Dr. Cliffton barely speaks through the entire day. He looks old and exhausted. I want to tell him that it’s all right to sleep. That broken hearts are heavy. That before you learn the weight of grief, even the simple act of living feels impossible. But we do learn it, eventually. I’m just not sure whether the weight of it gets lighter or we get stronger.
He lies next to Mrs. Cliffton in the bed through most of the day. He never stops holding her hand. When he finally goes downstairs late in the evening, I slip into Mrs. Cliffton’s bedroom and lay the Helena Stone over her heart. Let myself hope, for one moment, that it could be enough. But she continues to whimper, as if she feels haunted even under sedation. I kiss her cheek, take the Stone, and return to my room, where I dress all in black.
Miles has fallen asleep with his clothes on. I dust him with a heavy dose of Dream Variants from Will to ensure that he doesn’t hear us leave. I bend to brush my lips over Miles’s hair. He looks angelic, his skin smooth, his lips puckered. It’s so easy to love him when he’s sleeping.
At five to midnight there’s the lightest tap on my door. Will steps into my room, and I give him a nervous smile. “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell your father?” I scribble on a notepad. He traces my eyelids with a fingertip of Night Vision.
“I don’t want to get his hopes up,” Will writes, and pulls my window open. We slip out onto the tree branch, grab shovels and Will’s toolbox from the shed, and set off into the darkness.
Eliza and George are already waiting for us at the spot Stefen marked on the first map. It’s a field near the border of Corrander, near an abandoned, rotting barn and a stream where a fringe of reeds grows high. George spooks at the sound of us approaching.
“Just us,” I call. When we reach them, I add, “No sign of Stefen?”
Eliza gestures to her epee, a kitchen knife, two shovels, and an array of Variant pouches spread at her feet. “I think he’s gone and he’s never coming back.” She picks up her epee and wields it, glittering. “But just in case, we’ll be ready.” She nods toward a distant tree. “Besides, Beas is up there acting as lookout.” Her mouth sours. “And you’ll never guess who she brought along to help keep watch.”
I glance in the distance. See the vague outline of a boy, who lifts a large hand and waves. “Is that Thom? Are they back together?”
“Guess that all depends on what happens tonight, doesn’t it?” She sniffs. “Anyway, same deal as the Tempest race. If you hear a kazoo, there’s trouble.”
“We came prepared,” I say, showing her the Stars crowded into my pocket. We roll out the maps to make sure we’re looking in the right spot.
Then I jam the spade of my shovel deep into the ground.
We dig and dig, our shovels taking heavy bites of the earth and making a series of small mounds beside us. After a quarter of an hour I am sweating and dirt-streaked, and all we’ve found is an enormous hole.
“Think he sent us on a wild-goose chase?” I watch Will’s mouth curl into a growl. He takes a violent swing at the ground with his shovel and straightens at the sudden sound of a dull clang.
“Whoa,” George says, and with one look Eliza and I step back to get out of the way. George and Will begin to dig furiously until Will pauses and bends to pry something out.
He brushes it free of earth: a metal box, the length of my forearm. It’s rusted and locked.
He uses a pair of bolt cutters from his toolbox to free the lock. Then he extends the box to me. “Do you want to open it?” he mouths.
My stomach unexpectedly turns, and I shake my head.
George clears his throat. “I’ll do it.”
He lifts the lid and peers inside. After a moment he nods, then closes the box. “Not sure who they belong to, but those are definitely some old bones.”
Will exhales sharply, and a small flame of hope catches light in my chest. Eliza sniffs the air, tilts her face to look up at the starless sky. “So . . . is something supposed to be happening now?”
“I think all the bones have to be reunited,” I say. “So he can rest in peace.”
“Or maybe we’ll just set off more Disappearances and make things worse,” Eliza says.
George looks up from the box in his hands, stricken by realization. “That’s what Stefen did, then. He dug up some of the bones, but he didn’t do it to reunite them. He spread them out even further.” He kicks at one of the mounds and sends a spray of dirt into the hole. “Disturbed the grave anew. Set off a new round of Disappearances and made the Curse spread to Charlton. That rat.”
“You’re right,” I say, horrified. My blood feels hot and traitorous. “He’s—?he’s—”
“Unhinged,” Will says, turning so that I can see his lips. “And yet . . . we couldn’t have found this without him.”
“We might have found it eventually,” George grumbles. “We’re sort of brilliant together.” He scrunches his nose and hands over the box of bones. “Although for once, I’m glad I can’t smell anything.”
“Hopefully not for much longer,” Eliza says. She opens her hand to ask for a map. “I’ll take Charlton. Let’s go.”
“I’ll go with you,” George quickly offers.
“We’ll meet back at my mother’s old house,” I say. “Be careful.”
Then we divide up the maps and the last pouch of Tempests and split into the night to find the rest.
Thom and Beas take Sheffield, George and Eliza take Charlton, and Will and I head for Corrander.
We have the shortest distance to cover, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we find the second box just where Stefen’s map told us it would be—?beneath a willow tree a stone’s throw from the Corrander cemetery. “Two down.” Will gestures when he cuts the lock and looks inside. He closes the box again and tucks it safely under his arm.
“We’re going to need something big enough to bury these together again,” he says. He touches his face in thought. “I think I have some wood left over from your mother’s house.” We double back to Sterling, to my mother’s monument, the moon sliding in and out of the clouds overhead.
I keep watch while we wait for the others, my Stars at the ready, as Will constructs a small coffin. “This is the last thing I ever thought I’d be making,” he says, his cheekbones sharpening as he bites down on a handful of screws. He works them quietly into the soft wood instead of drawing attention to us with a hammer. When he tightens the final screw, he turns the coffin right side up. He stays silent, but his hands keep reaching for the back of his neck.
Eventually I bend to the dirt at our feet and scrape out with the tip of my Star, “Will—?can you ever forgive me?”
He swallows, hard. Offers me a hand up. “For what?” he asks, the set of his mouth softening. “You saved us, Aila. What if you hadn’t thrown that Star?”
Then he takes the Star and crouches down to the dirt himself.
“What if this doesn’t work?” he writes.
I step over the words to stand a breath’s distance from him. I look up into his eyes, which are dark and sad and hopeful. “It’s going to work,” I say softly. I cup my hand around his cheek. “It’s going to work.”