‘Terrible, terrible.’
Cerberus growls.
‘I knew you’d understand. My cousin, on the other hand, does no such thing. He has travelled the world collecting true human oddities, and mythological creatures. He found Cerberus’s mother at Cape Matapan, already pregnant, and allowed us to keep one of the litter. His Cabinet of Curiosities really is something to behold, Mr Henderson. I can give you his contact information if you’d like to look him up; we make sure to exchange details with our customers, considering we both dabble with the Unknown. But, as I was saying, he has all manner of wonderful creatures in his care – chimeras, nymphs, sea-goats, sirens. He even had a werewolf for a while, which gave me a bit of a turn, though he turned out to be a true gentleman, actually. Which reminds me that one shouldn’t believe everything one reads, Mr Henderson. History can be very cruel about those who are different. Take Ankaa, for example. She may be a death fairy in human form, but does that mean she should be treated as a second-class citizen? Absolutely not.’
All three of them turn to stare at me.
Cerberus starts barking.
‘Can we let him in?’ Mr Henderson makes a move to stand up. ‘I’d love to see him up close.’
‘Best not, Mr Henderson.’ Aunt Libby rests her hand on his arm. ‘As much as we love our dear Cerberus, he is quite vicious. He’s a descendant of the underworld, after all. He’s been through a lot. He’s had to learn to be tough. He’s trusting with Ankaa, of course, because she knew his ancestor, from her time before birth, so she’s like a kindred spirit to him, really. But everyone else should stay well clear and just admire him from afar.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Mr Henderson sits back down. ‘Don’t want to antagonise the beast. Fascinating stuff, though. So, er, Ankaa. If you don’t mind me asking. What was it like in the underworld?’
‘Oh, it was very … dark,’ I offer.
Aunt Libby tries to kick me under the table but gets Trevor by mistake.
‘Oh, I am sorry, Trevor. Talk of the underworld makes me jumpy. Let me give you some more beans. Do go on, Ankaa.’
‘It’s all very hazy, really,’ I say. ‘Sometimes it was so hot I felt my skin would melt. Sometimes it was freezing. I wasn’t quite formed. I was just a young fairy. But they say that adult fairies trapped in the world of the dead want to help their young escape. They use magic to implant them in the wombs of humans so they can grow up in this world, instead. It’s not easy to come across from the world of the dead, though. A sacrifice has to be made.’
‘Which is why my sister died, Mr Henderson,’ Aunt Libby chimes in. ‘During childbirth. We didn’t know the father of the baby, she wouldn’t tell us anything about it, rest her soul, but we suspect perhaps he was Death in disguise.’
‘Goodness!’
‘Yes, it was all rather distressing, Mr Henderson. She just turned up at my house one day. Eight months pregnant, and distraught. She gave birth to Ankaa, here. On the very table we’re eating at.’
Mr Henderson pales.
‘And when she gave birth to Ankaa, she passed away. Just like that. Well, not “just like that”, there was a lot of blood, of course; it took her a while to die. But her passing must have formed a pathway to the afterlife, you see, and Ankaa was able to descend and come to life in the form of her child. Some sort of changeling, Mr Henderson. And, even though she technically killed my sister, what could I do? I couldn’t throw her out into the wilderness, it’s not in my nature. I had to take care of her. I’m not one to judge hastily, you see. And she’s got a good soul, really, our Ankaa. She hasn’t killed anyone else. She’s more of a keeper of death, if you will. And that’s why we’ve set up our Coffin Hotel here because, ever since she was born, the boundaries between life and death seem so much weaker on this island. As I’m sure you will have experienced last night.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Henderson pats his moustache with a napkin. ‘It is a remarkable place you have here, Libitina.’
‘Thank you. We take great pride in what we do,’ she beams. ‘And now that you’ve finished breakfast, perhaps you’d like a tour of the funeral parlour?’
‘That would be lovely.’ He scrapes his chair back. ‘Is there a Mr Dart who helps run the business?’
‘He passed away fifteen years ago.’ Aunt Libby clasps her chest, a well-practised gesture.
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘Thank you. It’s just the two of us here now. And Zima.’
‘Who’s Zima?’
‘She runs the hotel for us when we go on tour, so we don’t have to close. It’s very important that we’re always here for those who need us, Mr Henderson. We can’t offer our whole range of services with Ankaa absent, of course, but we can offer the basics. Zima’s not here at the moment so you won’t be able to meet her. She’s a lovely girl, if a little odd. Just turned eighteen. Descended from a family of vampires, and suffers from insomnia. Vegetarian, though, which is a comfort. It’s an ideal end-of-summer job for her; she loves it, and we can go off in the RV knowing that this place is in safe hands, which is a relief. It’s apt that three women run the place, Mr Henderson.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, I like to think of us as the modern-day Fates. Women may be lots of things, but one of those things is that we are responsible for death and it’s something we needn’t shy away from, Mr Henderson. Nothing to be ashamed of. Running this hotel is our way of giving back, as it were – compensation for letting death out into the world. I’m sure Ankaa can tell you more about that, when she shows you around the island, later. We’ve got lots of wonderful creatures here, hiding out in the woods. Ankaa’s pets. They tend not to come out until dusk, so let me give you a tour of the funeral parlour as suggested, then we can have a chat, sort out your accounts and Ankaa can take it from there.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Excellent. Are you going to take Trevor back to the mainland, Ankaa?’ Aunt Libby folds her napkin firmly. ‘We don’t want him to be late for work.’
It takes twenty minutes to row across the lake.
Trevor clings to the side and keeps his eyes shut the whole way.
‘You know, this is your sixtieth time,’ I say, avoiding a jagged rock. ‘And I haven’t sent you flying into the water, yet.’
‘Shhh,’ he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.
‘Well, I think you’re doing a good job,’ I coax. ‘Do you think your stay is helping?’
‘My therapist thinks so.’ He doesn’t open his eyes but recites: ‘To confront death is to belittle death, is to come to terms with death, is to live.’
‘You should get that printed on a T-shirt.’
The corners of his mouth curve upwards.
He tries to press money into my hand when we reach the shore but I refuse to take it.