Page 123 of Disturbing the Dead
I explain the situation with my parents, with the plans of a letter under the floorboards and personal ads in the paper.
“Your parents are exceedingly clever,” Isla says. “Yes, the newspaper notices should work, and it will allow them to know you are well.”
She glances over as we step around a couple of tourists. “I am not going to bother you about what happened until you are ready to talk. May I say, though, that I am happy you returned to your time before your grandmother died? I am glad she lived so much longer than expected.”
“Actually, she didn’t. I woke up a couple of days after I left. Probably about the same time I woke up here the first time. Don’t ask me to explain that. But, yes, I got to see Nan and tell her everything, including about here. She’s the one who made me realize it wasn’t a dream. And the one who pushed me to return.”
“Did you… feel obligated then?”
“What?” I look over sharply. “Oh. Obligated to come back because she wanted that? No. It was…” I take a deep breath. “It feels weird to call it a choice when it happened so fast, but it was a choice, and I’m glad it did happen quickly. This wasn’t the sort of decision you think through. My gut said I should take the chance if I got it again, and so I did.”
Her voice drops. “Do you regret it? You may say if you do. It will help to have someone to discuss it with. I would never tell Duncan.”
“I don’t regret it.” I cross the street with Isla. “In an ideal world, I’d have a door I could pass between. But at least I had the chance to say goodbye to Nan and to see my parents, and they know where I am. Also Catriona never showed up there, which is a huge relief. If she ever does, though, they’re prepared.”
“I do not think she will. I have no idea where Catriona has gone, and I feel some sadness for what I presume is her death, but I am not overcome by grief. I do not think anyone is, and that is what makes me the most sad. No one should die unmourned.”
“Catriona made her choices, and I’m sure survival was at the top of her priority list but…” I shrug. “People survive in the harshest of circumstances without backstabbing everyone who shows them a bit of kindness. Catriona was wired differently.”
“That she was.”
When we pass a clock and notice we’re running early, Isla slows to window-shop. Then she says, “I must speak to Duncan about your salary. I know he raised it when you began helping him, but it should be higher now that you are his assistant full time.”
She waves at a drapers shop displaying fabric wares. “You are no longer expecting to leave at any moment, and so it is time to accept a higher salary and begin taking your proper place in this world.” She looks at me. “If this world is to be your home, you must truly make it your home, Mallory.”
“Yeah, about that…” I clear my throat. “This is the awkward part. I decided to live here without consulting the people who were hosting me. I’ve been thinking that I should find an apartment. Catriona had a bit of money saved, and I’ve barely spent any of my last two quarterly salaries. That should help me get settled.”
Silence. Then, her voice careful, Isla says, “That is what you want? A place to call your own?”
“You didn’t sign up for a permanent guest,” I say. “If you want to negotiate room and board in my salary, I’m happy to stay, but I know it makes things more crowded, now that we have Lorna.”
“I would understand if you need your own apartment, but we would very much like it if you stayed.” She glances over. “I enjoy your company, if that is not perfectly clear, and the house is quite large enough for all of us. We should discuss moving you to one of the guest rooms, though.”
“I’m fine where I am. And I’m happy to stay. I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I wasn’t inviting myself to be your permanent houseguest.”
“You are not a houseguest. You may consider yourself a lodger, if you like, but we see you as a friend who has chosen to live with us, much to our delight.”
“Uh, if you’re including your brother in that ‘we,’ you’d better check with him first.”
“No need. I am certain my brother feels the same. Now, after this is over, we will talk about your new salary and then we will make plans to visit a drapers shop for a new wardrobe, befitting your new and permanent position.”
As with Greyfriars Kirkyard, I’ve been to both Calton Burial Grounds in the modern day. There’s an “Old” Calton Burial Ground, and a “New” one that is, in this time, actually relatively new.
These are parish cemeteries from a time when that was the only way to be buried. Or the only way to be buried if you were a Christian hoping to pass through the pearly gates. Private cemeteries are relatively recent… and a source of newfound wealth for families like the Grays, who had invested heavily in this wave of the future.
For hundreds of years, every Christian in Edinburgh was buried in one of a handful of kirkyards. Yet there are only a few hundred gravestones in each. The answer to that mathematical impossibility is that the majority of the graves aren’t marked. Such things are for the rich.
In this cemetery, the most obvious marker is the Martyrs’ Monument—a ninety-foot obelisk to memorialize four parliamentary reformers who were transported to Australia. There’s a rumor that it’s so tall you can see Australia from the top, which would be quite a feat, with the thousands of miles between them and that whole “round earth” problem. At some point there will also be a statue of Abraham Lincoln, and if I ever heard why, I’ve long since forgotten. But while Lincoln was assassinated four years ago, there’s no sign of that monument yet.
Queen Mab told us to meet our contact up on the hill. We head there, passing about a dozen people, a few paying respects but most just walking through. At the top, a woman in black kneels before a grave, her gloved fingertips pressed to the ground.
We’re giving the widow a wide berth when she says, “Mrs. Ballantyne?”
The woman rises. She’s dressed head to toe in mourning black, complete with a veil that hides her face. It’s the veil that tells me this is our Miss Havisham. The White Lady, as Queen Mab called her.
As we walk over, I look down at the grave she’d been paying respects to.
“No one I know,” she says. “It is a convenient way to have a private meeting here. No one wishes to intrude on my grief.”
