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“Hello, friends,” he says in that false dramatic voice of his, the one that’s used to hosting elaborate opium parties. “Brianna and I have something we wish to share with you. When it is over, you will commence gutting me with rusty pitchforks. I assure you that I will not run away or attempt to bargain my Afterlife for your mercy—”
“This sounds fun,” Pax cracks his knuckles.
“Edward, is everything okay?” Ambrose asks, his voice full of genuine care. Edward blanches, his eyes pleading with me to take over.
I stare at the object on the table, and at Edward’s sorrowful eyes, and I find that I don’t have it in me to be angry at him anymore. He did what he did because he’s broken and imperfect, and because for the first time in his life, he had a real friend and he wanted to hang on to that. I can’t blame him.
But I’m not the one he needs to apologise to, and I don’t know what Ambrose is going to do when he finds out…
“Sit down,” I say to Ambrose, and I can’t help it. It’s already nearly dinnertime and I’m running on three hours of sleep and my emotions are fuckingfrayed.I start crying. “I have to tell you something.”
“Errr…” Ambrose turns around and feels behind him, not quite certain where the sofa is. He settles for hovering an inch above the cushions. “It’s okay, Bree. I am ready for whatever you need to tell me.”
“Do I need to stab someone?” Pax asks hopefully.
“No,” I laugh even as more tears roll down my cheeks. “This is happy news.”
“But why are you crying?” Ambrose’s voice trembles.
How did he notice?I thought I’d been hiding my tears so well. But of course he noticed. He’s Ambrose. He pays attention to every little detail. He cherishes every piece of me.
“Not all tears are sad.” I hold my phone up to my face. I have to blink several times to make out the words. “I’m going to play a video for you.”
“Okay.”
I suck in a deep breath and hit the play button. The video starts on the screen – it’s from the Grimdale Cemetery account, and it’s of me, standing in front of Grimdale’s iron gates. Edward is behind the camera, directing me with all the passion of a pageant mother, but luckily, he hasn’t come through in the recording.
Ambrose leans in to listen.
“Few people have heard of history’s greatest traveller,” Bree on the screen says. “But I’m going to change that. I’m Bree Mortimer, and it’s part of my job as a guide here at the Grimdale Cemetery to unearth the stories that matter from our past. And today I want to show you one of my favourite graves.”
The camera follows me as I move through the cemetery, walking along Poet’s Way, past the ornately decorated graves of London’s elite, before stopping at the unassuming grave wedged between a poet and an infamous courtesan. Edward did an amazing job. It took us a few tries because the phone kept slipping through his fingers, but I added two more pieces of moldavite to my pocket and that helped him hold the phone steady.
“This is the grave of Ambrose Hulme, who died at the age of twenty-five.” On-screen, I gesture to the grave. Ambrose sucks in a breath. He turns his head to listen better. “From a young age, Ambrose had a love for adventure, and he always wanted to see and experience the world beyond England’s green and pleasant land. He joined the Navy to fulfil his dream, but was blinded by illness before his ship made it all the way to the Americas, and was sent home as an invalid. Blind people during Ambrose’s time were objects of pity, who were considered to be a drain on the poor tax unless they could be employed in ‘useful toil’ at jobs considered appropriate for the blind – usually piano tuning, or basket- and rug-weaving. But that wasn’t the life Ambrose Hulme wanted.”
Ambrose’s long eyelids tangle together as he blinks. His mouth hangs open a little, but he doesn’t speak. The video continues playing.
“The loss of his eyesight could not tame Ambrose’s thirst for adventure. He was determined to see the world, but when it became clear that the lot of a blind person would not make that easy, he decided he would eschew what society thought best for him and put his dreams first. He worked and saved his money until he could bargain passage on a schooner, and he took off to tour Europe, Asia, and Africa on foot. With very little money and even less sight, he navigated through the world, walking on ancient sites, eating strange and delicious foods, and meeting many wonderful people who were all enchanted by this quietly courageous man on a mission to explore the world.
“Between his trips, Ambrose lived as an eccentric houseguest with the Van Wimple family at Grimwood Manor, which you can see just up the hill.” On the screen, I point in the direction of the house, and Edward shakily turns the camera to film it. “He spent his days at Grimwood writing his travel memoir. Braille hadn’t been invented yet, so Ambrose carefully formed his letters using pen and ink and a frame around his letters for a guide, like this…”
The video cuts to shots of Mina writing using a stiff cardboard frame with a string across it to define the lines of the page. Of course, I roped Mina, and Quoth into working on this project with me. They were only too happy to help, especially when Edward explained, through me, what it could mean for Ambrose.
Beside me, Ambrose has gone very stiff.
On-screen, I continue. “Ambrose’s memoirs were published in 1879. They were initially a hit, but later, the novelty of a blind traveller wore off and critics began to discredit his eloquent words by claiming a blind man couldn’t possibly write with his authority and imagination. Ambrose Hulme’s work faded into obscurity, and his book went out of print.”
Quoth had added a fade-to-black transition and some sad music that made Ambrose smile.
“Despite this, Ambrose’s yen for travel and adventure never wavered. He took his meagre book royalties and used those to fund passage to Russia, where he sought to find a passage across Siberia, only to be met with the Tsar’s soldiers. They did not believe he was a blind man who wished to see the world, and had him executed as a British spy. And there ended the life of one of the most remarkable explorers of the nineteenth century. With an active mind and a curious, energetic spirit, Ambrose had broken a record for the furthest one man had travelled around the globe on foot, and he is also one of the very first people who travelled for the sheer joy of it. I think…” On the screen, my voice wavers. “I think if he were alive today, he’d be the life of every party, and a wonderful friend.”
Ambrose sits rigid, his hands folded neatly in his lap, everything about him taut. His eyes water. He doesn’t try to blink away the tears as they pour down his cheeks.
“Join my channel for more videos about life and death at the Grimdale graveyard.” I wave at the screen. “And please spread the word about Ambrose Hulme and Grimdale Cemetery tours.”
The video loops and starts playing again. I pause it. I don’t say anything.
“Bree…what is this?” Ambrose turns toward me, his cheeks streaked with tears.
