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“Phallic cucumber?”
“It’s a little deformed on one end,” I say. “It looks exactly like a cock and balls.”
“Please, that’s nothing. I saw Maggie wheeling in a basketball-sized sweet potato that’s totally shaped like a vulva. if this village didn’t want rude vegetables, it shouldn’t have created the Giant Vegetable Festival.”
“True that. But when you go in there, try not to laugh out loud, okay?”
Alice smiles. “I make no promises.”
We stand there, not saying a word, watching as Dani and Mr. Agincourt are pulled into Dad’s group. Soon they’re all laughing together.
Something brushes my arm. I look down and see Alice’s hand.
Instinctively, I take it, and squeeze.
She blinks, and I think I see a rogue tear in the corner of her eye, but then she rubs her eye and it’s gone.
“Your dad knows how much you love him,” I say to her. “Maybe not every day, but inside him is still a person who knows, and nothing that happens to him now will erase the wonderful man he is.”
“Right back at you,” she says with a sniff.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I guess we both have to remember that this might be the hardest thing we’ll have to endure in our lives. Much harder than, say, being able to see ghosts or hiding the body of a dead priest or worrying that you haven’t sent an infamous Victorian serial killer fully back to hell.”
Alice furrows her brow at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m rambling. But look at our dads – all they need is a cup of tea and a silly village festival and they’re right as rain. Hey, do you want a cucumber? They’re from Dad’s garden and they’re not as pornographic—”
“Bree!” a gruff Scandinavian voice calls behind me. “I must speak with you!”
It’s too much to hope that I might have a few moments of peace.
“Looks like you’re needed,” Alice says with a smile as she turns to see who’s calling me. “You do keep some strange company, Bree Mortimer.”
I whirl around to see a large, familiar Viking shoving his way through the crowd, an axe strapped to his back and his blond beard wild about his face. Behind Björn, Father Maxwell is practically tripping over his robes to keep up. They’re both panting as if they’ve run straight from All Souls.
Bjorn’s ice-blue eyes betray concern, but it’s Father Maxwell who really has my blood racing. He looks like shit. His eyes are bloodshot and there are cuts all over his skin and his clothing is rumpled and filthy, the collar stained with what looks suspiciously like blood.
As they near me, I notice that Father Maxwell’s eyes aren’t just bloodshot, they’rehaunted. He looks as if he’s witnessed something so horrifying that he will never be okay again.
This is not good.
“What are you doing here?” I grab the priest’s arm and drag him away from the festival, across the town green to the edge of the duck pond. Pax, Ambrose, and Edward fall away from Dad’s circle of friends and gather around me. “I thought that you’d be in danger from the Order of the Noble Death if you leave the church.”
“I am,” he mutters. “But I had to warn you. And I need your help.”
“What’s this about?”
“Remember when you asked me if there are consequences to bringing the dead back to life?” Father Maxwell closes his eyes. “Well, I’m dealing with one of those consequences right now. The Veil…it’s…”
I study the lines on his face, his wild, haunted eyes. He appears hollow, all the goodness scraped out of him. I think if I tapped him on the shoulder, he’d topple over.
“Tsk, tsk, it looks like someone has been wielding a little too much resurrection magic.”
The three witches emerge from the baking tent. Mary rubs her belly and mutters something about the scones, but Lottie and Agnes circle Father Maxwell, frowning as they inspect his dishevelled form.
“Get back, harridans,” Father Maxwell mutters, but there’s no.
“I wouldn’t call us names if you want our help, Father,” Agnes says. “And judging by the look of you, you need more than prayer to cure this ill.”
