into her body. She opened her eyes. Balthazar stood over her. He leaned too close before she could turn away, bringing his lips to within an inch of her ear. She felt his stale breath tickle her cheek as he whispered a single word:
'Remember.'
And then he was gone.
She lay for a moment longer, and then sat up slowly. She had been resting on something soft and cool. The fragrance of fresh flowers filled the air. It was dark, but a single shaft of sunlight cut through a window far above her, spearing down into the blackness. She bumped up against something hard, and tried to turn. In that moment, her vision cleared. Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed three times, trying to force the air out of her lungs but all that came out of her mouth was a choked, gurgle.
She was in a church. She knew the church. She had been there before but she had no idea when or where it had been. She scrambled up and back and cracked her neck painfully into the end of the coffin that held her. She cried out again, and this time she managed to scream. She gripped the side and hauled herself up. The shift of balance as she struggled caused the casket to tip. She spilled out over the edge and fell with it. Her hip caught the corner of the altar and she rolled, sprawling across the smooth wooden floor.
Pain lanced through her like fire. She forced herself to her feet. Nothing made sense. She turned about and then again, staring at her surroundings in confusion. Balthazar was nowhere to be seen. The heavy double doors of the church were closed. She was alone.
Piles of lilies and sentimental offerings lay all around the coffin. Her coffin. No, she refused to think of it like that. Something had happened, something that made no sense and left her senses reeling, but it wasn’t her coffin. It couldn’t be. She swallowed a heavy breath and took an unsteady step toward the altar. She knew she should get out, that she should run, but something about the echoing darkness of the empty building called to her. Something about the arrangements of flowers, and the sentimental offerings itched at her mind in a way she refused to believe. She managed two more steps down the aisle then looked up at the stained glass window. She knew the design in the glass. She reached out, and clutched at the back of one of the pews to steady herself. The seats behind the altar, where the choir sat during services, were every bit as familiar as the window.
She wore only a thin white gown. Her bare feet were cold on the polished plank floor. She picked up a card from the corner of the altar. It had a fresh pressed flower against it, the seeds and petals crushed flat. She opened it.
'My Dearest Elizabeth, I pray with all my heart that Our Father grants you peace until we can be together once more, Benjamin.'
She lurched away from the altar, staggered and stumbled painfully into the railing. The card fluttered to the floor like a dying moth. Memories like ghosts flashed through her mind. She tangled her fingers in her hair, gripped tightly and yanked fiercely at it. She screamed and screamed and screamed and still they would not stop.
Her childhood – her father – Benjamin.
She stumbled forward and dropped to her knees before the altar as though in prayer. Beside the altar she saw a battered old leather pack. She knew it as she knew everything in this life. She had no idea how she knew, but it was Benjamin’s. She remembered lying in the grass, the warm sun on her face. Where were they? A picnic? And then she remembered his voice, and behind it, his smile.
Mariah took the pack by its strap. Her hand trembled as she lifted it, and not just from the deathly chill that suffused the church. She remembered the last time she’d seen the pack. Benjamin had left it beside her bed because she had been too sick to go out with him. Sweet as always, he’d said it didn’t matter. He sat with her and brought her tea and told her that he would leave the pack beside her bed.
'When you are well again we’ll have our picnic. I won’t need it before then, and it will give you something to look forward to. Until then, let it be a reminder of me.'
She set the pack in her lap and loosened the leather ties binding the flap. When Benjamin had left it in her room there had been a bottle of dark red wine, a tablecloth he’d intended to spread over the grass, a book of poetry he’d bought from a man who’d come in from the east, all tucked away inside. They had shared the poetry, a verse at a time. After each new verse, he tucked the book back inside the pack with the promise that the next one was for the future.
She rifled through the pack. There was no bottle now. She pulled out a blue silk dress, a gasp of recognition slipping past her lips. It was the dress she’d worn the night he proposed. It slipped through her fingers. Something dropped to the floor, hitting the wood with a clink of metal.
She saw the locket on the floor and tears streamed from her eyes. They ran down her cheeks, wetting the cotton gown she wore. It was white, like the lilies. She pulled at it with her fingers. She knew what it was, there was only one thing it could be given the coffin and the altar and the offerings: a shroud.
There was a book in the pack, and she lifted it out, expecting the volume of poetry. It wasn’t, but she knew it well enough. It was her journal, bound with a ribbon. The end was frayed from all the times she’d teased it open and tied it closed. She started to unfasten the knot, and then thought better of it. She tucked it back into the pack, rolled the dress around the locket, and stuffed it all back inside. She tied the flap, shouldered the pack and rose.
As she did, the church door opened, and a man stepped through. At first he didn’t notice her. It was obvious he expected to be alone. He was humming a mournful little tune. He wore a dark suit and a tall hat, and his name came to Mariah’s lips unbidden.
'Reverend Criscione?' she said softly.
He spun as if slapped across the back of the head and backed up against the door. His hands came up instinctively, as though to ward off more unseen blows. Mariah took a step toward him. She held out her hand, but stopped when she saw the white terror blazed onto his face.
'Father in Heaven,' the preacher rambled, tripping over every syllable before he got it out of his mouth.
He crossed himself and reached behind his back for the door handle. He fumbled the latch, tried again, and then turned, slamming the flat of his hand against the wood in blind panic. He gripped the door and yanked it wide open. Daylight streamed into the chapel.
'Please,' Mariah called after him. 'Don’t leave me. I need help…'
But he wasn’t listening. There was no help to be had in this room, no salvation for her lost soul. Reverend Criscione disappeared into the light beyond the door, and Mariah didn’t know what else to do but follow. Her legs were weak. She stumbled twice before she reached the door and had to clutch it to stop herself from falling. She called out to him again, but her pleading fell away, unheard. As she stepped out of the church she saw his back disappearing down the main street into town.
'Reverend, wait!' she screamed. 'It’s me. Don’t you recognize me? It’s Mariah…it’s,' she frowned and shook her head. No, it wasn’t. 'It’s Elizabeth – Elizabeth Tanner.'
Her words echoed from the buildings, but no one heard because it seemed there was no one to hear. She started toward town, clutching the pack’s straps tightly. She had to find her father. He would know what to do. She had to make him see. It had all been a mistake, a horrible mistake. She had been ill – very ill – but she wasn’t dead. They’d got it wrong. She wasn’t dead.
Sunlight hurt her eyes. She walked with one hand up to shield them as she neared the edge of town. She had to squint to see more than blurred outlines and darker shadows. She heard voices. She sobbed with relief and stumbled forward. She thought she recognized the reverend, but it didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they would understand. They would help her. She had so many friends in the town; she had grown up here with them, they all knew her and loved her. Everyone did, and not only because of who her father was. If she could only find Benjamin, she could make it all right. They would find the wine, and the poetry book. They would go to the meadow and lie in the long grass and everything would be good. Everything would be as it was supposed to be.
'There she is!' a voice cried, cutting across the lie she was telling herself.
'Dear God!' another cried.
'It’s true!'
'She’s come back . . . from the dead,' a fourth cut in. This voice sounded drunk – and frightened.
Reverend Criscione stepped forward. He held two silver candlesticks, one in each hand, and had them braced in the shape of the cross. His eyes blazed with righteous fury, and though he did not step forward between his two companions, his voice boomed out loud and strong.
