The Crypt at Westwood

Perhaps unwilling to have the nape of his neck seized again, the butler did not flee this time. He stood meekly before me.

"Has His Lordship found himself with another urgent matter today?"

"In truth, His Lordship left yesterday and has yet to return."

"Then you ought to have said so from the start. You mentioned no such thing this morning."

"I had intended to inform him of your visit upon his return, but he has yet to come back…"

"You didn't send word telling him not to come home because I was here, I trust?"

"I would never do such a thing."

The same butler who had made a fool of me all morning — telling me to wait in the drawing room — answered with shameless composure.

This went beyond mere discourtesy. A mere butler had no right to treat a guest who had come to see his master this way. I could only conclude that the viscount's own will was reflected in the attitude. Perhaps he had treated Dorothy the same. Nothing else could explain such brazen disrespect toward the sister of a mistress dead less than a month.

I swallowed the anger rising in my throat and asked him again.

"Where is he?"

"As for where Viscount Cecilia might be, even I—"

"Not the viscount. My sister. Where is Dorothy's grave?"

"Ah…"

The butler, who had been so eager to chatter away, rolled his eyes and fell silent. I could hold back no longer. I shouted.

"Did Viscount Cecilia order you not to tell me even where that child's grave is?"

"It isn't that…"

He trailed off, looking uncomfortable, then offered a reluctant answer that was hardly an answer at all.

"Lady Dorothy's funeral was conducted at Westwood Cathedral. She is interred there."

"A cathedral? Not the Cecilia family tomb?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"His Lordship made that decision. I wouldn't know, my lady."

The butler deferred every answer to the viscount who refused to show himself, and shut his mouth. I was beside myself, but wrangling further with him would get me nowhere. I turned my back on the Cecilia residence at once and climbed into the carriage.

When the coachman asked for our destination, my voice shook.

"Westwood Cathedral."

"Westwood Cathedral? Westwood Cathedral…"

He repeated the name in an uncertain murmur. Even a coachman who ought to know every street in Caliwood like the back of his hand found the place unfamiliar. And that was where my sister lay sleeping.

The carriage set off westward, but had to stop several times so we could determine the cathedral's location. After inquiring at a church of a similar name, the coachman returned with the precise directions, offered an apology, and we set off again.

We raced west for a long while, driving until the city fell away and the houses vanished, and at last we stopped before a small chapel standing alone on the outskirts of Caliwood. To call it a cathedral was generous. It was closer to a neglected prayer house that no one ever visited.

A young priest in vestments approached as I entered.

"What brings you here?"

"Is Dorothy Cecilia's grave here?"

"Lady Dorothy Cecilia's grave?"

"I was told her funeral was held here about ten days ago."

"Ah. Her. Forgive me, but what is your relation to the deceased?"

"I am Teredoa Dvorden. Dorothy's older sister."

"The deceased is here, yes — but I believe you may have been misinformed, my lady."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Please, come this way. I'll show you."

The priest tilted his head, then started walking. I followed, a creeping unease rising in my chest, and he began descending a staircase that led underground.

"Her grave is underground?"

"This cathedral has no graveyard."

He gave that cryptic answer and stopped before a heavy door. When he opened it, a cool, dark chamber breathed out its damp air. Candle flames guttered here and there across a wide space packed with coffins — stacked from floor to ceiling, stored like abandoned cargo.

The only mercy was that there was no smell of rotting flesh. Standing at the threshold of that crypt, I could not breathe.

Dvorden had a place like this as well. A holding vault where the bodies of the unclaimed — those with no one left to bury them — were kept for a time. And my sister had been here.

The priest led me to a stark white coffin that looked as though it had been placed there only recently.

"This is Lady Dorothy's coffin."

My sister was lying, he said, in a coffin set so high I could barely reach it. I stretched out a trembling hand and touched the side. It was cold as ice.

"This can't be…"

Her name had been scrawled across the coffin, but I could not believe it. How was this Dorothy's coffin? Why did she have to be here?

"Why is Dorothy… why…"

It was truly beyond belief. They could have made a place for her beside our parents. If he didn't want her in the Cecilia family tomb, he should have sent her body back to us. How? How could he do this?

"My lady. My lady, are you all right?"

The priest spoke with concern as I stood before my sister's coffin, gasping, at a loss for words. I seized the sleeve of the arm he held out to me.

"Take the coffin down. My sister — take the coffin down. I have to take her, I have to take her with me…"

"My lady, please calm yourself. My lady. My lady!"

The priest's voice booming through the crypt was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a deep green ceiling. Someone had carried me here after I fainted. A headache like a splitting skull forced me to sit up, and then a familiar voice reached my ears.

"Are you all right?"

Lyft Cayder was there.

I threw off the covers and tried to get up. Dorothy was alone in that place. I could not lie here in comfort. But Lyft pressed down on my shoulder and sat me back down.

"Let go. I have to go back to Westwood Cathedral."

"I heard from the priest. You said you would move Dorothy Cecilia's coffin?"

"Of course I will! I'm taking her to the Dvorden Barony."

I tried to rise, shouting, but his hand would not release me. He sat on the edge of the bed, sighed, and said,

"I understand how you feel, but it isn't possible right now, my lady."

"What do you mean, not possible?"

"To transfer a coffin, you need the family's consent."

"I am her family! I'm her sister!"

"I mean you need Viscount Cecilia's permission."

"That's— He's the one who stashed her in that wretched place!"

"But he is Dorothy Cecilia's husband."

A truth as cold as the voice that delivered it. A truth I could never accept — a truth I must never accept.

Heat rose in my throat, and tears welled up again. I had thought I'd shed a lifetime's worth of tears yesterday, but my tear ducts seemed to have broken; useless tears kept rising without end. When Lyft saw my eyes fill, he rubbed his forehead with a look of weary exasperation. He pulled another handkerchief from his coat and held it out, speaking in the tone of a man scolding a child throwing a tantrum.

"I understand how you feel, but crying won't help, my lady."

I know. I know it well enough to be sick of it. When Father died — when the relatives came running to tear the Dvorden family apart and devour it — the first thing I had to do was wipe my tears and stand up. I learned then that weeping with graceful sorrow is a luxury permitted only to idle noblewomen.

I ignored the handkerchief Lyft offered and scrubbed my face roughly with my sleeve.

Get a hold of yourself, Teredoa. There's no one here who will pity your tears. Right now, think only of going home to Dvorden with Dorothy.

I drew a long breath, let it out, and steadied myself. Then I spoke to him in a much calmer voice.

"Viscount Cecilia is avoiding me. Please arrange a meeting with him."

"You want me to drag Viscount Cecilia in and sit him down in front of you?"

"That's not what I mean. I mean find out where I can meet him. I have to see him first if I'm going to get his cooperation, don't I, Chief?"

I asked it in a deliberately provocative tone. I shot him a look that said he was the head of an imperial agency, and he couldn't even do that much. Lyft stared at me, then let out a short, incredulous laugh — a hollow laugh of sheer disbelief.

"I'm no longer certain which of us is requesting the other's cooperation."

He was mocking a demand that amounted to this: pull me from the water, and now hand over your pack as well. I did not look away from his amber eyes. I met the sarcasm head-on. I had no luxury left for pride. If I had to, I would drop to my knees at Lyft's feet and beg. There was nothing I wouldn't do if it meant bringing Dorothy home to Dvorden safely.

Lyft slowly withdrew his gaze and stood. He turned his back on me, seeming to consider for a moment, then faced me again with no trace of a smile.

"Very well. I'll arrange for you to meet the Marchioness of Derian."

"The Marchioness of Derian?"

"She'll obtain an invitation to an occasion Viscount Cecilia is likely to attend."

"Ah… Thank you, Count Cayder."

I rose and bowed to him at the waist. His lips moved as if he had something more to say, then closed. He passed in front of me as I stood with my head lowered, murmuring something I could not quite catch — his voice was too low.