Page 13 of Grave Expectations

“I rather like it,” Alaric said, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed up at it. Roz nodded her agreement, forgetting that Martha could neither hear nor see Alaric.

“It’s beautiful,” Roz said.

“I guess, if you like paintings of women dying,” Martha muttered before tottering off. Martha had trailed Roz through the museum all afternoon, hovering close while pretending not to. Roz needed her to leave so she could look through the old grimoires and see if there was any mention of the Graves family.

“We should have snuck in after hours,” Alaric said, watching her go.

“Easy for you to say,” Roz replied. “You don’t show up on camera.”

“I also cannot pick up a book, so I am of no use,” he said forlornly, turning back to the painting. “You find this painting beautiful, truly?”

“Yes,” Roz admitted. The painting was large, at least six feet tall. It showed a cold morning three hundred years earlier, people fleeing their commune for Pumpkin Hollow. It was a blur of activity, children and adults alike carrying anything they could as they escaped in the night. In the distance, smoke rose from a pyre, with three bodies hanging from the gallows. Despite the chaos of the scene, the people smiled and laughed.

“They knew they’d be safe,” Alaric said quietly.

“Did they?” Roz asked, regarding him from the corner of her eye.

“Yes,” Alaric replied, turning from the painting.

The next one was smaller, more detailed, encased in glass to protect it from the elements. It was a man with a rope around his neck, standing at the gallows, defiant.

“Does it bother you?” Roz asked, nodding to the painting.

“I’m sure just as much as it bothers Jesus that all his followers wear crosses,” Alaric said with a shrug.

Roz scoffed and swatted at Alaric, her hand bumping against his arm instead of going through it. They both stared at the spot, Roz’s mouth open, Alaric’s eyebrows raised.

“Are you scandalized by my answer, or surprised you can touch me again?” Alaric asked, his voice hoarse.

“Both. Are you calling yourself Jesus?”

“Blasphemous. I’d never say such a thing. I also don’t possess any of his powers. Water to wine? Healing? Quite the witch,” Alaric said, turning to the sections of the museum with old books.

“The church crowd would love to hear Jesus called a witch,” Roz said, hurrying after him.

“I’m sure it’s less entertaining than it was three hundred years ago. They had no sense of humor then,” he said, pausing before the wall of grimoires. There were multiple signs that forbade touching them.

“We’ll find a promising title, then I’ll stand guard while you read it,” Alaric said, leaning closer to examine the titles. Roz stood on the opposite end of the shelf, her gaze trailing over the spines.

Alchemy Through the Ages

Baking With Soul

Magna’s Grimoire

“Goddess forbid they put these in any sort of order,” Roz muttered.

“I have a promising one,” Alaric called, pointing to a book. The Grimoire of Life.

“This?” Roz asked.

“Well, yes. It is exactly opposite of what your family preaches, it feels like a good place to start.”

“It’s huge. It will take us hours to read it,” Roz lamented.

“We’ll come back,” Alaric suggested.

Roz glanced around before grabbing the book and shoving it into her bag. Alaric gasped. “Did you just steal a book from the museum?”