Chapter 1
It wasn't raining, but it should have been. In movies and on television shows whenever someone died it was raining at the funeral; and everyone was standing there in black clothes, huddled beneath black umbrellas while the rain pounded down on them and filled the dark hole beneath the casket with water, making a crappy situation that much worse.
It should have been raining.
But it never rained during funerals in Colorado. It stayed sunny. There were supposedly three hundred glorious sunny days a year in Colorado, which only left sixty-five gloomy days for people to be buried during, sixty-six if you counted leap year.
If only her dad had had the good grace to be buried on one of those rare cloudy days because today's cheerful disposition was at complete odds with the way everyone was feeling. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe it was just her feeling sad and gloomy.
Tessa Graves took her eyes off her dad's coffin and studied the people standing near her. The funeral was in the norm world, so many of her father's associates were missing. Not that he'd ever socialized with obvious cryptids outside of work. The Graves family was above that.
Maybe, Tessa thought, eyes pausing on the lean man standing beside Aunt Ollie.
He wasn't an obvious cryptid. He wasn't even classified as a cryptid. But if you knew him long enough, it became rather obvious that he was not a norm.
Doc Holliday. The only mortal immortal. Once a family friend, but no longer, so she wasn't sure why he was here. And she wasn't sure why Aunt Ollie was holding onto his arm. He had left them, not the other way around.
Tessa glared at them, irritated by the way Doc was touching Aunt Ollie. Ollie was too old for Doc now. She was over fifty, and Doc still looked thirty. He always looked thirty. He'd looked thirty when he had attended her stuffed animal tea parties when she was seven, and he had looked thirty when he'd kicked her off his case and slammed the door in her face a year or so ago, and he looked thirty now. He never changed.
How annoying, Tessa thought irritably.
Her father had grown older every single year. His hair had turned grey. He had started collecting wrinkles. He had even used a cane to walk. The doctor said he'd died of a weak heart, but how could a man like Virgil Graves have a weak heart? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense anymore.
Tessa growled softly, irritated at everything. Why was Ollie whispering in Doc's ear when she should have been paying attention to the minister's sermon? Why was Grandma Gisele scribbling away in her stupid notebook? Why were so many people yawning? Didn't any of them care? Didn't they care that Virgil was dead?
Magnus was the only other person who looked upset. But he always looked upset, so Tessa wasn't even sure if he was upset about Virgil or if that was just his face.
"I hate this," she muttered. "It's stupid."
Only she knew her dad had expected it, wanted it. He'd listed the particulars in his will; he'd specified the gravestone and the flowers and the sermon. If he was a ghost, which she hoped he wasn't, he was probably watching right now, counting everyone just to make
sure there was a good turnout. He'd be disappointed though, because there were a lot of empty chairs.
Virgil Graves was a highly respected investigator. Everyone who was anyone within the Hidden brought their cases to him. He had the best track record in the business. You brought a case to him, and he solved it. That was his promise, and he always delivered.
But even though Virgil was a highly respected investigator, it turned out that he wasn't really anybody's friend. Or nobody was his friend. Tessa wasn't sure. She had expected flowers and cards when he had died last week. Loads of them. Instead, she'd gotten phone calls asking about cases. So long as Graves, Graves, and Graves was still in business, the passing of the senior Graves didn't bother anyone.
Except her.
A bead of sweat rolled down her back, and she glared up at the bright blue sky. "Just one freaking cloud," she hissed. "Is that too much to ask?"
"Talking to yourself again, dear?" Grandma murmured. "Men don't find that attractive, you know."
"I don't care what men find attractive," Tessa whispered. "Why aren't you paying attention?"
"I've heard it all before," Grandma said, tone a little bored. "He goes to a better place, we'll all miss him, blah, blah, blah. We would've been better off giving his body to the Worms. It would have been cheaper too. That headstone he wanted costs us a pretty penny. Have you ever seen anything so ludicrous?"
"Hush," Tessa hissed. "The minister is talking."
"A minister!" Grandma snorted. "At a Graves' funeral. The very idea! Virgil must have gone soft in the head."
"Grandma!"
"Sorry, dear."
Grandma wasn't sorry though. She was never sorry. Which was why she lived out in the country and not in the townhouse. The townhouse wasn't big enough for both Grandma and Dad. Except Dad was gone now, and it was just Tessa. Just one Graves. There was no Graves, Graves, and Graves. Just Graves.
Another bead of sweat. Aunt Ollie actually laughed out loud. Grandma was still scribbling in her notebook. Magnus had fallen asleep, and five of the attendees had already slipped away.
Why did nobody care?
She wanted to scream, but she was Virgil Graves's daughter. He wouldn't want her to scream at his funeral, so she wouldn't. She bit her lip and listened to every word the minister said, trying not to notice that Grandma had nailed it.
The end finally came, and everyone walked away. Even Grandma left. And Aunt Ollie. And Magnus. Nobody even bothered to do the dirt thing.
It was just Tessa.
Tessa and Doc.
"Why are you here?" she demanded, pissed that of all the attendees he was the only person who had bothered to stay.
"Because Ollie asked me to come," he said easily.
There was only the slightest hint of Southern accent to his words; so slight that no one else would have noticed it, but somehow she knew that he could turn it on at will. How did she know that? She couldn't remember, but she could hear it in her mind.
"Why did she ask you?" she demanded, putting as much venom into the word "you" as she could. Trying to remind herself that she didn't like him; she hated him.
"Because I hate funerals even more than she does."
"Then why did you come?"
"For Ollie," he said.
She despised the patient, steady nature of his tone, and she fought the urge to kick him in the shin.
She studied him from the corner of her eye for a moment, cataloguing him, just because she couldn't help herself. He was wearing a fitted suit with a vest, just like always, and it did nothing to hide his natural litheness. He managed to look solemn, even if he didn't look sad, and it irritated her. He was always so polite, always so kind.
She suddenly felt like they'd been here before. Standing at the edge of a grave. Looking down at it. She tried to focus on the
feeling, and a strange urge took hold of her, making her want to reach out and grasp his hand. She wanted the comfort of it; she remembered the comfort of it. She shook her head; Doc was not a comfort; he was a cad.
"Ollie's too old for you," she spat, trying to dispel the warmth of the moment.
Doc laughed.
And that's when it decided to rain.
Not a real rain though. Just one of those crappy rains where you think it's actually going to rain but all it does is get everything dirty.
Tessa was really not in the mood for that kind of rain right now.
"Ollie's gone," she growled. "Why are you still here?"
"There's something I wanted to tell you, if you'll listen," he said. He bent and grabbed a fistful of dirt. She hated him for it. She hated that he was the only person who had bothered to throw dirt onto her dad's coffin.
"Death isn't real, Tessa," he said earnestly as he tossed the dirt onto the embossed coffin lid. "Virgil's not dead; he just changed shapes is all."
"He is not a ghost," she said emphatically.
"That's not what I mean," he replied, shaking his head ruefully. "If you ever need anything," he added, "you know where to find me."
With that, he turned and left.
"You know where to find me," Tessa mocked quietly. "Even if I didn't know, I could still find you," she hissed. "Because that's what I do."
She sighed, irritated at herself. Irritated at the sun that was still shining even though splatters of rain were doing their best to wash the dirt off her dad's coffin.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she said softly.
She didn't really know why she was sorry; she just was. She was sorry no one else seemed to care. She was sorry it wasn't raining, not really. Ten drops didn't count as rain in the grand scheme of things. She was sorry the engravers hadn't included quite as much filigree as she'd asked for. There was a lot to be sorry for.
She picked up a clump of dirt and sprinkled it over his coffin. She was going to miss him. Apparently, she was the only one who was going to miss him. Except maybe Magnus.
For the first time in years, she didn't know what to do. She was now the lead investigator of Graves, Graves, and Graves, and she didn't want to be.
Her phone vibrated. She ignored it, but her mind didn't. What if it was about a case? Her dad would understand her answering the phone at his funeral if it was about a case. What he wouldn't understand was if she didn't answer the phone. Virgil was a business man first. Everything else came second.
She glanced back at the empty chairs, an uneasy feeling crawling up her spine. She hated to think that there was a reason no one cared. She hated to think that Virgil was the problem, not everyone else.
No. She refused to believe that. They just didn't understand him. Not like she did. There was nothing as thrilling as a new investigation, nothing as thrilling as discovering a fresh lead. They had had that in common. And sure, sometimes it was all-consuming. Tessa had botched almost every date she'd ever been on because she was thinking about a case. Her dad had understood that. They had understood each other.
She glanced sideways at her mom's gravestone, frowning when she saw that her dad's gravestone was so large it actually cast her mom's into shadow. Then she snorted, annoyed at herself for even noticing it, not that she could turn that part of her brain off; she wished that she could.
She wished she could stop counting people. She wished she could stop noting the color of the clothes they were wearing. Doc had been wearing a blue suit. The shade had been nowhere close to black. Most of the people here today hadn't been wearing black, and she had mentally filed away that offense, just in case.
She shook her head in frustration. This is exactly what she meant. Not wearing black didn't mean they didn't care, just like Virgil's humongous gravestone wasn't a sign or an indication of her dad's feelings about her mom or anyone else. Virgil was dead. He didn't
have feelings anymore. And Mom was dead. They were dead together. The first Graves to be buried in a norm cemetery in over two hundred years.
Which shouldn't have been that odd since they were norms, and that's what norms did. Buried people in cemeteries. Especially norms who lived outside of the Hidden.
Tessa had never really understood why they didn't live in the Hidden. It would have made more sense. After all, they didn't take cases from norms. That was the entire purpose of the sign. Graves, Graves, and Graves, Hunc Quaesitorem. Norms would see the sign and keep walking. Cryptids would see the sign and know that this was an investigative firm that catered to cryptids. But if they had lived in the Hidden, they wouldn't have needed to bother with subterfuge.
Virgil had once explained why they didn't live in the Hidden. He'd said that, like the witches, the Graves were far too important to be confined to the Hidden. Tessa had wanted to argue with him. She had wanted to say that if they were really that important, their clients would always come to them, not the other way around. But he'd used that tone. The tone he used when he wasn't in the mood to be argued with.
Her phone beeped again. This time, she pulled it out, keyed in her code, and glared at the screen, impatiently reading the text message from Tony.
"Found the kid, boss, now what?"
Tessa sighed heavily. She hated being the boss. How could Tony not know what to do now? The kid had been missing, Tony had found him, now he needed to return him to his parents. Easy. Child's play, really.
This is why her dad had had a weak heart. Because he'd been the boss, and he'd had to deal with complete and total idiots day in and day out.
"Return him to his parents," Tessa typed quickly, trying not to take out her anger on her phone. It didn't deserve to be stabbed to death just because Tony was an idiot.
She put away her phone with a sigh and turned back to talk to her dad. There were several men watching her now, waiting.
"Can I just have a second?" she asked.
"Sure, lady, but we get off at five, and it's already four. If you want 'im buried proper, you might wanna hurry."
Could this day suck anymore? She didn't see how. In fact, if the earth opened up and she was suddenly swallowed by a gigantic worm with teeth, she'd only consider it an improvement.
"Bye, Dad," she said, mentally crumpling up the speech she'd been going to give him and throwing it away. She couldn't say all that stuff with a bunch of strangers watching her. Besides, he was dead; he couldn't hear her anymore. If she had wanted to tell him how much she loved him and how much she was going to miss him, she should have done it before he died.
She tossed the wilted flowers she was holding onto the casket lid and walked off.
It was the end of an era. Virgil Graves was dead. Soon to be buried. There were only three Graves left. Grandma, Aunt Ollie, and Tessa. But only one of them was an investigator. Tessa was going to have to change the sign. Or give into Grandma's demands, get married to some undetermined hunk, and pop out two point five kids. Tessa cringed. She'd change the sign.
Her car was still where she'd parked it earlier, which wasn't surprising except Aunt Ollie had ridden with her, and she was nowhere to be seen.
Tessa cringed again, trying not to imagine Doc and Ollie "arguing", as Grandma had called it when Tessa was a kid, in some dark corner. Ollie was way too old for Doc. Except Doc was nearly two hundred years old, so maybe he was too old for Ollie. Either way, the thought of the two of them together sickened her.
Never mind that if she'd had the chance to "argue" with Doc a couple of years ago, she would have happily taken it. That was before he'd slammed the door in her face. And fired her firm. Twice.
Sleeping with Doc now would be like sleeping with the enemy. Ollie should know better. Tessa certainly did.
But Ollie wasn't like her. Ollie was flighty. Ollie didn't care about the Graves name or the stain that sleeping with the enemy would put on it. There was no point trying to change her though. Virgil had tried often enough, and it had never made a difference. Ollie continued to be Ollie.
Tessa sighed as she climbed into her classic green Challenger. Virgil had always said it was impossible to change people once they had set in their heels, and Tessa believed him. Ollie would never change.
Ollie wasn't her problem though. Graves, Graves, and Graves was; and now that the funeral was over, there was nothing left to do except get back to work. And getting back to work meant that it was time to start looking through her dad's paperwork.
Virgil and Tessa had split the case load years ago. She handled her cases, and he handled his. Or one of his four investigators handled his. Tessa could have hired some help for herself, but she liked to work alone.
As a rule, she didn't pay much attention to Virgil's cases unless he involved her, which he rarely did. But now that Virgil was dead, all the cases were hers; and she needed to know exactly what her investigators were working on and what they were doing. Besides being stupid.
She read through each of the files, noting what needed to be done, who needed to be called, and which investigators she needed to yell at. And then, she went through the files again. Looking for the file that wasn't there.
She was certain that Virgil had recently taken on a case for the Cadwel family. She knew that because he and Mr. Cadwel had met not very long ago. The Cadwel case file wasn't here though. Which didn't make sense because Virgil was rigid about his filing system. It didn't matter if he was just looking for a lost dog, there would be a file on it. So the Cadwel file had to be here somewhere.
As she combed through his office once more, she wondered if she had it all wrong. Maybe Virgil and Mr. Cadwel had just been having tea and chatting about the weather or the stock market. But then
she remembered all those empty chairs at Virgil's funeral. Their meeting had definitely been business.
"Magnus!" she yelled.
Magnus didn't hurry. Magnus never hurried. The house could have been on fire, and Magnus would have calmly collected the silver before leaving in a very sedate manner. Just one more reason why Tessa hated this day. She was now responsible for Magnus.
"Magnus!" she yelled again, trying to inject a note of command.
"Yes, Ms. Graves?" he said from the doorway of Virgil's office.
"Do you know where Dad's other case files are?"
"Other case files, miss?"
"Don't play dumb with me!" she snapped.
With Magnus, she was better off playing like she knew more than she actually did. She was certain there was at least one missing case file, but she didn't know if there were any others.
Magnus stared at her for nearly a minute. She stared right back at him. Sooner or later he would have to accept that Virgil was dead and she was now in charge.
At least she hoped he would accept it.
He raised an eyebrow, and she nearly broke and just told him she wanted the Cadwel file, but she didn't. She forced all her anger at all those people wearing cheerful colors to Virgil's funeral into her eyes and continued to stare at him. He switched eyebrows. She lowered hers. He sighed.
She tried not to smile, but she knew she'd won.
"I'm not sure of the wisdom of this," he muttered. "But you are the last Graves."
"I am," she said sternly.
"I don't count your aunt," he said with derision. "She's too flighty to be a Graves."
Tessa didn't bother to defend Ollie. She was flighty.
"And your grandmother isn't a true Graves; she married in."
Also true.
"You are the final Graves."
She wished he'd stop repeating it. It made her feel a little lonely. And worried. If she died, the Graves line was done. Maybe she
should marry a hunk. He'd just have to take her last name instead of the other way around, like men marrying into the prestigious Jury family were forced to do.
She couldn't say she hated the idea, but it wouldn't help her with Magnus. And furthermore, just the thought of bringing a kid into a house with Magnus made her cringe a little. She'd just have to make sure she didn't die.
Magnus pulled a key from his vest pocket and walked slowly over to the end of Virgil's bookshelf. With all the speed of a glacier, he moved a book about the English countryside, revealing a small lock.
Tessa's heart began to hammer. It didn't surprise her that her dad had a hidden safe. It did surprise her that she didn't know about it. She was his heir, after all, his partner.
What else hadn't he told her?
She brushed that thought from her mind as soon as it entered and watched as Magnus inserted the key and turned it. The entire bookshelf, except the part with the key, slid into the floor, revealing a small room and two large wooden filing cabinets.
The day had just graduated from crappy to really crappy. There were a lot of cases in there. A lot of cases that Virgil had never told her about. And why? Why hadn't he told her about them?
"Alphabetical?" she inquired softly.
"Of course," Magnus replied. "You should probably know that if anyone besides me or you tries to open it..."
He didn't go on. She didn't need him to. She knew exactly what would happen.
"Are you sure I can open it?" she asked sternly.
"Of course I'm sure," he said.
He handed her the key, turned, and left the office.
She frowned after him. If she couldn't open it, Graves, Graves, and Graves was finished because she'd be nothing more than a wisp of ash on the carpet.
"Mental note to self," she murmured. "Hire a witch to check the spell."
But she'd do that tomorrow. Today she was looking for the Cadwel case.
Her legs didn't want to move forward, but she forced them to. Her hand was trembling, and she didn't know why. They were just folders. Probably Virgil's past cases. Probably he just didn't want them cluttering up his office. That was all. And he hadn't told her because the cases were closed. There was really no need to tell her. That was it.
With that shoddy deduction, she almost turned around and walked out. But she didn't. She took the final step and reached out her shaking hand to open the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets. She flipped carefully through them, recognizing most of the names, but not finding Cadwel. She opened the next drawer. Cadwel. Right at the front.
She pulled the file free. She opened it. She read the first line. "Shit," she hissed.
It wasn't raining outside, but it was sure as hell pouring in here. Her dad was a liar. Virgil Graves was a liar. Nobody was at his funeral because they all knew. Everyone knew but her. She was a fool. She was the very last Graves, and she was a goddamn fool.
Chapter 2
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Tessa muttered as she dropped her head onto the wooden bar top.
Something squished under her forehead, but she figured it was the least she deserved for being such a goddamn idiot.
"Um... Can I get you something?" a voice asked rather hesitantly.
"Troll whiskey," Tessa said, not even bothering to lift her head.
"Well... But... Um... You're not a troll," the bartender replied.
"So?" Tessa snapped.
"It's just that you're, well, you're a girl, a human girl, and I've never seen a girl drink troll whiskey. You sure you can handle it?"
Tessa lifted her head and glared at the thin wood devil who was pretending to be a bartender. He shrugged sheepishly.
"Are you not clear on how this works?" Tessa ground out. "You stand behind the counter and when people come up to this side of the counter and say I'd like such and such, you give it to them. That's your job."
"It's just—"
"It's just nothing," Tessa broke in. "You're a bartender; I'm a customer, and I want some goddamn troll whiskey!"
He shrugged one thorny shoulder and turned around. Tessa dropped her sticky forehead back into the sticky puddle.
"And I call myself an investigator," she murmured. "Full partner by twenty-three. He was probably laughing at me the entire time. How could I be so goddamn dumb?"
"Here you go," the bartender said.
"Leave the bottle," Tessa ordered.
"Now, miss—"
"Leave the frigging bottle," Tessa snarled.
"Whatever you want, lady. Just don't blame me when you wake up somewhere you don't wanna be."
She lifted her head again, downed the shot glass in one drink, refilled it, drank it, stuck out her tongue at him, and dropped her head to the bar once more.
She didn't blame him for trying to stop her; she just wasn't in the mood to listen. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself to appreciate anyone looking out for her. And he didn't need to look out for her. She might be a lousy investigator, but she could handle her whiskey.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered.
"Bad day?" a deep voice rumbled.
"Go away," Tessa sighed. "I'm not in the mood."
"I was just going to offer a sympathetic ear. I figure any human who can drink troll whiskey without so much as blinking must be alright."
"Ha!" Tessa laughed. "I'm not alright at all! I'm a failure. I'm a disgrace. I'm the stupidest person alive."
"That's a bit harsh," he replied.
"If only you knew."
"You going to drink that whole bottle?"
"Help yourself," Tessa said.
She'd only told the bartender to leave it because she was trying to annoy him. She could only drink two, maybe three more shots before she started seeing double.
"May I have the honor of knowing whom I'm drinking with?" her inquisitive neighbor asked.
She sighed once more. She really wasn't in the mood. And besides, she could tell from his voice and the slight crunching noise
he'd made when he'd first approached her that he was a troll. She might drink troll whiskey, but she didn't get along with trolls. Never had. Ever since her dad had told her...
Fuck it.
She lifted her head, poured herself another shot, drank it, then turned to look at him. He was a troll all right. One of the north Asian lines; probably his family had come over from Siberia at some point. She could tell because his scales were a very light grey. European trolls had brown scales.
He was watching her with some amusement; trolls weren't much for facial expressions, but she could see the bright glint of humor in his eyes.
She snatched a napkin from the bar and wiped the unknown sticky substance from her forehead before offering her hand and saying, "Tessa; Tessa Graves."
"Curtis Nash," he replied as he shook her hand. He poured himself a drink, then asked, "As in Graves, Graves, and Graves?"
"Just Graves now," she said. "Just me. One Graves. One lonely Graves."
"I did hear that Mr. Graves had recently passed. I'm sorry for your loss."
"I'm not!" she spat. "In fact, I'm thinking about digging him up and kicking his ass!"
One of the scales near his eye rose, almost like an eyebrow, and he said, "You didn't get along with him?"
"Oh sure!" Tessa snorted. "I thought I did anyway. Turns out I didn't even know him."
The troll whiskey was making her a little loose-lipped. She certainly didn't want to go around the Hidden blabbing about Virgil Grave's secret cases. It would ruin her. It would ruin Graves, Graves, and Graves. It would destroy the Graves family's prestigious reputation.
She grinned. Payback was a bitch.
Her grin faded as she realized that Virgil would never know. He would never know that she destroyed his reputation. He would never
turn red with anger at her carelessness. He would never fire her or cast her out of the house. He was dead. He wasn't even a ghost. It was too bad he wasn't. If he was, she'd link him to her and force him to follow her around while she told everyone what a two-faced liar he was. But he wasn't a ghost. So the only one she would destroy would be herself.
"Shit," she sighed.
And she dropped her head back onto the bar top.
Curtis didn't say anything for a while. But he didn't leave either. He just sat there beside her. She could feel him. He filled his glass again. He drank it. She wasn't sure why he was staying; she wanted him to leave, and people usually did what she wanted them to. Eventually.
She'd wait him out.
Except her head was starting to hurt from all the times she'd dropped it onto the bar.
She sat upright and cleaned off her forehead once more. She was afraid it would never be completely unsticky; bar stick was the worst. It never came off your shoes or your clothes or your forehead. But at least it wasn't glistening any more. She ran her hand over the spot and sighed heavily. She hated today. If she got run over by a bus tomorrow morning, it would still rank higher than today.
"If you pour a little whiskey on the napkin, it'll clean you right up," Curtis offered.
Since she didn't want to walk around all day with bits of napkin stuck to her forehead, she followed his advice.
"Why are you still here?" she demanded when she was certain her forehead was free of debris.
"You've had two shots of troll whiskey, and you're still standing," he said easily. "You're just a wee thing too; I've seen ogres drink one and fall to the floor."
"Hope the bar had insurance," Tessa muttered.
Curtis laughed. It was a deep rumbling laugh. Tessa wanted to hate it because it was a troll laugh, and Graves did not associate with trolls. It just wasn't done. Of course, Graves didn't hang out in
Hidden bars either. If Virgil wanted to drink outside of the home, he would have gone to his club to do it.
Tessa hadn't been invited to the club. And even if she had been, she preferred Hidden bars. They weren't as stuffy and no one ever asked you questions. Except today. Today was conspiring against her. Normally, she just sat in the corner and watched as creatures came and went.
She was absolutely fascinated by the secret home of cryptid species, the Hidden. She had been fascinated by it ever since she was a little girl, ever since Doc had told her how there were hidden buildings inside norm buildings.
When she'd asked him how they did it and how come no one noticed, he'd gotten a serious expression on his face and said solemnly, "Magic."
And ever since that moment she'd waited, a little breathlessly at times, to see that magic. To watch it in action. And was severely disappointed.
Witches did not perform magic at request or in public. She had never once seen someone shield a building so that norms couldn't see it. She had not seen a witch build one of the special doorways that connected all the Hidden neighborhoods. The closest she'd ever gotten to magic was when she'd received her sight at the age of eighteen.
Another disappointment.
"Close your eyes," the giver had said.
Tessa had closed her eyes. She felt nothing, heard nothing, and noticed no change.
"Done," the giver said.
That was it. That was all that it took to be able to see the Hidden entrances that connected the norm portion of Denver to the Hidden portion of Denver. You closed your eyes, some witch did something you couldn't see, and there you have it. Done.
Life was full of disappointments. Like finding out that your dad was a liar. Worse, a liar and a horrible person.
"Fight the urge," Curtis suddenly said.
"What urge?" Tessa snapped.
"To bang your head on the bar. I imagine you're getting a headache by now, and the bar's still sticky."
"You come to Hidden bars, you get sticky bar tops," Tessa said angrily.
"I haven't ever been to a norm bar," he replied. "But I imagine they're sticky too."
"Whatever," Tessa grumbled.
Why wouldn't he just leave her alone? She didn't want to leave yet. There was nothing out there for her but lies. She wanted to stay in here forever. She suddenly felt so young. And so tired.
"Why do people lie?" she asked.
Her tone was desperate, and she knew it, but what did it matter? He was just a troll.
"If I could answer that question, I probably wouldn't be sitting here."
A spark flared inside Tessa, and she tried to ignore it. She wasn't interested. She didn't care. And besides, she was a crappy investigator. Probably one of the worst who had ever lived.
But her investigator mind got a hold of her mouth and said, "Why are you here?"
"Curious?" he chuckled. "About a troll?"
She felt her cheeks start to blush and pinched her leg. The blood fled from her cheeks, and she smiled blandly at him. "I'm curious about all sorts of things. Even trolls."
"I'll answer your question if you answer one for me."
"Sure," Tessa shrugged.
"How the hell can you drink so much troll whiskey?"
"My Aunt Ollie smuggled me a bottle for my eighteenth birthday."
"And?" he prodded.
"I used a thimble to build up a tolerance."
His laughter boomed through the bar, but everyone else was too full of their own sorrows to bother glancing their way.
"A thimble!" Curtis laughed. "I love it!"
"It took me a long time," Tessa admitted. "Your turn."
Curtis chuckled for a moment longer, but then his eyes grew sober, and he said softly, "I'm having trouble adjusting."
"To what?"
"Life," he said, gesturing with one large hand around the room.
"You're being vague," Tessa accused.
"I am," he murmured. "About seventy years ago I was locked away in Blackwater."
Tessa felt the blood leave her face.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "I am the worst investigator ever. You're Captain Curtis Nash?"
The scale above his eye rose again, and he nodded.
She didn't drop her head onto the bar top like she wanted to. Mostly because if she did, it would make it easier for him to squash her head into pieces with his mighty hand.
She'd spent the better part of the last three days going through Virgil's secret folders. And what she'd found there made her absolutely sick. And furious. But mostly sick. Because her dad had not been a good man. And neither had her grandfather. Every single Graves of Graves, Graves, and Graves had been evil; and she imagined there was another secret room somewhere, and she imagined it was filled with even more secret files. The cases of her great grandfather and her great-great grandfather, and so on.
But in the room she could access, there was a file on Curtis Nash. Troll. And he was sitting right here, behaving like a friend, when he had every reason to hate her because seventy years ago her grandfather had been instrumental in Curtis's capture and incarceration.
In Blackwater. The witches' private, non-sanctioned prison. Inside the grey space, which was a nothing space on top of reality. Prisoners inside Blackwater just sat there. Isolated. Not aging, not eating, not sleeping, just sitting, staring at nothing. Some for over two hundred years. Right up until Doc Holliday had found it and released them all. Doc had released Curtis Nash, and here he was. Watching her with those eerie blue eyes of his.
Tessa didn't ever feel sorry for people who broke the law and were locked away for it. Virgil had long ago told her that no matter what anyone said, life was black and white. There was the law, and there
were people on the other side of the law. But Virgil had lied. Just like he'd lied about everything.
Curtis Nash hadn't deserved to be locked away in a grey space for seventy years, just sitting there in the silence, mind struggling to stay sane. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd been a Magistratus captain, leader of one of the Hidden law enforcement units; and all he'd done was refuse to enforce the tetrarch's new law regarding seizure of all magical artifacts. He wasn't a villain. He probably wasn't even a bad guy. Even if he was a troll.
"I'm sorry," Tessa said.
"For what?"
"My grandfather helped lock you away."
"Did he?" Curtis replied evenly, face staying exactly the same. "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. The Graves are very careful to keep their hands clean. I'm sorry."
"You're not your grandfather."
"Same blood," she muttered.
"Not the same person though."
"How do you know?"
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"My dad died, I inherited Graves, Graves, and Graves, including the secret cases that he hid from me. Turns out he was a horrible person. How could I not know he was a horrible person?"
"Sometimes it's hard to see the people closest to us for what they really are," he replied.
"That's the understatement of the year," she muttered.
He smiled, revealing a row of stone teeth and said, "So tell me, Tessa Graves, what do you intend to do about it?"
She stared at him in confusion. Finally she said, "Do about what?"
"Your father used his agency for evil. What do you plan to do?"
Tessa couldn't say. Obviously, she wasn't going to be evil, but could she continue? Could she be Graves, Graves, and Graves even knowing what they had done over the years?
"I don't know," she murmured.
"You may want to figure it out," he suggested.
She growled softly and retorted, "You may want to figure out how to adjust."
"That's very true," he said, smiling once more.
She humphed in irritation. She'd rather he argued with her. She was in the mood to argue. She was in the mood for a good bar brawl with a troll that her grandfather had locked away. She gave him a good once over, noting his sharp scales and mass, and snorted in laughter, because apparently, she was in the mood to die.
"I'm staying in the four hundred block if you ever need to talk," Curtis said.
He drank another shot of whiskey, gestured for the bartender to come over, said "she's paying", and turned to leave.
"Worst day ever," Tessa grumbled as she handed the bartender a golden merlin. "Keep the change."
"Are you sure?" he said. "That's way too much."
"Do me a favor and actually clean the bar top," she said.
She hopped off the stool and headed towards the exit. She'd had her moment of despondency, and whether or not she would admit it to his face, Curtis the troll was right. She needed to figure out what she was going to do.
Chapter 3
Tessa slammed the back door just to annoy Magnus and started stomping towards the kitchen. Then she stopped cold and sniffed.
"Crap," she hissed as she adjusted her path and headed towards the sitting room instead, following the trail of exotic perfume. "What are you guys doing here?" she demanded from the doorway.
Grandma Gisele glanced up from her notebook, innocent look on her barely wrinkled face, and said, "Whatever do you mean, dear?"
"I mean, WHAT are you guys doing here?"
"We came to check on you," Aunt Ollie replied.
Tessa shot her a narrow glance. She hadn't seen either of them since the funeral three days ago, and she had assumed they'd gone home. To the country. Where they belonged.
"Did you have fun with Doc?" Tessa asked, edge to her voice.
"I did," Aunt Ollie replied.
Ollie was grinning the same way she had all those years ago when she'd slipped Tessa the troll whiskey. Back then, Tessa had felt included in a conspiracy and had grinned back. That had been before she'd really understood how flighty Ollie was and how much trouble she could bring to the Graves name. Dad had always said...
"Oh hell," Tessa muttered.
She was suddenly very, very tired. More tired than she'd ever been in her entire life. It was a massive chore just to walk across the room and flop onto the couch.
"Worst week ever," she murmured as she laid back her head and closed her eyes.
Maybe. Maybe there was a week in there where her dad had brainwashed her to believe every word he said. Maybe there was a week in there where he had sent her to live with a hypnotist.
She sat upright, horror filling her. "He wouldn't have, would he have?"
"What, dear?" Grandma asked. "And if you're speaking of Virgil, the answer is yes."
"Why?" Tessa demanded. "Why is the answer yes?"
"Because he had no principles, dear, surely you realize that."
"No!" Tessa yelled. "No, I did not realize that! Not until Magnus opened the goddamn wall and revealed all of Dad's secret files! How could you not... How could everyone else... How could I not know?"
Ollie and Grandma just looked at her, twin expressions of sympathy on their faces.
"Don't look at me like that!" Tessa snapped. "I'm exhausted, and my whole world... Everything... It's just falling down around me," she whispered, horrified to feel tears welling in her eyes.
She didn't cry. Not ever. She refused to cry. She blinked rapidly, trying to push them back; and when that didn't work, she pinched her leg. The pain distracted her, and her tears dried up.
"Men love to rescue a damsel in distress," Grandma pointed out. "This would be the perfect time to find you a nice hunk of muscles and man flesh."
"Grandma!" Tessa gasped, tears completely forgotten.
A pained look briefly crossed Grandma's face, and she said, "Now that you're grown, dear, I really would prefer it if you called me Gisele. I'm aging rather gracefully, and I'd rather you not spoil it for me if I'm about to get laid."
"Grandma!" Tessa nearly screamed.
"What? Just because I'm mature I shouldn't have fun?"
"I don't care what you do!" Tessa blurted out. "I just don't want to hear about it."
"When was the last time you had a good lay?" Grandma asked seriously.
All the blood rushed to Tessa's cheeks, and there was nothing she could do about it.
"I'll call you Gisele if we can never have this conversation again!" Tessa promised.
"Suit yourself," Grandma said with a shrug. "I'm just saying it might be good for you."
Tessa fought the urge to stick her fingers in her ears and chant "I'm not listening". She was too old for such antics.
"Look how relaxed Ollie is," Grandma went on. "You never look that relaxed."
"That's because I work!" Tessa spat.
Now they were looking at her with twin looks of hurt.
"I'm sorry," Tessa muttered. "My dad was totally evil and I didn't know it. And I have to deal with his employees now, and I hate having employees. I'm just having a rough time, but I didn't mean to take it out on you."
"Since we're airing dirty laundry," Ollie said softly. "Virgil didn't allow us to work."
"What do you mean didn't allow you?" Tessa asked.
"He wouldn't allow us to work," Gisele said. "He said Graves women shouldn't work, especially women like us. Although, to be completely fair, he was just carrying on the tradition that your grandfather and his father and so on and so forth had already set in place."
Tessa was so confused.
"But you're an author," she insisted. "That's work."
"Virgil considered it a hobby, dear."
"But I work. I worked with him."
The looks were sympathetic once more, and it made Tessa want to scream in frustration.
"Yes, you did," Ollie said carefully.
"What?!" Tessa demanded. "Just tell me!"
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advanced on all sides from the plantations, and nothing but a small open space divided the people from each other, Sir George directed them to halt, and, after thanking them for what they had done, he requested them to rest themselves on the grass till refreshments could be brought from the Hermitage, after partaking of which they had best move homewards, as it seemed in vain to attempt anything more till next day. He then took leave of them, and hurried home to the Hermitage, from whence a number of people were soon seen returning with the promised refreshments.
Having finished what was set before them, and sufficiently rested themselves, most of them departed, having first declared their readiness to turn out the moment they were wanted. But when his friends proposed to David Williams his returning home, he resolutely refused, declaring his determination to continue his search the whole night; and the poor man’s distress seemed so great, that a number of the people agreed to accompany him. Robert, on being applied to, furnished them, from the Hermitage, with a quantity of torches and lanterns; and the people themselves, having got others from the cottages in the neighbourhood, divided into bands, and, fixing on John Maxwell’s house for intelligence to be sent to, parted in different ways on their search.
At first all were extremely active, and no place the least suspicious was passed by; but as the night advanced their exertions evidently flagged, and many of them began to whisper to each other that it was in vain to expect doing any good in the midst of darkness; and, as the idea gained ground, the people gradually separated from each other, and returned to their homes, promising to be ready early in the morning to renew the search.
“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell, “let’s be gaun on.”
“No to my house,” cried David;—“not to my ain house. I canna face Matty, and them no found yet.”
“Aweel, then,” said John, “suppose ye gang hame wi’ me, and fling yersel down for a wee; an’ then we’ll be ready to start again at gray daylight.”
“An’ what will Matty think in the meantime?” answered David. “But gang on, gang on, however,” he added, “an’ I’se follow ye.”
John Maxwell, glad that he had got him this length, now led the way, occasionally making a remark to David, which was very briefly answered, so that John, seeing him in that mood, gave up speaking to him, till, coming at length to a bad step, and warning David of it, to which he got no answer, he hastily turned round and found that he was gone. He immediately went back, calling to David as loud as he could, but all to no purpose. It then occurred to him that David had probably changed his mind, and had gone homewards; and, at any rate, if he had taken another direction, that it was in vain for him to attempt following him, the light he carried being now nearly burnt out. He therefore made the best of his way to his own house.
In the meantime, poor David Williams, who could neither endure the thought of going to his own house nor to his brother-in-law’s, and had purposely given him the slip, continued to wander up and down without well knowing where he was, or where he was going to, when he suddenly found himself, on coming out of the wood, close to the cottage inhabited by a widow named Elie Anderson.
“I wad gie the world for a drink o’ water,” said he to himself; “but the puir creature will hae lain down lang syne, an’ I’m sweer to disturb her;” and as he said this, he listened at the door, and tried to see in at the window, but he could neither see nor hear anything, and was turning to go away, when he thought he saw something like the reflection of a light from a hole in the wall, on a tree which was opposite. It was too high for him to get at it without something to stand upon; but after searching about, he got part of an old hencoop, and placing it to the side of the house, he mounted quietly on it. He now applied his eye to the hole where the light came through, and the first sight which met his horrified gaze was the body of his eldest daughter, lying on a table quite dead,—a large incision down her breast, and another across it!
David Williams could not tell how he forced his way into the house; but he remembered bolts and bars crashing before him,—his seizing Elie Anderson, and dashing her from him with all his might; and that he was standing gazing on his murdered child when two young ones put out their hands from beneath the bed-clothes.
“There’s faither,” said the one.
“Oh, faither, faither,” said the other, “but I’m glad ye’re come, for Nanny’s been crying sair, sair, an’ she’s a’ bluiding.”
David pressed them to his heart in a perfect agony, then catching them up in his arms, he rushed like a maniac from the place, and soon afterwards burst into John Maxwell’s cottage,—his face pale, his eye wild, and gasping for breath.
“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell, “the bairns are found! But where’s Nanny?”
Poor David tried to speak, but could not articulate a word.
“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?” said John; “but tell me whaur Nanny is, and I’se set out for her momently.”
“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower late!”
“How sae? how sae?” cried John; “surely naething mischancy has happened to the lassie?”
“John,” said David, “grasping his hand, she’s murdered—my bairn’s murdered, John!”
“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John; “an’ wha’s dune it?”
“Elie Anderson,” answered David; “the poor innocent lies yonder a’ cut to bits;” and the unhappy man broke into a passion of tears.
John Maxwell darted off to Saunders Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!” cried he, thundering at the door; “haste ye and rise!”
“What’s the matter now?” said Saunders.
“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and yoke your cart, that we may tak her to the towbuith.”
Up jumped Saunders Wilson, and up jumped his wife and his weans, and in a few minutes the story was spread like wildfire. Many a man had lain down so weary with the long search they had made, that nothing they thought would have tempted them to rise again; but now they and their families sprung from their beds, and hurried, many of them only half-dressed, to John Maxwell’s, scarcely believing that the story could be true. Amongst the first came Geordie Turnbull, who proposed that a number of them should set off immediately, without waiting till Saunders Wilson was ready, as Elie Anderson might abscond in the meantime; and away he went, followed by about a dozen of the most active. They soon reached her habitation, where they found the door open and a light burning.
“Ay, ay,” said Geordie, “she’s aff, nae doubt, but we’ll get her yet. Na, faith,” cried he, entering, “she’s here still; but, gudesake, what a sight’s this!” continued he, gazing on the slaughtered child. The others now entered, and seemed filled with horror at what they saw.
“Haste ye,” cried Geordie, “and fling a sheet or something ower her, that we mayna lose our wits a’thegither. And now, ye wretch,” turning to Elie Anderson, “your life shall answer for this infernal deed. Here,” continued he, “bring ropes and tie her, and whenever Saunders comes up, we’ll off wi’ her to the towbuith.”
Ropes were soon got, and she was tied roughly enough, and then thrown carelessly into the cart; but notwithstanding the pain occasioned by her thigh-bone being broken by the force with which David Williams dashed her to the ground, she answered not one word to all their threats and reproaches, till the cart coming on some very uneven ground, occasioned her such exquisite pain, that, losing all command over herself, she broke out into such a torrent of abuse against those who surrounded her, that Geordie Turnbull would have killed her on the spot, had they not prevented him by main force.
Shortly afterwards they arrived at the prison; and having delivered her to the jailor, with many strict charges to keep her safe, they immediately returned to assist in the search for the bodies of the other children, who, they had no doubt, would be found in or about her house.
When they arrived there, they found an immense crowd assembled, for the story had spread everywhere; and all who had lost children, accompanied by their friends and neighbours and acquaintances, had repaired to the spot, and had already commenced digging and searching all round. After working in this way for a long while, without any discovery being made, it was at length proposed to give up the search and return home, when Robin Galt, who was a mason, and who had been repeatedly pacing the ground from the kitchen to the pig-sty, and from the pig-sty to the kitchen, said, “Frien’s, I’ve been considering, and I canna help thinking that there maun be a space no discovered atween the sty and the kitchen, an’ I’m unco fond to hae that ascertained.”
“We’ll sune settle that,” says Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts should it be?”
“Just there, I think,” says Robin.
Geordie immediately drove a stone or two out, so that he could get his hand in.
“Does onybody see my hand frae the kitchen?” asked he.
“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.
“Nor frae the sty?”
“Nor frae that either.”
“Then there maun be a space, sure enough,” cried Geordie, drawing out one stone after another, till he had made a large hole in the wall. “An’ now,” said he, “gie me a light;” and he shoved in a lantern, and looked into the place. “The Lord preserve us a’!” cried he, starting back.
“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the people, pressing forward on all sides.
“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he answered; “they’re a there—a’ the murdered weans are there, lying in a raw!”
The wall was torn down in a moment; and, as he had said, the bodies of the poor innocents were found laid side by side together. Those who entered first gazed on the horrid scene without speaking, and then proceeded to carry out the bodies, and to lay them on the green before the house. It was then that the grief of the unhappy parents broke forth; and their cries and lamentations, as they recognised their murdered little ones, roused the passions of the crowd to absolute frenzy.
“Hanging’s ower gude for her,” cried one.
“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed another.
A universal shout was the answer; and immediately the greater part of them set off for the prison, their numbers increasing as they ran, and all burning with fury against the unhappy author of so much misery.
The wretched woman was at this moment sitting with an old crony who had been admitted to see her, and to whom she was confessing what had influenced her in acting as she had done.
“Ye ken,” said she, “I haena jist been mysel since a rascal that had a grudge at me put aboot a story of my having made awa wi’ John Anderson, wi’ the help o’ arsenic. I was ta’en up and examined aboot
it, and afterwards tried for it, and though I was acquitted, the neebours aye looked on me wi’ an evil eye, and avoided me. This drave me to drinking and other bad courses, and it ended in my leaving that part of the kintra, and coming here. But the thing rankled in my mind, and many a time hae I sat thinkin’ on it, till I scarcely kent where I was, or what I was doing. Weel, ae day, as I was sitting at the roadside, near the Hermitage, and very low about it, I heard a voice say, ‘Are you thinking on John Anderson, Elie? Ay, woman,’ said Charlotte Beaumont, for it was her, ‘what a shame in you to poison your own gudeman!’ and she pointed her finger, and hissed at me. When I heard that,” continued Elie, “the whole blood in my body seemed to flee up to my face, an’ my very een were like to start frae my head; an’ I believe I wad hae killed her on the spot, hadna ane o’ Sir George’s servants come up at the time; sae I sat mysel doun again, an’ after a lang while, I reasoned mysel, as I thought, into the notion that I shouldna mind what a bairn said; but I hadna forgotten’t for a’ that.
“Weel, ae day that I met wi’ her near the wood, I tell’t her that it wasna right in her to speak yon gate, an’ didna mean to say ony mair, hadna the lassie gane on ten times waur nor she had done before, and sae angered me, that I gied her a wee bit shake, and then she threatened me wi’ what her faither wad do, and misca’ed me sae sair, that I struck her, and my passion being ance up, I gaed on striking her till I killed her outright. I didna ken for a while that she was dead; but when I found that it was really sae, I had sense enough left to row her in my apron, an’ to tak her hame wi’ me; an’ when I had barred the door, I laid her body on a chair, and sat down on my knees beside it, an’ grat an’ wrung my hands a’ night lang.
“Then I began to think what would be done to me if it was found out; an’ thought o’ pittin’ her into a cunning place, which the man who had the house before me, and who was a great poacher, had contrived to hide his game in; and when that was done, I was a thought easier, though I couldna forgie mysel for what I had done, till it cam into my head that it had been the means o’ saving her frae sin, and frae haein’ muckle to answer for; an’ this thought made me unco happy. At last I began to think that it would be right to save mair o’ them, and that it would atone for a’ my former sins; an’ this took sic a hold o’ me, that I was aye on the watch to get some ane or
ither o’ them by themselves, to dedicate them to their Maker, by marking their bodies wi’ the holy cross:—but oh!” she groaned, “if I hae been wrang in a’ this!”
The sound of the people rushing towards the prison was now distinctly heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend their object.
“Is there no way of escape, Elie,” asked her friend, wringing her hands.
Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and shook her head. “Besides,” said she, “I know my hour is come.”
The mob had now reached the prison, and immediately burst open the doors. Ascending to the room where Elie was confined, they seized her by the hair, and dragged her furiously downstairs. They then hurried her to the river, and, with the bitterest curses, plunged her into the stream; but their intention was not so soon accomplished as they had expected; and one of the party having exclaimed that a witch would not drown, it was suggested, and unanimously agreed to, to burn her. A fire was instantly lighted by the waterside, and when they thought it was sufficiently kindled, they threw her into the midst of it. For some time her wet clothes protected her, but when the fire began to scorch her, she made a strong exertion, and rolled herself off. She was immediately seized and thrown on again; but having again succeeded in rolling herself off, the mob became furious, and called for more wood for the fire; and by stirring it on all hands, they raised it into a tremendous blaze. Some of the most active now hastened to lay hold of the poor wretch, and to toss her into it; but in their hurry one of them having trod on her broken limb, caused her such excessive pain, that when Geordie Turnbull stooped to assist in lifting her head, she suddenly caught him by the thumb with her teeth, and held him so fast, that he found it impossible to extricate it. She was therefore laid down again, and in many ways tried to force open her mouth, but without other effect than increasing Geordie’s agony; till at length one of them seizing a pointed stick from the fire, and thrusting it into an aperture occasioned by the loss of some of her teeth, the pressure of its sharp point against the roof of her mouth, and the smoke setting her coughing, forced her to relax her hold, when the man’s thumb was got out of her grasp terribly lacerated. Immediately thereafter she was tossed in the midst of the flames, and forcibly held there by
means of long prongs; and the fire soon reaching the vital parts, the poor wretch’s screams and imprecations became so horrifying, that one of the bystanders, unable to bear it any longer, threw a large stone at her head, which, hitting her on the temples, deprived her of sense and motion.
Their vengeance satisfied, the people immediately dispersed, having first pledged themselves to the strictest secrecy. Most of them returned home, but a few went back to Elie Anderson’s, whose house, and everything belonging to her, had been set on fire by the furious multitude. They then retired, leaving a few men to watch the remains of the children, till coffins could be procured for them. “Never in a’ my days,” said John Maxwell, when speaking of it afterwards, “did I weary for daylight as I did that night. When the smoke smothered the fire, and it was quite dark, we didna mind sae muckle; but when a rafter or a bit o’ the roof fell in, and a bleeze raise, then the firelight shining on the ghastly faces of the puir wee innocents a’ laid in a row, —it was mair than we could weel stand; and it was mony a day or I was my ainsel again.”
AN ORKNEY WEDDING.
B J M .
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Goldsmith.
Gentle reader! you, I doubt not, have seen many strange sights, and have passed through a variety of eventful scenes. Perhaps you have visited the Thames Tunnel, and there threaded your way under ground and under water, or you may have witnessed Mr Green’s balloon ascent, and seen him take an airing on horseback among the clouds.
Perhaps, too, you have been an observer of human life in all its varieties and extremes: one night figuring away at Almack’s with aristocratic beauty, and the next footing it with a band of gipsies in Epping Forest. But, pray tell me, have you ever seen an Orkney Wedding? If not, as I have just received an invitation to one, inclusive of a friend, you shall, if it so please you, accompany me to that scene of rural hospitality.
In conformity with the custom of the country, I have sent off to the young couple a pair of fowls and a leg of mutton, to play their parts upon the festive board; and as every family contributes in like manner, a general pic-nic is formed, which considerably diminishes the expense incident to the occasion; although, as the festivities are frequently kept up for three or four days by a numerous assemblage of rural beauty and fashion, the young people must contrive to live upon love, if they can, during the first year of their union, having little else left upon which to subsist, except the fragments of the mighty feast.
Well, then, away we go, and about noon approach the scene of festivity,—a country-seat built in the cottage style, thatched with straw, and flanked with a barn and a well-filled corn-yard, enclosed with a turf-dyke.
The wedding company are now seen making their way towards the place of rendezvous; and the young women, arrayed in white robes of emblematic purity, exhibit a most edifying example of economy. With their upper garments carried to a height to which the fashion of short petticoats never reached even at Paris, they trip it away barefooted through the mud, until they reach the banks of a purling stream, about a quarter of a mile distant from the wedding-house. Here their feet, having been previously kissed by the crystal waters, and covered with cotton stockings, which in whiteness would fain vie with the skin they enviously conceal, are inserted into shoes, in whose mirror of glossy black the enamoured youth obtains a peep of his own charms, while stooping down to adjust their ties into a loveknot.
Immediately in front of the outer-door, or principal entrance of the house, and answering the double purpose of shelter and ornament, stands a broad square pile, composed of the most varied materials, needless to be enumerated, and vulgarly denominated a midden, around the base of which some half-dozen of pigs are acting the part of miners, in search of its hidden treasures. It is separated from the house by a sheet of water, tinged with the fairest hues of heaven and earth, viz., blue and green, and over which we pass by a bridge of stepping-stones.
And now, my friend, before entering the house, it may be as well to consider what character you are to personate during the entertainment; for the good people in these islands, like their neighbours of the mainland of Scotland, take that friendly interest in other people’s affairs, which the thankless world very unkindly denominates impertinent curiosity.
If I pass you off as a lawyer, you will immediately be overwhelmed with statements of their quarrels and grievances; for they are main fond of law, and will expend the hard-earned savings of years in litigation, although the subject-matter of dispute should happen to be only a goose. You must not, therefore, belong to the bar, since, in the present case, consultations would produce no fees.
I think I shall therefore confer upon you the degree of M.D., which will do as well for the occasion as if you had obtained it by purchase at the University of Aberdeen; although I am not sure that it also may not subject you to some trouble in the way of medical advice.
And now having safely passed over the puddle, and tapped gently at the door, our arrival is immediately announced by a grand musical chorus, produced by the barking of curs, the cackling of geese, the quacking of ducks, and the grunting and squeaking of pigs. After this preliminary salutation, we are received by the bridegroom, and ushered, with many kind welcomes, into the principal hall, through a half open door, at one end of which we are refreshed with a picture of rural felicity, namely, some sleek-looking cows, ruminating in philosophical tranquillity on the subject of diet.
In the middle of the hall is a large blazing turf fire, the smoke of which escapes in part through an aperture in the roof, while the remainder expands in the manner of a pavilion over the heads of the guests.
A door at the other end of the hall opens into the withdrawingroom, the principal furniture of which consists of two large chests filled with oat and barley meal and home-made cheeses, a concealed bed, and a chest of drawers. Both rooms have floors inlaid with earth, and roofs of a dark soot colour, from which drops of a corresponding hue occasionally fall upon the bridal robes of the ladies, with all the fine effect arising from contrast, and ornamental on the principle of the patch upon the cheek of beauty.
Separated from the dwelling-house only by a puddle dotted with stepping-stones stands the barn, which, from its length and breadth, is admirably adapted for the purposes of a ball-room.
Upon entering the withdrawing-room, which the good people with admirable modesty call the ben, we take our seats among the elders and chiefs of the people, and drink to the health of the young couple in a glass of delicious Hollands, which, unlike Macbeth’s “Amen,” does not stick in our throats, although we are well aware that it never paid duty, but was slily smuggled over sea in a Dutch lugger, and safely stowed, during some dark night, in the caves of the more remote islands.
The clergyman having now arrived, the company assembled, and the ceremony of marriage being about to take place, the parties to be united walk in, accompanied by the best man and the bride’s maid,— those important functionaries, whose business it is to pull off the gloves from the right hands of their constituents, as soon as the order is given to “join hands,”—but this they find to be no easy matter, for at that eventful part of the ceremony their efforts are long baffled, owing to the tightness of the gloves. While they are tugging away to no purpose, the bridegroom looks chagrined, and the bride is covered with blushes; and when at last the operation is accomplished, and perseverance crowned with success, the confusion of the scene seems to have infected the parson, who thus blunders through the ceremony:
“Bridegroom,” quoth he, “do you take the woman whom you now hold by the hand, to be your lawful married husband?”
To which interrogation the bridegroom having nodded in the affirmative, the parson perceives his mistake, and calls out, “Wife, I mean.” “Wife, I mean,” echoes the bridegroom; and the whole company are in a titter.
But, thank heaven, the affair is got over at last; and the bride being well saluted, a large rich cake is broken over her head, the fragments of which are the subject of a scramble among the bystanders, by whom they are picked up as precious relics, having power to produce love-dreams.
And now the married pair, followed by the whole company, set off to church, to be kirked, as the phrase is. A performer on the violin (not quite a Rossini) heads the procession, and plays a variety of appropriate airs, until he reaches the church-door. As soon as the party have entered and taken their seats, the parish-clerk, in a truly impressive and orthodox tone of voice, reads a certain portion of Scripture, wherein wives are enjoined to be obedient to their husbands. The service is concluded with a psalm, and the whole party march back, headed as before by the musician.
Upon returning from church, the company partake of a cold collation, called the hansel, which is distributed to each and all by the bride’s mother, who for the time obtains the elegant designation of hansel-wife. The refreshments consist of cheese, old and new, cut down in large slices, or rather junks, and placed upon oat and barley
cakes,—some of the former being about an inch thick, and called snoddies.
These delicate viands are washed down with copious libations of new ale, which is handed about in a large wooden vessel, having three handles, and ycleped a three-lugged cog. [18] The etherial beverage is seasoned with pepper, ginger, and nutmeg, and thickened with eggs and pieces of toasted biscuit.
18. Also called the Bride’s cog. E .
These preliminaries being concluded, the company return to the barn, where the music strikes up, and the dancing commences with what is called the Bride’s Reel; after which, two or three young men take possession of the floor, which they do not resign until they have danced with every woman present; they then give place to others, who pass through the same ordeal, and so on. The dance then becomes more varied and general. Old men and young ones, maids, matrons, and grandmothers, mingle in its mazes. And, oh! what movements are there,—what freaks of the “fantastic toe,”—what goodly figures and glorious gambols in a dance;—compared to which the waltz is but the shadow of joy, and the quadrille the feeble effort of Mirth upon her last legs.
Casting an eye, however, upon the various performers, I cannot but observe that the old people seem to have monopolised all the airs and graces; for, while the young maidens slide through the reel in the most quiet and unostentatious way, and then keep bobbing opposite to their partners in all the monotony of the back-step, their more gifted grandmothers figure away in quite another style. With a length of waist which our modern belles do not wish to possess, and an underfigure, which they cannot if they would, even with the aid of pads, but which is nevertheless the true court-shape, rendering the hoop unnecessary, and which is moreover increased by the swinging appendages of huge scarlet pockets, stuffed with bread and cheese, behold them sideling up to their partners in a kind of echellon movement, spreading out their petticoats like sails, and then, as if seized with a sudden fit of bashfulness, making a hasty retreat rearwards. Back they go at a round trot; and seldom do they stop until their career of retiring modesty ends in a somersault over the sitters along the sides of the room.
The old men, in like manner, possess similar advantages over the young ones; the latter being sadly inferior to their seniors in address and attitudes. Nor is this much to be wondered at, the young gentlemen having passed most of their summer vacations at Davis’ Straits, where their society consisted chiefly of bears; whereas the old ones are men of the world, having in early life entered the Company’s service (I do not mean that of the East Indies, but of Hudson’s Bay), where their manners must no doubt have been highly polished by their intercourse with the Squaws, and all the beauty and fashion of that interesting country.
Such of them as have sojourned there are called north-westers, and are distinguished by that modest assurance, and perfect ease and self-possession, only to be acquired by mixing frequently and freely with the best society. Indeed, one would suppose that their manners were formed upon the model of the old French school; and queues are in general use among them—not, however, those of the small pigtail kind, but ones which in shape and size strongly resemble the Boulogne sausage.
And now, amidst these ancients, I recognise my old and very worthy friend, Mr James Houston, kirk-officer and sexton of the parish, of whom a few words, perhaps, may not be unacceptable.
His degree of longitude may be about five feet from the earth, and in latitude he may extend at an average to about three. His countenance, which is swarthy, and fully as broad as it is long, although not altogether the model which an Italian painter would select for his Apollo, would yet be considered handsome among the Esquimaux; or, as James calls them, the Huskinese. His hair, which (notwithstanding an age at which Time generally saves us the expense of the powder-tax) is jet black, is of a length and strength that would not shrink from comparison with that of a horse’s tail, and hangs down over his broad shoulders in a fine and generous flow. The coat which he wears upon this, as upon all other occasions, is cut upon the model of the spencer; its colour, a “heavenly blue,” varied by numerous dark spots, like clouds in a summer sky; while his nether bulk is embraced by a pair of tight buckskin “unmentionables.”
Extending from the bosom down to the knee he wears a leather apron. This part of his dress is never dispensed with, except at
church; and though I have not been able to ascertain its precise purpose with perfect certainty, I am inclined to think it is used as a perpetual pinafore, to preserve his garments from the pollution of soup and grease-drops at table.
The principal materials of his dress are, moreover, prepared for use by his own hands: Mr Houston being at once sole proprietor and operative of a small manufactory, consisting of a single loom; when not employed at which, or in spreading the couch of rest in the churchyard, he enjoys a kind of perpetual otium cum dignitate.
His chief moveables, in addition to the loom, consist of three Shetland ponies and a small Orkney plough, by the united aid of which he is enabled to scratch up the surface of a small estate, which supplies him with grain sufficient for home consumption, but not for exportation.
His peculiar and more shining accomplishments consist in the art of mimicking the dance of every man and woman in the parish, which he does with a curious felicity, and in executing short pieces of music on that sweetest of lyres, the Jew’s harp.
Like most of his profession, he is a humorist; and though he has long “walked hand-in-hand with death,” nobody enjoys life with a keener relish at the festive board or the midnight ball, which he finds delightful relaxations from his grave occupations during the day; and yet even these latter afford him a rare and consolatory joy denied to other men,—I mean that of meeting with his old friends, after they have been long dead, and of welcoming, with a grin of recognition, the skulls of his early associates, as he playfully pats them with his spade, and tosses them into the light of day.
But it is in his capacity of kirk-officer that Mr Houston appears to the greatest advantage, while ushering the clergyman to the pulpit, and marching before him with an air truly magnificent, and an erectness of carriage somewhat beyond the perpendicular, he performs his important function of opening and shutting the door of the pulpit, and takes his seat under an almost overwhelming sense of dignity, being for the time a kind of lord high constable, with whom is entrusted the execution of the law. And that he does not bear the sword in vain is known to their cost, by all the litigious and churchgoing dogs of the parish; for no sooner do they begin to growl and tear each other, with loud yells, which they generally do, so as to
