9
"I really should get up," Victoria said, even as she snuggled more closely into Victor. She nuzzled his cheek.
"So you've been saying," Victor replied, amused, nuzzling in return.
It was Saturday morning. The fifth morning of their married life. Today began as all the others had, with the two of them entwined in bed and talking softly of nothing much. The day was cloudy and the curtains were half-shut, so the room was dim. The bed was soft and warm and cozy. And it was pure bliss to have Victor so close, all to herself, in privacy.
"It's my turn to set up the altar flowers at church," she told him, at last reluctantly sitting up. Her braid was coming undone. She began unbraiding her hair as she added, "With Aunt Gertrude. She does not like for me to be late."
Victor sat up beside her and stretched. When her hair was loose he combed through it with his fingers. Victoria closed her eyes briefly. Oh, it was hard to leave the bed, and her new husband's company.
"Will...do you...Do you think you'll ask Pastor Galwells? Again?" he asked. They met each other's eyes.
The day after their wedding, the two of them had gone to see the pastor. To see what had become of her. The corpse bride. He had behaved as though he had no idea what they'd been speaking of, and shooed them outside like stray cats. Still feeling guilty and sad, even through their happiness together, Victor and Victoria had poked about in the cemetery. They found no freshly turned earth. No evidence of a recent fire. Victor had even checked the large wooden dustbin tucked away in the weeds. At last, before the light failed, they'd returned to the bride's first resting place.
More snow had melted and the stream was running free, with only a scrim of ice along the edges. Beneath the huge oak the ground was disturbed. Upturned roots and scattered soil. If one didn't know better, one would think a badger had made the large hole. Together, in the failing light, they'd knelt and examined it. No bones. Not a trace. It was as though the dead woman had disappeared. As if they'd imagined the entire thing.
"I cannot think what good it would do," she replied, troubled again as she recalled their fruitless searching. "He seems keen to pretend it never happened."
Victor sighed and rubbed at his face. "But it did happen," he said quietly. "And I still feel terribly about it."
"So do I," Victoria said, thinking of that last look the dead bride had given her. That desperately sorrowful look. She ran the satin ribbon from her hair through her fingers. That young woman had plainly wanted the very same thing Victoria had desired. What Victoria now had. A wedding. A husband she loved and who loved her in return. Embraces in bed in the early morning. A new dawn to wake to and plans for the day.
Had the corpse bride died before she'd ever had any of that?
With a heavy heart, Victoria finally rose and dressed, and then set off to meet Aunt Gertrude.
10
All of the wedding flowers had long since been cleaned out of the church. Victoria had not been inside since the wedding. As she helped Aunt Gertrude up the steps and inside, it occurred to her how bare and lonely the place looked. How dim and dusty. She fetched her aunt's walker from the bottom of the steps and then the two of them went to the vestry to prepare that week's flowers.
When Aunt Gertrude designed the altar flowers, the arrangements were always stark. She had a preference for leaves instead of blossoms, sticks instead of greenery. Her only concession to any kind of color was the odd berry here and there. The displays matched her personality—desolate and cold, not offering much to anyone.
But no, that was not entirely fair. Gertrude was a widow, and a deeply unhappy one. Victoria had a few sketchy memories of her aunt before her Uncle Alfred had died. Those memories were of warmth, of even a laugh. Of how she'd looked at her husband. Of a yellow dress. Her aunt had worn weeds for over fifteen years now. Perpetual mourning had turned her waspish and cold.
If Victor were to die first, would Victoria do and behave the same? She shook the thought away as she would a chill.
"You should have worn a shawl over that dress," Aunt Gertrude said to her now, seeing her shiver. She gave Victoria's new blue gown the side-eye. "It's a cold spring, you'll catch your death in that thing."
"I'm all right, thank you," Victoria replied politely. She stepped back from the vase she'd been arranging so that her aunt could inspect it. After having her work accepted with a curt nod, Victoria set out the arrangements. Then she fetched her new cloak and her aunt's shawl, and the two of them left the church.
Once safely down the steps, and after Victoria had brought her walker for her, Aunt Gertrude turned away.
"I'm going to stay a while," she said, already headed for the graveyard. "Wait for me."
"Surely you'd like some help?" Victoria asked, eyeing her aunt's walker and then the rutted, uneven ground of the churchyard.
Aunt Gertrude huffed. "I don't need a nursemaid," she grumbled. "I'll be fine. I want some privacy. You just wait for me."
Orders given, Victoria stood and watched as Aunt Gertrude made for an elaborate headstone toward the outer edge of the cemetery. Uncle Alfred's. How many times had her aunt taken that walk in the past fifteen years?
Unsure of what to do and not wanting to intrude, Victoria hung about the church steps for a moment. Signs of spring could be spotted here and there. Small shoots just peeking out of the earth along the church wall. A new promising warmth in the air that did not fade as evening fell. More birdsong in the mornings.
At last, Victoria decided to stroll about the churchyard. Aunt Gertrude was standing close to Uncle Alfred's stone, her hand resting upon it. She was speaking, but low and her voice did not carry far. Victoria could only see her mouth move. Again she pictured herself in years to come. In weeds. Alone among the dead. Speaking to Victor beneath the ground, who could not hear her.
At that thought, the dead bride again filled her mind. Her tear-filled eyes, that desperately sad expression. The way she'd collapsed when her hopes had been dashed. The corpse bride had heard the living speak. Perhaps the dead simply could not speak in a way that the living could hear. At least, not always.
As she'd been pondering, frowning to herself, Victoria had walked all the way around the back of the church. She paused to watch the river through the trees, rushing with the spring thaw and recent rain. How many seasons had the dead bride been beneath that oak tree?
With a sigh, Victoria turned to continue her way through the churchyard. A door caught her eye. Tucked into the back of the church, inside a small recess. An ancient-looking door. A thick layer of brambles and growth covered most of the back wall. But the door was clearly visible, the weeds and thorns recently cleared away. Victoria blinked.
The crypts. Why hadn't she thought of it before?
11
To Victoria's great surprise, the door was unlocked. It took some hard tugging and the hinges screeched in protest, but the door opened. She had no light and did not dare to steal a candle from church. Into the damp, cool shadows she went, down the narrow stone stairs with a hand on one rough wall to steady herself.
At the foot of the stairs she was met by a low stone archway. Through it was the old crypt. Niches were set into the walls. From where she stood she could only see the first, the one closest to the doorway. The light from the open door behind her only reached that far. All the rest was shadows and gloom.
Hesitantly, Victoria stepped through the archway. The air was dank, and carried a brackish sort of smell. She glanced about, looking for the bundle of bones she'd wrapped up on her wedding day. There was something in the first niche. Was it the altar cloth? It was fabric, she could tell. She moved a bit closer, squinting in the gloom, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
Yes, it was there. The roses were gone, but the neatly wrapped remains rested on the rough stone of the niche. Victoria laid a hand upon them. Was there movement, or had the bones simply shifted under her touch? Gently, as though soothing a child, she ran a palm over the cloth that covered the dead woman's skull. She could feel her forehead, hear the crown of dead flowers crinkle a little.
It was so dark down here. So lonely. So silent. The shadows felt as though they were pressing in upon her, actively pushing out what little daylight could penetrate the space. The chill was settling into her skin. And that smell. This was no place to be alone. Not for even a little while, let alone an eternity.
Overcome, Victoria scooped up the bride's bones in her arms and hugged them close. Then she turned and left, back up the stairs, back into the daylight and warmth and early spring air.
Aunt Gertrude was hobbling her way back toward the church steps just as Victoria rounded the corner. She peered closely at Victoria's bundle, while Victoria tried to look impassive.
"What's that you have?" asked Aunt Gertrude, meeting Victoria's eye.
"An altar cloth to mend. I'd forgotten it, and went back for it," Victoria lied. Smoothly, she hoped.
"Why is there a cobweb in your hair? And dirt on your cloak?"
"The linen press must have been dusty."
Aunt Gertrude narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, but said nothing. Victoria did not flinch. Together they walked back to the village, leaving the churchyard and most of its dead behind them.