Simon wanted to stop her, to call out and run to her side. He craved to embrace her once more. But he couldn’t.
He felt something rough under his hands and frigid air scraped over his face. He saw Nick’s back. His friend’s head was slumped in the dirt that covered the body of Simon’s mother who had just a moment ago been standing in the spring air smiling at him. He pulled Nick away from the grave and the other man’s arms slid from the dirt. Nick gasped in shock as if roused from a deep sleep. Simon dropped roughly to one knee and shook the disoriented man.
“Nick!” he shouted. “Nick, can you hear me?”
Nick’s eyes were wide for a second, then they focused on Simon. His facial muscles relaxed with the realization of the place. He exhaled with shock, and muttered, “Jesus. Jesus.”
Simon took Nick by the jaw and turned his head from side to side, inspecting his eyes, looking for a normal reaction. When he saw enough to let him know that Nick had come back intact, he gave his friend a light slap and fell back into the ground beside the grave.
Simon felt his own face being turned. Kate looked at him, her expression full of more shock than his own, he felt sure. Her lips pressed tightly together in dismay or confusion.
“I’m fine, Kate,” Simon breathed out in relief. “I saw her.”
“Are you sure you’re well?” Kate insisted.
“Of course.” Simon laughed raggedly. “I feel quite fine, thank you. No pain at all at the moment. Why are you so worried?”
She wiped her hand over his cheek and it came away wet. “You’re weeping.”
Simon suddenly felt tears running down his face in a torrent and dripping from his chin. He was crying uncontrollably. He buried his face in Kate’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nick took a whiskey from Simon and drained it without pause, gasping with wet desperation. He handed the glass up for another. Simon merely gave him the bottle, leaving his friend to guzzle.
“Nick,” Simon said as he sat on the bench on the far side of the hearth and took Kate’s hand, “are you sure she was targeted by a necromancer? She seemed content.”
Nick wiped his mouth. He stared at the half-empty bottle. “She loved your father.”
“I know.” Simon stretched out his legs, feeling a sense of ease he hadn’t known in a long time.
“Whatever bastard came after her,” Nick said, his face still pale, “did damage to her, all right. I could sense how they tried to wrench information out of her, but she fought back. I’ve never known a normal human being who could resist necromancy. She kept all your secrets. Damned incredible.” He drank deep gulps without pause.
“Easy, old man,” Simon cautioned gently.
Kate asked Simon, “She seemed content to you?”
“She did. She looked wonderful. Younger. Stronger. As I remember her from my youth. Not as she was when she died.”
“Perhaps seeing you helped heal her. It’s a great gift.”
Simon nodded. “Communing with the dead is a strange business.”
“Hear hear,” Nick cracked sarcastically, holding up the bottle.
“But,” Simon continued with a broad smile, “I’m grateful for a moment with her. She seemed pleased enough with what I’ve made of myself.”
“Did she say anything to you?” Kate asked.
“Good God!” Simon sat up quickly. He pulled the key out of his waistcoat pocket. “She did. She was holding the key and she said a word.”
Kate leaned close with excitement. “What word?”
“What does morthul mean to you?”
She looked up to the ceiling, shuffling through the extensive glossary of languages in her head. “Is it a proper name?”
“I don’t know.”
“It means hammer,” Nick muttered, staring into the fire.
“Hammer?” Simon mused.
“Hammer. In Cornish.” Nick hung his head, fighting fatigue. “Your accent’s atrocious. Maybe hers was too unless she was Cornish.”
“Simon,” Kate said, “fetch a copy of Munro’s Britannica Cornish Grammar.”
Simon laughed. “Sorry, Kate, I don’t have a copy. The closest thing was a stable boy from Truro who once worked here.”
She gave him a glare of scholarly disappointment. “Well, my Cornish isn’t strong. In Welsh, hammer is morthwyl. Similar. But what could she mean?”
Nick looked inebriated, his head in his hands. The whiskey bottle had only a few swallows left. “She didn’t mean anything. You can’t trust what you hear from the dead. Most of it you bring yourself. It might’ve been in your head.”
Simon walked over to Nick’s slumped figure. “Go to bed. You need sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m ready. I’m going for a walk.” Nick stood and stumbled against the hearth. He caught himself and shook Simon off.
“Nick, please. It’s a miracle you can stand.” Simon froze as a hauntingly familiar feeling crept over him. Nick started to argue and Simon snapped, “Quiet! Quiet!”