Then he heard the sounds of heavy footfalls coming slowly, methodically down the stairs, thump, thump, one at a time. The pattern was enough for him to figure out that it was two men who were carrying some sort of burden.
Then he saw two men dressed in black emerging into the daylight, carrying a stretcher between them, and there was a body on it covered with a shroud that reached up and over the head. But James didnât have to see the body beneath it to know whose it was.
âPoor Thomas,â he muttered. It wasnât as if he was unsympathetic to the woman whose corpse was beneath the shroud, but at least her lengthy suffering was over. Thomas, though, had been left behind, with a father who was hardly the most nurturing of men. On the other hand, at least Thomas had come of age and was in command of his own future even though that future seemed to be already set as part of his fatherâs business.
As the men walked past with their burden, he said, âNo hearse?â
One of the men shrugged, and said, âBusy elsewhere, and he wanted her gone as soon as possible.â
âWhenâs the funeral?â
âAinât gonna be one,â said the other man with a look of obvious disgust. âSaid he didnât see the point in it. That theyâd all had plenty of time to mourn her while she was dying, and no point in everyone sitting around and being . . . whatâd he say?â
âLachrymose,â the first man said.
âRight. Lachrymose. We take her back to the charnel house, we burn her, and weâll be bringing back the ashes directly. No fuss. No muss.â
âAnd no big cost.â
Slowly, they both shook their heads, making no effort to hide their disdain for such a mind-set, and then continued on their way. James Skelton watched them go, scarcely knowing what to think of such a thing. Then he turned and headed into the house. Normally, he would have gone straight up to Thomasâs room, but under the circumstances, he wasnât sure what his destination should be. But then the question was quickly settled when he heard an abrupt, frustrated, and very loud, âDamnation, Thomas, not this again!â It was coming from upstairs, and James didnât hesitate to sprint up the stairs to what was, as it turned out, the study of Thomasâs father.
The man was in a fine lather, and he didnât even notice when James appeared at the door looking concerned. He was circling Thomas, who was seated in a chair in the middle of the room. It seemed like some manner of grand inquisition. âCould you possibly have picked,â he was raging, âa worse possible time toââ
â I didnât pick it!â Thomas said plaintively. â Mother brought it up! When she was talking about how Stephen died! Well, actually how I died, but . . .â
âYou died?â James spoke up, confused.
Thomas turned and saw that James was standing there, his face aghast. He wasnât the least bit embarrassed at having a witness to this confrontation. The Kirkman family had no secrets from James by this point in any of their lives. Still, he obviously felt the need to clarify the statement heâd just made. âMother, while she lay dying, got everything jumbled in her head. She thought Stephen was the one who survived the balverine attack years ago instead of me . . .â
âThere you go again! There are no such bloody things as balverines!â his father shouted. âCertainly not now, if there ever were! Theyâre from another time, another ageââ
âA better one,â Thomas shot back. âAn age of magic and wonder and heroism.â
âOh, balls, boy!â said his father with growing impatience. âWhen the hell are you going to live in the world we have rather than your world of books?â
âI need those books to keep me sane around here!â And now he was on his feet, bellowing in fury.