6
"My love." His voice was rough with sleep, and she knew immediately they were the first words he'd uttered that morning.
She turned in bed, her body seeking his, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion. "Is something wrong?" she asked, forcing her eyes to blink open. He was dressed—why was he dressed?
His lips brushed over her tired eyes, across her sleep-warm cheeks, and down to her full lips. "Nothing is wrong, my love. The sun is nearly rising."
She frowned as his face pulled back from hers. "Is it?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
His rough palm came up to gently cup her face. "It is." His thumb swept over the apple of her cheek. "You were so restless last night," he murmured, his concern showing in the tenderness of his touch.
She sighed. "I couldn't sleep." .
"Rest more," he told her. "I'm going to make a delivery."
She began to sit up, despite his instructions. "There is much to be done," she said, shaking her head.
"Rest, my love." He sat beside her, his other hand coming up to cup her face more fully. "I've taken care of the morning chores. There is nothing that needs immediate tending."
She was heavy with her exhaustion, and she leaned her forehead against his. "I'll be awake by the time you return," she assured him.
He kissed her forehead. "Rest well, my love," he murmured against her skin. "I'll return to you shortly."
…
When she awoke again, the sun was near its midday arc. She felt confused, disoriented, and despite the hours she'd gotten after falling back asleep, she was still exhausted.
She forced herself out of bed, dressing slowly. She set about her morning routine, but everything in her felt off from her uneven sleep.
She cast her mind to the previous night as she set water to boil. She'd been unable to sleep, this was true. She'd lay in bed, her mind running again and again over problem after problem. First, she'd thought about all that was to be done before winter, the stores they needed to gather, the things they needed to prepare. Then, she'd turned her mind to Monsieur Laurent and his dream.
It was a bad omen if she'd ever heard one, and even though she'd found a way in the dream, she knew that not every obstacle could simply be burned down.
Worry had settled in her heart, keeping her mind from rest.
She made herself a cup of ginger and mint tea, her stomach still too confused for food quite yet. She brought her cup outside, moving to the apple tree beside her husband's workshop. She sat against the trunk, admiring the ripening apples heavy on the branches. In the pasture, she heard Bear bark once, and she imagined he was trying his best to persuade the stubborn goat into something. She smiled, leaning deeper into the tree, bringing her teacup to her lips.
Slowly, the warmth of the tea and the sun above, mingled with the scent of the apples and the sawdust from her husband's worship, worked to soothe her weary soul.
By the time the last drop was drunk, she felt renewed.
She stood under the tree, reaching up to pluck an apple from the branches. With a swipe of it over her apron, she brought it to her lips. The apple was sweet and tart and settled her further. Finally, she was ready to move on from her restless night.
…
She'd lost too much of the day. She hated that. Still, there was no use lingering over it and bemoaning her wasted hours. Instead, she set to work, trying to make up for the time she'd spent lingering.
Bear came to her near sunset, and she'd been so engrossed in her chores that she didn't realize the late hour until his smiling face was bounding toward her. She rubbed his head as her eyes swept over the pasture, searching for their mare. Her husband had yet to return, and while it wasn't too unusual, it did worry her.
She forced herself to keep working, gathering the dog and her harvest for the day and taking them both inside. She made a simple supper of roasted rabbit, but still, he had not returned. It happened, on occasion, that the coffin maker was asked to stay until the funeral. He didn't like to do it, but sometimes he felt he couldn't refuse.
She forced her mind to stay in a bright place. Likely, he'd been caught up, and if he didn't wish to travel in the dark, he'd be on the road again, first thing in the morning.
Though she loathed it, the coffin maker's wife set about her evening chores, and when everything was done, she locked up her home and curled in her empty bed. The space was too large without her husband, and in a moment of vulnerability, she invited Bear to sleep at her feet. There was no space when the coffin maker lay beside her, and the dog jumped up happily, nuzzling her toes with his nose as he settled in.
Despite her unease, she fell asleep quickly, her exhaustion coming back to her tenfold.
…
He had still not returned the next morning. She did the morning chores, and when she was sure her animals and home were taken care of, she set out for the village, her dog on her heels. She didn't know where his delivery was, but she was sure someone in the village would know.
Her pace was swift, her steps fueled by her anxiousness to see her husband once again.
She knew immediately that something was amiss in the village. People huddled together, whispering fervently to each other over garden walls. They pointed toward the edge of town, where the cemetery lay, and she felt her pace quicken. What had happened? Had there been an accident?
Beside her, Bear—sensing his mistress's distress—picked up his pace, the fur on his neck rising with his alertness.
They rushed to the cemetery where it seemed half the village was gathered. She pushed her way through the crowd, her eyes desperately taking inventory of the faces she passed. None were her husband's.
"Now, there is no reason to be worked up!" she heard a deep voice shouting. "This could be some elaborate ruse!"
She reached the edge of the crowd, her heart plummeting to her feet when she saw what had shaken the village.
A grave had been disrupted, the dirt piled up around the site, and the coffin dragged to the grass lay empty. This was beyond grave robbing. Where was the body?
"Please!" the constable shouted, his hands waving wildly. "Disperse immediately!"
No one listened to him, and Bella felt herself take a step closer.
"There she is!"
Her head turned in time to see someone point to her, and her heart lurched. She turned to the constable, and he climbed down from the patch of soil he'd been perched on when he saw her. "Mistress Masen!" he called, motioning her toward him. She took a step from the crowd, approaching him. "We've sent a messenger to your home to collect your husband."
She swallowed hard. "My husband is not home."
The constable's brow furrowed. "Where is he? His services are greatly needed."
Bella shook her head. "He went for a delivery yesterday. I don't know when to expect him back." She didn't say he should have been back already.
The constable's dark eyes narrowed. "Perhaps, mistress, you might know then…" He motioned her toward the empty coffin and she hesitated, taking a step toward it. "Please, mistress. We need to know, to whom did this coffin belong?"
It was then she understood. There was no headstone, no marker of any sort. Had it been lost or removed?
She took a breath as she approached the coffin. She recognized her husband's beautiful work immediately. The coffin looked fresh, bright wood still gleaming despite the mud on it. She knelt in the mud, her skirts growing dirty as she felt along the inside of the coffin. Simple linen lining, nothing extravagant. The coffin smelled like sawdust and her husband's work shed, like earth and lumber. There wasn't a trace of death upon it.
Her brow furrowed as she settled deeper over the coffin, her hands exploring the interior. It didn't make sense.
Her fingers brushed a latch and with surprise, she tugged it open. There was a hidden compartment located under the place where the right hand would have laid. The compartment was simple in its design and execution. She had not designed this.
The space was shallow and well insulated as if something needed to be stopped from rattling in it. Her fingers brushed through the hay but came up empty.
She turned to the constable, a frown deeply etched over her face. "When did this happen?"
He cleared his throat. "We found it this way this morning."
She turned back to the coffin. "And no one was buried in the last three days?"
She looked back at him in time to see him shake his head. She sat back on her heels, examining the scene in front of her again. Her eyes traveled to the coffin lid, and she frowned when a small hole in it caught the light. She reached out, closing the lid, and yes, there, perfectly hidden in an intricate design on the front was a small hole.
It was too precise to be random, and she felt her confusion deepen.
"Do you recognize the coffin, mistress?"
She looked back at the constable. "I do, though I don't know for whom it was built." She got to her feet, brushing the mud from her skirts. "There is no sign of a body?"
The constable looked nervously at the crowd. "No, mistress."
She frowned. "It looks like a coffin for a woman or a short man," she said after a moment.
The constable's mustache twitched. "Thank you for your help, mistress."
She looked at him. "I'll send my husband as soon as he's home," she promised.
The constable let out a relieved breath. "Thank you, mistress."