The Awakening. Amanda Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ in passing.” I continued to pick absently at my food as I pictured him on that third-story balcony. Memories stirred yet again but I batted them away.

      “He hasn’t tried to contact you?”

      “No.” At least not in the way she meant.

      “Doesn’t his silence tell you something? You just came through a harrowing ordeal. You were nearly murdered by a madman and he can’t be bothered to call and see if you’re all right? Does he even know what happened to you?”

      I shrugged off the question, murmuring something purposefully vague, but I knew Devlin was fully cognizant of the dangers I’d encountered during my last restoration. He had even whispered in my ear to warn me. I couldn’t explain the how or the why of it to Temple because she would ridicule the concept of an astral traveler—someone who could separate the spiritual self from the corporal body.

      My belief about Devlin’s astral wanderings stemmed from something Dr. Shaw had told me during my Seven Gates ordeal: I knew a young man once, a traveler who claimed to have looked into a hellish abyss. He was so shaken by the sight that he tried for years to convince himself what he experienced was nothing more than a nightmare. I don’t think he ever traveled again—at least not consciously. He had a fear of being trapped in such a place.

      It was possible Devlin wasn’t even aware of his ability, but it would explain so much about his younger days at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies and his subsequent rejection of all things paranormal. It would explain so much about him.

      I rubbed a hand up and down my chilled arm. “This conversation has taken a bad turn.”

      “Yes, we’ve grown morose,” Temple agreed. “Let’s talk about something else, something pleasant. Tell me about this new project of yours. You said the cemetery is local, correct?”

      I nodded and started to relax as our wineglasses were replenished and we drifted into more comfortable conversation territory. “It’s located at the end of a narrow street off Algonquin Road, practically in the shadow of Magnolia Cemetery. But Woodbine is much smaller, only a few acres. And unlike the other cemeteries in the area, it’s been badly neglected for decades. The fence is so overgrown with honeysuckle vines, you’d never know a cemetery lies behind it if not for the taller monuments.”

      “But didn’t you mention something about a caretaker?” Temple asked as she shot another glance toward the entrance.

      “That’s what I was told, but now that I’ve met him, I think that job description was greatly exaggerated. By his own admission, he doesn’t touch the graves. He’s more of a watchman. According to him, he’s there to chase away the riffraff.”

      “Which may not be a bad thing if the cemetery is as isolated as you say,” she pointed out.

      “True. But I don’t know that Prosper Lamb’s presence makes me feel a good deal safer.”

      “Prosper Lamb. What an interesting name.”

      “He’s an interesting man and he does seem to know quite a lot about the cemetery. He told me that Woodbine was once used by the well-to-do to bury their secrets. Their mistresses and bastards, people they kept on the fringes of their lives.”

      “Well, that’s a rather sleazy concept, isn’t it?” Temple’s eyes gleamed and I could tell that I’d hooked her in a way that I hadn’t been able to engage Dr. Shaw. She was itching to know more, but we both fell silent as the waiter approached and the table was cleared. We ordered after-dinner drinks—a cordial for her and a cup of tea for me. Once we were alone again, she leaned in. “Go on. I want to hear more about these buried secrets. You know how I relish the salacious.”

      “At least you admit it.” I cast a quick glance around, more out of habit than any real fear of being overheard. “Mr. Lamb said that’s the reason Woodbine has so many unnamed graves. The wealthy benefactors bought the finest monuments to commemorate the passing of their loved ones, but they wouldn’t allow their names to be inscribed in the stones. Whether any of it is true or not...who knows?” I looked up with a smile as a cup of tea was placed before me.

      “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Temple said, cradling her glass. “Image and reputation were once everything to the blue bloods in this city. People would do anything, including commit murder, to protect their status. To be honest, I’m not sure times have changed that much.”

      Dr. Shaw had said much the same thing, but I didn’t want to get into the Congé can of worms with Temple. I had no idea how to go about explaining the organization to a nonbeliever.

      “I’m inclined to agree, especially since I can’t seem to locate some of the records. If I were the suspicious type, I might think someone had purposely removed them.” I sipped the tea absently as my thoughts drifted back to the cemetery. “I ran across one of the unnamed graves the other day, that of a little girl who died at the age of two. I haven’t been able to find out who she was.”

      “Hers are the missing records?”

      I nodded. “I may be jumping to conclusions. It’s possible her birth and death were recorded in another county. But, Temple...” I paused on an inexplicable shiver. “Something about her burial won’t let me go. I know it sounds strange, but finding her grave has had a powerful effect on me.”

      “In what way?”

      “I can’t explain it, really. Maybe it’s because she died so young or because her memorial is shaped like an old-fashioned baby crib. There’s even an embedded portrait of her beneath the hood. The whole presentation haunts me.”

      “How very sad it sounds. But you know why it haunts you, don’t you? It’s our inherent fear of children.”

      “What?”

      “It’s true. We all have it. We fear their vulnerability because it forces us to face the prospect of our own mortality. If a child can die, what’s to bind the rest of us to this mortal coil?”

      “That may be profound and a bit muddled all at the same time,” I said. “I do agree that every tiny grave is affecting. This one, though—” I broke off, still trying to analyze my reaction. “It almost seems as if I have a personal connection to her. I don’t see how. She died long before I was born.” Although in my family, the impossible was never out of the question, and I labored under no delusion that all our secrets had been uncovered.

      “And there’s nothing else on the stone to identify her?”

      “Just her birth and death dates and an inscription that reads Shush... Lest She Awaken.”

      “You’ve given me goose bumps.” Temple held out her arm so that I could see her pebbled flesh in the candlelight.

      “I know. The phrasing is unsettling,” I agreed. “But sleep and rest references are common on graves, especially those of children. I mean, think about where the word cemetery comes from. Literally, dormitory or sleeping place in Greek.”

      “That doesn’t make the epitaph any less creepy.”

      “No, but it helps to put it in context. Remember, rural cemeteries were originally designed as parks where families could congregate with their children. In that context, sleep imagery was considered more appropriate for young eyes. СКАЧАТЬ