyer and glanced to either side, surprised that her father wasn't up at this hour, seeing to the chores or else stoking the fireplace. In fact, all of the electric lights downstairs were shut off. Shedding her coat and scarf, she called out, "Mother? Father?"

There was no response. Her heart immediately leapt to her throat and she let the adrenaline carry her up the staircase, not stopping until she stood before the master bedroom, hand poised over the knob. Out of habit she'd developed as a young woman, she repeated her call, just in case she was about to catch them in a compromising position. Then, realizing how ridiculous that notion was, she shouldered the door open and entered the room.

The breath in her throat immediately caught; for one endless moment, it was if her heart ceased to beat. Her mother, emaciated in the advanced stages of her sickness, was lying slightly to one side, eyes and lips open partially. She still wore her nightgown from the previous day when she and Rose had visited together on their way to luncheon, her hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo. Her father was draped lengthwise across her body with his eyes closed and hands gripping her arms, frighteningly still.

She stood at the threshold and waited for almost a full minute, hoping to see the telltale rise and fall of either of their chests. When she was greeted with silence, Holly surged forward and began to shake her father's arm roughly, calling out, "Wake up, papa. It's late."

George's body was still slightly warm to the touch, so she tried again, this time clambering onto the bed and jostling the both of them. Her tone reached a frantic pitch; as Holly noticed that the color had fled from the both of their faces, replaced with a sickening milky purple, she shrieked, "For God's sake, wake up!"

Nothing. After a few more exclamations, it occurred to her that she was alone in a room with two corpses, and she rose to her feet and staggered a few feet away.

The telephone was mounted in the upstairs hallway; part of her didn't want to leave, but something had to be done. Tears were already beginning to sting at the corners of her eyes, no matter how many deep breaths she took on her staggering path down the corridor. Holly picked up the receiver and instantly collapsed, her sobs wracking her entire body as the dial tone continued to sound.

Sitting at her desk in the basement of Union Station, an operator was stunned to hear the distinctive sound of a woman weeping on the other end of the line. She tried several times to get her charge to respond, before a few words managed to come out coherently: "The Murdoch residence, please."

-0-

"George was my best friend," Inspector Higgins said carefully, absently tapping his fingers on the podium. As he considered his next words, his eyes drifted upward to the rows of circular pews; so crowded was the service that the second balcony was nearly full, and a dozen or so stood at the back of the sanctuary. Light streaming in from the stained glass windows behind him, casting strange shadows across their upturned faces. "He was many a man's friend. There was something about him that was immediately likeable. I couldn't begin to tell all of you how much trouble we got into as a pair of young bachelors in the city-"

The pastor cleared his throat, as if reminding him to keep him comments brief. A line was already forming to the left of the dais. They had the potential to be there all night.

Hastily he removed a slip of paper from his pocket and held it up to the light. "In all the years I knew him, I saw George Crabtree smile exactly one thousand, eight hundred and seventy two times. One thousand, eight hundred and seventy one of those were when Dr. Grace entered the bullpen…"

-0-

Less than an hour later, the surviving daughters of Emily Grace and George Crabtree were gathered in the sitting room of their family home, sitting apart and desperately trying not to make eye contact with each other. Each were conducting their own private mourning service to the steady background noise of the coroner's team moving around upstairs.

Suddenly Rose stood and drew the curtains, obscuring their view of the undertaker's wagon parked outside. The message had reached her at her place of work, having been relayed by her dear Uncle William, whose voice was so strained that she immediately knew something tragic was afoot. It took her no more than a few minutes to see her customers out and shutter Bel-Air Books for the remainder of the day. She rushed down the avenue as if the devil himself was on her tail, hoping that if she moved fast enough no one could see that she was in tears.

The Murdochs were the next to arrive; Julia's rouge was streaming halfway down her cheeks, while her husband gripped his Homburg hat to his chest. Dr. Rebecca Higgins was the next to arrive, trailed by several constables. All present had insisted that she didn't have to do this, that they all knew how it happened, that it didn't need to be investigated at all, but she'd charged up the staircase armed with her bag of tools. No one was going to lay a finger on her former mentor before she did.

Thankfully Felix crashed through the door before the gurneys could make their way down the staircase; the lawyer had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing, his braced leg propped up at an unnatural angle. Wordlessly, Rose went to join him, taking the file he was carrying under her arm.

"Is that the will?" Violet asked grimly from her station beside her godparents, her thumbs twiddling anxiously in her lap.

He nodded, taking a seat and pulling his wife down next to him. Almost immediately, she was overwhelmed once again, tucking her head into the crook of his neck to hide her reddened face.

Sage plucked it from her grasp, saying, "Let's see it, then." She then commenced her pacing of the length of the room, voice unsteady with emotion.

Their godfather interrupted the rapid changing of hands with the persistent air of authority only he could manage, closing the file and setting it into his lap with finality. Externally, William seemed oddly calm for someone who had just lost his best friend. He was of the opinion that it had been a long time coming; seldom a day passed without the two of them reminiscing about their glory days of detective work. The wistful nature of their visits never diminished; only a few days ago, as George saw him to the door before going upstairs to join his wife, his expression had been so mournful that he was transported to another place entirely.

They should have been celebrating. Another case solved, their timely reunion. But it seemed that Susannah wasn't finished surprising him.

Their hug lasted for an indeterminable amount of time; he finally felt a hint of her gaunt figure beneath her voluminous habit, her shoulder blades cutting into the palms of his hands as he held her at arm's length. That had been all in the way of goodbyes; as he turned and made his way to the back of the chapel, William had spared a glance over his shoulder at his beloved sister.

And there it had been, written all over her face. Even at his advanced age, he would never grow to forget it.

"Whatever is in this document, there cannot be any unspoken animosity between you," he warned. The settling of his own father's affairs had been relatively painless, for the hapless drunkard had died without a penny to his name. George and Emily were well off compared to the multitudes suffering in the unemployment lines, both having had lucrative jobs since the turn of the century. "I won't have it."

Holly blew her nose noisily into a yet another napkin, which soon joined the growing pile in the wastebasket. "You needn't worry, Uncle Will. You're the executor, after all."

His son cleared his throat and brought Rose's cheek to rest on his chest, cupping her ear as if to shield her from whatever was to come. The Crabtrees' living will had been locked away in his desk ever since Emily's initial diagnosis; the drafting of the document had been one of the more trying experiences of his career. While the children were distracted, Felix had sat at the dining room table with his in laws, taking careful diction of their requests. And after the deed had been done, neither Rose nor her sisters had broached the subject, as if discussing its particulars would hasten its implementation. To be truthful, he didn't blame them.

From upstairs came the telltale thump of gurney wheels being placed on the floor. Julia flinched, removed the folder from her husband's hands, and began to read loudly: "It is the dying wish of Dr. Emily June Grace and Mr. George Edward Crabtree-"

Sage's hands suddenly came down on the armrests of the couch, clenching with all of her might. They had planned to die together. Of course.

"-that their wealth and worldly possessions be distributed equally among their surviving daughters and a few trusted colleagues. Dr. Grace's medical texts are now the property of Mrs. Violet R. Brackenreid, along with the peridot earrings in the top compartment of the jewelry case."

Violet couldn't help but smile at the specificity of that request. She'd donned them for the first time in the twilight of her youth, admiring her reflection before a mirror and listening to her mother explain that these are the ones I was wearing when your father kissed me for the first time, yes there was the threat of the noxious cloud of death, but all was well in the end.

"Her medical tools are bequeathed to Dr. Julia Ogden, for most of them were hers to begin with," she continued, emotion nearly cutting off the final words of the sentence even as her eyes betrayed her amusement at that assertion. "The couple's personal library is left to Mr. William Murdoch, who shall derive far more amusement from the books than the Crabtrees ever did."

The former inspector sighed and laid his head back against the baseboard, studying the ceiling and striving to tame his expression. "The home on Gerrard Street and all its furnishings belong to Sage Crabtree and her partner Ms. Anne Stacey, in the hopes that they will one day have a family of their own."

That line hit the young shop girl like a ton of bricks, for it was her ambition that she would soon be able to walk the streets hand in hand with her sweetheart without judgment. This would be a big step for the both of them. Her head shot up and she looked around, gauging the reactions of her sisters. "Do any of you mind that-"

"Don't," Rose interrupted her, smiling gently. "It's fine, really."

"The fine china in the hutch and the contents of the kitchen are hereby left to Mrs. Holly Higgins, for good maintenance on the family home," Julia added, undeterred by the conversation around her. "Mrs. Rose Murdoch and her husband are charged with the possession of the family portraiture and music records, along with Mr. Crabtree's pocket watch and collection of fountain pens."

Felix felt another wave of revulsion hit his stomach; all the conversations and closeness that was had with his father-in-law was there in writing, painfully cramped into a single line about material wealth. He hadn't been able to stand it upon first draft, and couldn't bear to consider it now.

The list went on, stipulating that the remainder of the Crabtrees' pensions be held in savings for their grandchildren's education. Rose thought this was reasonable, for by the time her children were of age, the economy was bound to turn around.

By the time they had reached the last page, Rebecca's team had completed their procession down the staircase. After ushering the cloth-covered gurneys into the wagon, she joined them in the sitting room, and the familiar scent of death was almost overpowering that Violet began to weep anew.

"The final wish of Emily Grace and George Crabtree is that they are buried alongside their daughter Aster outside St. John's, Newfoundland, on the plot purchased specifically for this purpose," Julia finished, scrutinizing it anew to make sure she wasn't misreading the request.

Holly crossed her arms, running through the logistics of it all in her head. "This can't be. Mother never mentioned that she wanted-"

"You can read it for yourself," Sage mumbled. "Well, if that's that, I suppose we ought to get her off the shelf."

No one moved for an indeterminable amount of time as they processed this. Even disregarding the hustle and bustle of their daily lives, a four thousand mile round trip seemed out of the question.

Suddenly Violet shot out of her chair and fled the room, determined the make it to the upstairs bedrooms without being overcome by emotion once again. She paused once outside her parent's domain and peered within, noting how the covers and linens had been stripped from the room. It smelled sharply like hospital disinfectant; she quickly went to the armoire and threw open its doors.

And there it was, contained in a handsome ceramic vase. It seemed to be the only thing on the top shelf not covered with an inch of dust. They'd chosen her epitaph as a group, whenever her little sister had been cremated for fear of the spread of infection.

Aster Julia Crabtree. Born 29 September 1914, departed of this world 17 September 1925.

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Act 3, Scene 2

She had to steel herself for a moment before removing it from its perch. It was her suspicion that her sister's ashes hadn't been moved since they'd brought her home from the crematorium; keeping it in a more frequented part of the home seemed inappropriate. When at last she hoisted the urn, a stack of envelopes fell forward from where they'd been leaned against the back of it, causing Violet's heart to leap into her throat.

Had she not a vice-like grip on her sister's remains, the doctor would have had to sit down from the shock. There were at least half a dozen of them, all individually labelled on her mother's finest stationery. Suddenly the weight of the situation was pressing down on her from all sides; Violet was almost certain that someone was in the room with her, breathing down her collar. Without a second thought, she seized the letters and tucked them under her arm, turning towards the door.

Downstairs, the family had commenced their preparations for the funeral. There was no doubt that the two would be eulogized in the grand sanctuary of St. Andrew's Presbyterian; this was where each and every one of the girls had been baptized, as well as a majority of the grandchildren. It was short notice, but they were sure the preacher would make an exception for such long-time parishioners.

Violet set the urn down on the side table, feeling every inch of its weight. Silently, she began to distribute the letters to everyone present. Upon reaching the last envelope, her fingers closed around its edges and it disappeared into her jacket sleeve, not to be considered again for several days.

-0-

"Mother raised us the best she possibly could," Rose assured the congregation. "I'm sure she struggled, but she never showed it. The night before my wedding in this very church, she came to my room at the Queen's Hotel in tears. She'd been cleaning out the attic and found a stack of Eaton's catalogs with several pages in the bridal section folded over. Inside were a series of drawings that Violet and I made when we were very young, detailing the floral arrangements, food, and music we wanted in the future. Many of my preferences hadn't changed, including my desire for arum-lillies in my bouquet. However, we had to settle for white petunias because the cost would have been too extravagant. She was just so ashamed, you see, to have not given me exactly what I wanted and instead what was best. And it is only after almost forty years on this earth that I can say that most of the time those things should have been one and the same."

-0-

My lovely Violet,

If you've found this letter, it must mean I have crossed over to the other side. For months there has been this cloud of darkness hanging above the lot of us, and for months I have not feared my fate. It will come to all of us, we were always taught in medical school, and it will come when we least expect it.

In Corinthians it is written: "The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body." Perhaps this is why in my work I was so at peace among the dead. In their place, we are all equal.

I have done many a dishonorable thing in my life, and I am not so naive to think that you would not have done the same. But you are my oldest, and have always been my special girl. All my daughters are of good character, and so I know I have done good in this world. I have made at least one man happy beyond words. I know I will not be forgotten.

Please take care of your father. He seems to not believe he can manage without me, but he must for the benefit of all of you. Make sure your children always have the compassion of yourself and John-they see all and forget nothing. Guard your heart against the negative and unkind.

I believe you will understand these words and take them to heart. I believe the sun will continue to rise and set without my presence on the mortal coil. I believe you shall heed my final request to escort my body to St. John's personally.

I believe,

Mother

-0-

The teapot that had been clutched in Violet's hands fell to the ground with a crash, shattering into dozens of pieces. A voucher for rail passage fluttered out of the folds of the envelope after it, and suddenly all was not silent in the Brackenreid home.

Ellen came running from her bedroom upstairs, skidding to a halt at the threshold of the kitchen. "Momma, are you okay?"

Looking at the fraught face of her eight year old daughter, Violet felt the urge to wrap her in a hug and never let go. "I've just made a mess, dear. Could you fetch the broom?"

From above her head, she heard the tell-tale sound of heavy footsteps. Soon her husband made an appearance, balancing their son Philip on his hip. The military man, who now spent his days keeping the peace at the unemployment lines, had his brow furrowed in concern.

Violet accepted the broom and made a show of sweeping up the pieces. Their four-year-old, however, had other ideas. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Can I go over and play in grandpa's treehouse?"

The two adults in the room made wary eye contact, for they hadn't yet told their children the bad news. Ellen probably suspected something was amiss, as she was monitoring the situation escalate from her position in the sitting room.

"Sorry, sport. Granddad is feeling a bit under the weather. We wouldn't want to disturb him on his way to recovery, would we?" The toddler was set down and shooed away with a non-threatening sweep of the hand. "Now run along and get ready for bed. Mother and I will be along with a bedtime story."

To their credit, the children obeyed, pushing to be the first to ascend the staircase. Violet shrugged and returned to sweeping up her mess.

"Sweetheart, everything in good shape?" John asked cautiously.

"Don't," she warned him darkly.

"Don't what?"

"Treat me like I'm made out of glass, especially when you know damn well what happened." She pushed past him with a dustpan full of ceramic shards, emptied them into the bin, and resumed drying and putting away the dishes, somewhat more angstily this time.

He didn't say anything, only moved to encircle her waist from behind with his arms. When they embraced in this way, the top of her head rested comfortably under his chin. This difference in height usually felt comforting, but at the moment it conflicted her.

"There's a voucher for my passage to Newfoundland on the counter," she said absently. "With your blessing, I'll leave immediately after the funeral. I should be gone no more than a week."

From the deeply affecting tone of her voice, Violet hoped that he could discern that she was already planning to do it, whether or not he approved. She had no such luck. "You can't. The children will need time to process this, and we both need to be here to support them."

She turned in the circle of his arms, placing her hands on his chest. "John, please don't be daft. When your mother died, I let you handle her affairs in the way you saw best fit."

"That's different, Violet, and you know it. Ellen was but a year old, and she was buried here in town. You know how much she loved that baby; imagine if she'd died when she was older," he explained, hoping to make her understand his point of view. No sooner had he finished his sentence did his wife disengage from him and stalk into the foyer on her way to the staircase.

"This isn't about Margaret," she hissed, knowing they were now in a region of the home where the children could hear their bickering. "And it surely isn't about you, Major." His rank came out like profanity, and his hand shot out to latch onto her arm.

Her eyes widened; in all the time they'd been together, her husband had yet to strike her out of anger, and she wouldn't see to it now. But his expression conveyed compassion and not rage, and so she did not feel threatened. "You're right. I was a young man whenever my father passed away, and from the very moment I was pulled out of school and brought to the station house no one would talk about it. Mother didn't allow us to grieve, and it ruined Bobby and I. We almost couldn't bear to be in the home, because it was so full of those awful memories. That's why I joined the military; I couldn't stand to be around her while she was pretending everything was fine. Maybe if we'd allowed ourselves to discuss the matter at hand, neither of us would have left home. Bobby wouldn't have died, and I wouldn't have been captured, and-"

"And you wouldn't have fallen for me," Violet added quietly, remembering how she'd initially been intimidated by her family's friend.

The two were silent for some time; it seemed that good things were prone to come out of tragedies. Initially burned out on life in his mid-thirties, the company of a woman a decade his junior had been comforting. They shared hope, they shared happiness, they shared everything. And this would continue to be the case, no matter what changed.

"I'm sorry," they said nearly simultaneously, and embraced once more.

"We'll tell them first thing in the morning," John mumbled into her hair, and she dug her fingernails into the fabric of his shirt to show that she agreed.

-0-

"I knew Emily like I know my own mind," Dr. Julia Ogden began her eulogy, reading from a scrap of paper hidden on the pulpit. "And George, too. My husband and I were the only ones present for their wedding. Looking on, I remember thinking that here were two people that had suffered tremendously against circumstances, only for fate to bring them together in the end. For a while, they'd convinced themselves there was nothing between them. How foolish they would have felt, if only they knew how much happiness was in store for them on the other side. Anyhow-"

She paused to dry her eyes, looking out to William, who only nodded for her to continue. "As a scientist, I was conditioned to cast aside my belief in religion and focus on the facts. The world is too structured, too rigid in its following of patterns, for there to be any God. This is what I was lead to believe, but now I know for certain that I knew heaven. It was there is the innocent moments Emily and I shared, bent over the autopsy table and examining her first human brain. Walking in town, comparing reports, carousing like our children-it was all there, and while I have strength in my body and will in my mind, I will never forget the time we had as partners. Hers was a friendship that only comes along once in a lifetime."

-0-

"I suppose there's no talking you out of it, then," Rose hummed under her breath, passing a box over her shoulder.

Violet lifted the lid and examined its contents; yet another box of hand-me-down toys. If anything else, at least her own children could get some enjoyment out of them. Placing it on the pile beside the couch, she replied, "Not in the slightest."

The foursome were presently engaged in cleaning out the attic of the family home, finding piles of old newspaper clippings heralding their father's successes in detective work, old clothes from their mother's bachelorette days, and even the skeleton of a Christmas tree, shoved into the crawlspace and forgotten.

Sage looked up from where she was proofreading the obituary, which was to be published in the next morning's issue of the Toronto Gazette. "You never could," she advised, not even flinching as she was dealt a withering glare.

"Give me enough notice and I'll shut down Bel-Air for the week. I'm sure the rest of us would do the same." Holly grimaced as she said this, for she wasn't sure her family could manage without her salary for even a few days. Her husband was a barkeep, and his gratuities came few and far between.

Yet another photo album was set down before her; silently praying it wasn't more newspaper, Violet opened the cover and beheld photographic evidence of an event she thought had lapsed in all their memories.

She remembered that it was the oft weekday when the five of them were off for bank holiday. The resident adults were at work, and somehow it had been decided that they would attempt to make cookies from scratch. What resulted was a flurry of flour and sugar all over the floors and the walls; it had taken several turns with the washing board to rid the residue from their clothes. Violet, who couldn't have been more than sixteen at the time, had her arms crossed at the chest and her mouth wide open, as if she was chastising her sisters. Rose's hands were outstretched towards the camera, pleading for leniency to whoever was behind it. Their other sisters were indefinite white specters as the powder flew, still absorbed in their play. Just out of the edge of the frame she knew her mother stood in her work coat, doubled over with laughter after the initial shock had passed.

On the next several pages she was graduating from secondary school, posing with every possible combination of her extended family. Marigold, her last surviving paternal aunt, looked particularly enthralled to be there; the wizened old woman was clutching her waist in every photograph, beaming from ear to ear.

The album continued into the birth of their children. The routine seemed awfully similar-a poorly timed snap with one of them still doped up on chloroform, then in the sanctuary of St. Andrew's for baptism, and then the new baby clustered among the growing brood of grandchildren.

At the head of the last page, Ellen's angelic face stood out. Her daughter was but six or seven months, giggling as her grandfather tossed her over and over again into the air. She'd witnessed the scene enough times to remember her father making burbling airplane noises with his mouth, calling out whoopsie daisy as he caught them over and over again.

"I've got to do this alone, Rose. After all the grief we gave mother while she was alive, we could stand to follow through with her wishes just this once," Violet said firmly, retrieving another album and poring over photographs from their outing to Niagara Falls.

At some point during this conversation, Holly left the room and returned with another box, which strained to contain the dozen or so records that had been inserted lengthwise. On the way she passed the radio, which suddenly sprang to life, its dial moving several centimeters to the correct tuning frequency. Rose's mouth snapped shut, her determination to call her sister's choice of words into question all but forgotten.

"Beyond the blue horizon waits a beautiful day…" The singer was wailing away on the local station, the lush tones of the orchestra punctuating his words.

Sage shifted and pulled the sleeves of her dress down over her arms, for they were suddenly covered in gooseflesh. Even though she was the youngest in the room, she had to remember their mother singing it to herself as she saw to the chores. "Goodbye to things that bore me; joy is waiting for me."

"Did you-" Violet began, her cheeks reddened with emotion. Perhaps if she would have bumped it with her hip, or the loop of her belt had caught the tuner as she passed…

The woman in question shook her head vigorously, stumbling back a few steps and sinking into the couch. And none of them moved to switch off the music, even when the chorus swept in with full strength.

"I see a new horizon! My life has only begun…"

-0-

Three days later Violet stood at the prow of the ferry boat, watching the beach fade away into the horizon. The train passage through Quebec had been relatively uneventful, save for continually having to explain her predicament to the station master at every frontier outpost. Each time she would pull them aside and enumerate, in no uncertain terms, that there were two coffins and an urn in the hold bearing her name on the shipping tag. Upon hearing that it was her task to transport her parents to their final resting place, whatever hands were available would set to the task. When all was said and done, she would pay their gratuity even if they refused it, and set off on the smaller rail line into a progressively more wooded area. She remained in her bunk, watching the foliage cast shadows on the topside of the car. Violet had brought a handful of medical journals, hoping to catch up on her reading, but quickly abandoned them for the photographs stashed in the pocket of her valise. She'd filched them from an album while her sisters' backs were turned and had flipped through them until the frozen expressions of joy were a known pattern.

The family had only visited Newfoundland a handful of times in her youth, each collection of memories being more colorful than the last. George's aunts were more than happy to turn away male company for the week, instead opting to parade their grand-nieces about town. It was Aunt Daisy who'd taught the girls the art of embroidery, and at thirteen Iris had purchased Violet's first stick of rouge, much to her mother's dismay. But by the time the economic depression of the century was laying waste to America and up the coast, the flower girls were long gone. Their home, which had once been teeming with laughter and brevity, was sold at auction to keep pace with the financial hardship out west.

Subconsciously, Violet reached into her luggage, pulling out the photograph on the top of the stack. As luck would have it, the image was largely distorted, stringed lanterns creating a telescoping effect for those in the foreground. A townsman could be seen picking at his fiddle, lips wide open in the midst of his folk song. Their Aunt Julia was nursing a flask of heaven knew what, looking on as the happy couple kicking up their heels in the center of the circle. They were in the prime of their youth and dressed to the nines, elbows hooked and feet stomping as they kept time with the Irish jig. As a girl she'd scrutinized the photographs from their wedding, and hoped that one day she would meet a man that would look at her like father did mother. And she hadn't. Not until John.

An envelope was presently tucked into the breast pocket of her dress, its corners warped with moisture and handling. There was one very simple reason why she hadn't revealed its existence to her sisters, amounting to a handful of letters delicately rendered on its front side. My dearest George…

Try as she might, Violet couldn't bring herself to open it. It struck her as something intimate, exceedingly personal, and she didn't want to dishonor their memory by intruding on their correspondence. Then again, how much closer could they be?

She'd operated on the woman, and consequently her blood had been on her hands. Together with her assistants, she'd removed a sizeable lump from her breast, all the while keeping watch over the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. And noticing how the surrounding tissue was angrily red, almost festering with disease, Violet had known. Her mother hadn't much longer to live.

John was the first to know, for when she joined him in bed that evening her eyes were already puffy with tears. He'd held her until her cries subsided, all the while whispering that everything would certainly be alright, just fine in the end, because there was no way it could not be. But that hadn't been enough.

She, Rebecca, and Julia had seen to the preparation of the bodies. The actual procedure was conducted in relative silence; securing the buttons on father's best suit had been somewhat of a struggle, but nothing that the three of them couldn't manage. Somewhere amidst the fussing and arranging, Violet had come forward to dress her mother's hair. Emily was to be buried in her wedding dress and finest pearls, so it naturally followed that she ought to appear as beautiful as she did in the every day, even though her skin was a cyanotic blue and felt waxy to the touch.

It wasn't fair, of course it wasn't fair. That thought began circulating in her head once the actual litany at the funeral began, and continued until the ferry landed on the beaches of St. John's. It was just after sunrise, and the crew was engaged in unloading the passengers' cargo. The sea was immaculately blue, only set off by the crest of the waves beating against the rocks. She stole a moment to admire the landscape, the breeze gently whipping about her hair and shoulders.

"Violet?" Came the call in a familiar accent, and for a brief instant she thought that her father stood nearby, and that the past half a year had been a cruel joke. If only.

Turning to the voice, she discovered a porter waiting for her by a covered motorcar. He was gray-haired, with a wide smile that was only challenged by his burgeoning waistline. Everything about the man felt familiar, and she immediately felt at ease.

He glanced down to the piece of paper he was carrying, then cleared his throat and corrected: "Beg pardon, Mrs. Brackenreid! A friend of the family telephoned ahead. I'll be driving you up into the hills."

Four deckhands appeared at once, balancing her mother's casket with frightening ease. The cabbie removed his porkpie cap and clasped it to his chest, muttering, "Allow me to be the first to offer my condolences."

Violet's hands clenched around the urn she was soon handed. "Did you know my father?"

The Newfoundlander laughed then, a short, accented bark that filled her with reminiscence. He ambled over, retrieved her suitcase, and then shuffled back to the car. "Madam, there isn't a person on this side of the island that don't recognize the name Crabtree."

If the townsfolk wanted to mourn alongside her, they mostly kept their distance. Their party was accompanied by several laborers in a separate carriage, their shovels sticking out the open windows at odd angles. Several times the cabbie interrupted his reverie of his childhood spent at the same schoolhouse as George to give the engine a little extra kick, cursing under his breath and then apologizing profusely for his indiscretion. Violet only laughed and egged him on, the sudden change in altitude nearly taking her breath away.

At last when she thought they might have traversed every last hill in the province on their way to the gravesite, the driver crested one final bluff into an undisturbed eden.

Violet clambered out of the car and began her stroll through the waving grasses, taking in the lush sprawl of the oceanfront only a stone's throw away. Two freshly dug holes rested in the shade of a great oak tree, whose trunk was as broad as the arm spans of several men. An oblong headstone rested between them, and as she drew near, she could barely make out the words carved there: For love is stronger than death, passion fiercer than the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can floods drown it.

Their two names stood at either corner of the stone, connected together by the creeping vines of an unseen rose bush. Heaven knew just how long the mason must have labored over such a piece, but she had a feeling that he would never forge a finer creation.

Suddenly gaining the sense that they were waiting on her, Violet stepped to one side and allowed the men to lower the coffins into the yawning earth. She paused them momentarily to make sure the letter to be placed lengthwise at level with her father's heart. Dirt was then piled over the opening, and she found that the cabbie had returned bearing a gift. She accepted the trowel and followed his gesture to the backside of the headstone, where another surprise was waiting.

This hole was perhaps six inches wide, just enough to fit an urn. Gingerly, Violet sunk to her knees and set her sister's ashes into it. The men were off without another word to begin their expedition back into town, and she was left to come to terms with what exactly she was about to do.

Pitching forward, she pressed her lips to the lid, drawing in the fresh scent of the earth. Her hands came up to rest on the stone above, and there Violet stayed for some time.

Oddly enough, though she waited, tears never came. Instead, there was a lull in the wind, and a sudden warmth whipped around her midsection for the barest fraction of a second.

She rose to her feet and turned around, confirming that she was indeed the only one on the grassy hillock overlooking the sea. Violet shook the oddity aside and set to her work, only returning to a standing position when the urn was good and buried.

That was when she saw it. Far below, standing on the sand facing the incoming tide, stood a figure about four feet tall. Whoever it was seemed to be female, for her dusky hair whipped around her shoulders as she stood sentinel over the horizon. She wore a play dress worn from many washings and no shoes, her hands outstretched to the gaunt figures of an elderly couple standing in the ankle deep water. As Violet looked on, the little girl turned and smiled at her, and the three of them disappeared with the next crash of the waves over the rocks.

The End