Page 23 of Grave Expectations

“I told you I was handy. If I weren’t, the coven would have kicked me out years before,” he said.

“I still find that so hard to believe.”

“I have no magic, why should they let me stay? I’m surprised no one slipped me a memory draught and left me wandering senseless in the woods.”

“A memory potion?” Roz said skeptically.

“Oh, yes. The apothecary witches especially disliked me. I was to blame when yeast went missing. I made a delightful mead. I was sure one day they’d do something to the yeast to finally put an end to me.”

Roz rested her head on his shoulder, gazing down over the cemetery. A lone figure strode purposefully through the gate.

“Who is your Aunt Selma with?” Alaric asked, squinting.

“She’s alone,” Roz said, waving to catch Selma’s attention. The old woman waved back, making her way slowly up the hill. Her route was circuitous, avoiding certain grave sites. When she finally made it to them, she wiped the sweat from her brow.

“Last heat wave of the year,” she muttered. “Goddess willing,” she added. Then her gaze slid to Alaric and she cocked her head. “You’re looking…opaque.”

“She can see me?” Alaric asked Roz, genuine surprise on his face.

“She can hear you, as well,” Selma snorted.

“Is that…?” came a voice from somewhere near Selma. Roz blinked at the space around Selma, her gaze darting around. It sounded like her Aunt Franny, but there was no way…

“Yes, dear, it’s Alaric Blackwood, try to keep up,” Selma said, waving her hand at the air next to her. There was a shimmer there, a sort of outline of something that Roz couldn’t quite focus on. It undulated between a shadow and wisps of white smoke.

“You can both see me?” Alaric asked, his voice high and hopeful.

“I may be dead, but I still have eyes,” Franny’s voice echoed over the small space. “Roz is looking at me; has she finally mastered her skills? Or does she remain useless?”

Roz bristled. She was used to Franny’s rude comments, but that didn’t make them hurt less.

“That is the purpose of this discussion,” Selma told Franny, then turned to Roz suddenly. “Can you see her?”

“Not…really…” Roz said carefully. “There’s…something. But I can hear her! I can hear her!”

Franny sighed. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

“I can see you,” Alaric said, blinking at the empty space.

Selma settled onto the grass across from them. The shimmering thing next to her sat as well.

“Well, I have summoned Fran so we might have a chat about your little…well, it’s not really a problem, is it?” Selma said.

“A bit of a problem—we need to break the curse,” Roz said. “So he can finally rest.”

“He looks well rested,” Selma remarked, her gaze traveling over him slowly. He did look rather handsome in his old-fashioned outfit. There was still the faint outline of bruises and wounds on his face, but most were gone.

“Did you really tether yourself to the founder of Pumpkin Hollow?” Franny asked, scandalized. Roz shrank back against the tree. It’d been years since Franny died, and longer still since she’d tried to teach Roz the art of necromancy. The memory of the failed lessons still stung.

“A remarkable feat, I hear,” Alaric said, his tone clipped.

“Reckless,” Franny corrected.

“Impressive,” Selma said. “That’s why I dragged you from playing Pinochle in the afterlife. I think Roz has the gift of reanimation.”

The faceless blob next to Selma bristled. “There is no such⁠—”

“I’ve seen it,” Alaric interrupted. “The original Graves family was very skilled at reanimation. Seems like the years have diluted the talent.”