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A year ago, I watched the bluff take her.
Now my father lies upstairs waiting to be taken too.
I sit, open the book somewhere in the middle, and read the first line I see aloud so she can hear me.
“The impulse increased to a wish, the wish to an overpowering desire, the desire to an ungovernable longing.”
A laugh slips out of me, dry and humorless.
The door opens. My brother Tristan steps in, stopping short as if he feels a presence too.
“Reverend Bolton is here again,” he says. “Third time this week. He can’t just let the man die in peace.”
I brush my thumb over the line in the book, refusing to accept the role of Highstone Manor bouncer.
“Then get rid of him.”
“You do it.” He scans the corners of the room, as if he half-expects her to appear and simply pop out to say hello. “I did it last time.”
The reverend has long overstayed his welcome. Grief counselor, hospice shepherd, professional witness to the dying. It irks me enough to see him circling this house like a vulture, but worse than that is knowing my girl sleeps beneath his roof while he plays guardian over what isn’t his.
For now, I have to leave her there.
I drag myself upright and return the book to the shelf. Dust swirls again, restless, as though disappointed I’m choosing the living over the dead.
“Fine.”
As soon as I step out of the library, the air thins. That room was her comfort, even in death, it seems. Out here, everything is duller. More real.
I close the door like sealing a tomb. It’ll lie abandoned again. It’s too painful to keep old wounds open and bleeding.
The manor stretches around me in exhausted silence as I cross the hall, pass the dark mouth of the ballroom, and climb the double staircase towards my parents’ room.
Highstone Manor was built by Elias Crotavere, who made sure Shadow Bluff would kneel every time it looked up at this hill. The house is meant to outlive all of us, surviving while we rot.
At my parents’ bedroom door, I push inside, startling Reverend Bolton in his chair, eye drops still in his hand. Tears manufactured on demand. How efficient of him to keep grief bottled and ready.
“Time for you to leave, Reverend,” I say.
He blinks, letting the drops slide dramatically down his cheeks.
“It’s very dry in here. A humidifier might help Harold breathe easier.”
“We’re keeping him comfortable.”
It’s August and the air conditioner is blasting. The house is moonlighting as a morgue.
He nods, then leans over my father and whispers one more prayer into the stale air. When he straightens, I meet his muddy eyes and find them empty.
He takes a moment to look around, admiring the opulence beyond his reach.
“This room is sacred,” he says, like that means anything. “God waits with open arms to welcome your father home. He doesn’t have long.”
“No shit.”
The reverend purses his lips, offended but too cowardly to respond.
“I’ll show myself out.”
