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Timothy shut his eyes.
At first: stone silence.
And again, nothing.
He was about to leap up in confusion when the tickling in his ear said: Wait.
And deep under he heard what he thought was the single beat of a buried heart.
The soil under his knees pulsed three times swiftly.
Timothy fell back.
“Father told the truth!”
“Yes,” said the whisper in his ear. “Yes,” echoed the fur-ball thing in his blouse.
Anuba purred.
Yes!
He did not return to the pale gravestone, for it was so terrible and mysterious that he cried, not knowing why.
“Oh, that poor lady.”
“Not poor, my dear,” said his mother.
“But she’s dead!”
“But not for long. Patience.”
Still he could not visit, but sent his messengers to listen and come back.
The heartbeats increased. The ground shook with nervous tremors. A tapestry wove itself in his ear. His blouse pocket squirmed. Anuba ran in circles.
The time is near.
And then half through a long night with a storm freshly departed, a lightning bolt stabbed the graveyard to invigorate a celebration—
And Angelina Marguerite was born.
At three in the morning, the soul’s midnight, Timothy looked out his window to see a procession of candles lighting the path to the tree and that one special stone.
Glancing up, candelabra in hand, Father gestured. Panicked or not, Timothy must attend.
He arrived to find the Family around the grave, their candles burning.
Father handed Timothy a small implement.
“Some spades bury, some reveal. Be the first to shovel earth.”
Timothy dropped the spade.
“Pick it up,” said Father. “Move!”
Timothy stuck the spade into the mound. A trip-hammering of heartbeat sounded. The gravestone cracked.
“Good!” And Father dug. The others followed until at last the most beautiful golden case he had ever seen, with a Royal Castilian insignia on its lid, came into sight, to be laid out under the tree to much laughter.
