Keira blew a breath out, crossed to the fireplace mantel, and took both the twenty dollars and the photograph. She didn’t know the picture’s significance, but it must have been important to be the only nonpractical thing she’d brought with her. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, zipped it closed, then went back to the door.
Even if I don’t go to town, I should at least check on Adage. He called Mason, which means he made it through the night alive and unharmed, but I should still say good morning. He might even be able to tell me if any of the men came back—or if it’s normal to see ghosts in his graveyard.
Keira dug her thumbs into the bridge of her nose. There was too much to think about—too much to worry about—and her mind felt dangerously close to fracturing under the pressure.
She pushed the cottage’s door open and recoiled at the gust of chilled air. Although the sun had looked bright and generous from her window, the trees blocked much of it from warming the ground, and plumes of condensation rose from Keira’s mouth when she exhaled. She slipped through the opening, shut the door to preserve the warmth for her return, and marched toward the gravestones.
The mist still hadn’t disappeared, and Keira was starting to believe it was a somewhat permanent fixture in the cemetery. A long, soot-colored stone wall marked the cemetery’s end a hundred meters ahead of her. She glanced to her left, where the ancient markers mingled with twisting trees at the forest’s edge. The sight made her uneasy. Why don’t they stop at the forest? It’s got to be the cemetery’s border, right?
She stomped her feet to get the blood moving, passed through the open gateway, and turned to her right. The overgrown dirt path led through an arrangement of flowering bushes that divided the graves from the parsonage’s gardens. She kept her pace quick and her eyes constantly moving, wary of both strangers and ethereal figures looming through the fog. Water-stained angels and grim cherubs watched her progress. She tried not to make eye contact with any of the stone figures as she crossed her arms and increased her speed.
Keira couldn’t tell if she was imagining it, but the pastor’s yard felt warmer than the cemetery. The grass was thicker and neatly cut, and she rolled her shoulders as she returned to the same door she’d beaten against the night before.
A piece of paper was attached to the wood with peeling sticky tape. Keira bent to read the damp note.
Dear Keira,
Thank you for not murdering me in my sleep last night. That was very polite of you.
I’ve gone to town to make inquiries. Your situation might require some subtlety to keep the news away from unfriendly ears, so I’ll be discreet.
I asked a young gentleman named Mason Corr to visit you today. He is a medical student, and I’m pleased to say he has a much better bedside manner than our resident doctor. Best of all, he’s free. He may be able to give some answers regarding your memory.
Let yourself in—the door is unlocked. There’s leftover stew in the kitchen. I should be back early afternoon.
Kindly yours,
J. Adage
Keira tried the door. As promised, it opened without resistance. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, closing the door again and taking down the note. “Are you trying to get robbed?”
Blighty had to be a very trusting town. Or perhaps Adage was just an exceptionally trusting person.
The offer of stew was tempting, but she couldn’t stomach the idea of taking more of his food, especially not when she had money to buy her own. She didn’t know how much a pastor earned, but judging by the secondhand furniture, it wasn’t enough to hand out favors as freely as he seemed inclined to.
Keira slipped the note under the door, where casual passersby wouldn’t see it, then turned toward the driveway leading down to the clustered houses and shops in the distance. She didn’t want to admit how much the trip frightened her. They’re probably not going to hang around town if they’re still looking for you, she reasoned. And besides, a gunman is hardly likely to shoot at you in broad daylight in front of witnesses.
Unless they’re crazy. And let’s be honest, if one person wants to shoot another, there’s a good chance at least one of them is somewhat crazy. Fingers crossed it’s not me.
Keira walked as quickly as she could without breaking into a jog. She’d hoped to get out from under the trees and absorb some of the sun, but vast oaks lined the drive. They were filled with birds she couldn’t see, and the shrill chatter seemed to welcome the clear day.
The path meandered as it wove around a narrow stream and eventually turned toward town. Keira passed through a thick copse of saplings and found herself at the road, where a large, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree read BLIGHTY CHURCH & BLIGHTY CEMETERY.
The road continued to her right as it wound into the hills and worked its way toward the next town. To her left was Blighty’s main street, bordered by shops and home businesses. Keira whistled as she gazed over them.
Blighty had a heavy emphasis on old-world charm. Most of the buildings were stone and had thatched or shingle roofs, with tall, paned windows, like something she would expect to find in a Dickens novel. The shops all had hand-painted signs hung above them, and messy fern baskets were suspended from the eaves. Keira half expected the road to be cobble and had to look down to make sure it was still asphalt. Ahead, a large fountain marked the intersection of two roads, and beyond that, groups of houses grew outward from the town center. Morning was creeping toward noon, and the streets held a smattering of shoppers. Keira joined the flow and tried to blend in.
The closest shop was a narrow florist, conveniently close to the graveyard. Passing it felt like walking through a cloud of pollen. Keira stretched to look through the window at the bouquets filling the store. A short, pince-nez-wearing woman stood behind the counter, cutting ribbons. She squinted at Keira, one eyebrow raised. Keira ducked her head and kept moving.
They’ll just think I’m a tourist. A quaint town like this must have hundreds of sightseers come through each year.
Keira tried to keep her eyes moving over her environment without drawing attention to herself. She could feel the occasional curious glance cast her way, and it sent prickles crawling up her arms and made her palms sweat. She was starting to regret venturing into public so soon.
The town’s general store occupied one of the corners that bordered the central fountain. The shop needed a new coat of paint, but the door jingled cheerfully as she opened it. Inside seemed dim after walking through the sunlight, and Keira blinked as her eyes adjusted.
The store wasn’t especially large, but it was filled with a boggling jungle of products. Boxes were stacked up to the ceiling, and shelves were so full that some were nearly overflowing. Keira took one of the wire baskets waiting beside the door and let her feet lead her into the nearest aisle.
Twenty won’t get me much, she realized as she read some of the prices. Especially as I need more than just food.
She wove through the maze until she found the personal hygiene section, then picked out the cheapest toothbrush and soap available. The shampoo was expensive, so Keira passed on it and returned to the food section while calculating how much she had left to spend. Her mouth filled with saliva as she saw a lasagna in the freezer. She made to open the door but hesitated.
Rice, her mind whispered. Potatoes. High calorie and low cost. The idea came from her subconscious, and Keira was hardly surprised. Of course Old Keira would be adept at shopping with pennies. Old Keira probably knew which were the best bushes to sleep under too. She allowed herself the indulgence of a dramatic, longing sigh, then turned away from the lasagna and went in search of the dry goods.