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Six Years Ago
ETTA
ETTA (15), ROMAN (16)
The gates of the Greater Stratford Cemetery loom against the gray, November sky, the intricate iron of the posts like teeth, jagged and threatening. I duck between the jaws, and marvel at the heavy silence, unbroken but for my footsteps trudging down the winding path between rows upon rows of gravestones. The only other sounds are the howling wind and the distant rumble of traffic on the nearby street. The skyline is dotted with monolithic family tombs, grassy knolls dotted with towering oaks, Victorian style obelisks, and the occasional weeping angel, its hands spread as if to welcome me. Fallen leaves pinwheel over the dead city, catching and lingering in my hair.
I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I have a guess. Most of the Order families are buried in the same far corner of the cemetery, in the oldest part, where the plots were purchased hundreds of years ago and the crypts built back when stained glass and lovely gothic carvings were still popular. It will take me a good ten minutes to walk there and would have been far easier to drive, but I was afraid of anyone seeing my car and recognizing me. As it is, this might be one of the stupider things I’ve done…well, ever.
Knowing that, I don’t know why I continue.
After about eight minutes of walking, I can hear distant voices on the breeze, and see the line of black cars, followed by all the normal cars with little funeral home flags stuck to the windshields. It’s a large procession, and there must be at least two-hundred people standing on the hill, bundled into wool coats with scarves wrapped around their faces.
I stop. I’ve gotten close enough. Any closer, and they’ll certainly see me, and while I don’t think anyone would actively do anything to me, I’m definitely unwelcome.
I scan the crowd, all nearly identical in their winter-wear. Even so, I recognize him immediately.
Roman Montague stands slightly apart from the rest of his friends and family, leaning against a towering beech tree. If I didn’t know better, I might think he was bored, or annoyed to be here.
I tear my gaze away. I’m not here for him. He was nice to me preciselyone time,I’m not going to let myself melt on the floor because of it. I’m here because it’s the right thing to do.
I sink onto the grass on a tiny incline across from the hill where the Montagues are gathered as they watch Councilman Lawrence step forward to read a eulogy. I can’t hear anything more than the occasional snippet as the wind shifts, but it hardly matters.
I’m only here to pay my own respects, I don’t need to hear to do that.
I close my eyes, trying to think of what to say—or to think, I suppose. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. Who am I supposed to be talking to? Normally I would feel that funerals are for the living, that paying respect is to the family, but in this case the family doesn’t want to talk to me. I heave a sigh…maybe I’m messing this up.
“What are you doing?”
I jolt, my shoulders hitting my ears and my arms flailing as my heart leaps into my throat. My eyes fly open, and I turn to find Roman Montague standing directly in front of me. His shadow looms over me, blocking out everything. His family behind him, the weak November sun, like he’s eclipsed all else with his mere presence.
“Uhhh.” I flounder for words. “I was just…”
“Gloating?” His tone is unreadable, but his eyes are hard. “Or perhaps choosing another target?”
I don’t like him standing over me like that with his expression so dark, so I struggle to get to my feet, and brush the grass off my legs. Although, when I look back up, I balk. I have the high ground, so we’re nearly eye-to-eye for probably the first time ever, and it’s almost more unnerving than before.
I swallow my insecurity, trying to force my voice to remain even. “No, of course not.”
He sneers. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to pay my respects. I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
He blinks at me, obviously surprised for a half a second, before his expression goes cold again. “Right. Of course you are.”
“I am!”
His expression tells me all too clearly, he doesn’t believe me. More than that, he thinks I’m an idiot. “No one wants you here. You should leave before anyone else spots you and things get ugly.”
I set my jaw. “Are you threatening me?”
“If that’s what you heard. Just go, Etta.”
I frown. I don’t know what he means by that, but I assume he’s making fun of me. Whatever brief respite we had in the hall outside the headmaster’s office is evidently over, and Roman is back to being a dick. Back with a vengeance, apparently. I shouldn’t have come today.
I understand that he doesn’t like me, but does he really have to be so mean? I didn’t do anything to his grandfather, and neither did my family…technically. Probably.
I’ll admit that the timing is a tad suspicious. It was only a few weeks ago that our parents were screaming at each other about curses and plagues, and the next thing anyone knew, Roman’s grandfather dropped dead of a sudden and mysterious illness. No doctor, from the Order or from a regular hospital, could figure out what happened to him. It was just…strange. And, okay, so it’s not helping that my mother is positively giddy because Mr. Montague was blocking some political thing she was trying to get pushed through on the council. The whole situation looks pretty bad.
