but the fog still hung thick. As he neared his destination, it seemed to swirl ever closer, drifting in off the river to wrap them in its protective cloak. When at last they pulled to a stop, Jack could not see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he knew exactly where he was.
So did Billy. — Why are we at the hospital? —
— Wait here, — Jack ordered the boy. He jumped off the dray, his boots landing hard on the stones.
— When do we move the furniture? —
— Gotta see if it's here first. — Jack swung open the gate and walked into the hospital's rear courtyard. He needed to go only a few paces before he spotted what he'd been hoping to find: a coffin, with the lid newly nailed on. The name A. TATE had been scrawled on it. He lifted one end to test the weight, and confirmed that, yes, it was occupied and would soon be on its way. To potter's field, no doubt, judging by the rough pine.
He got to work prying up the lid. It did not take long, for there were only a few nails. No one cared if a pauper was properly secured in his coffin. He pulled off the lid, revealing the shrouded body within. Not so large, from the looks of it; even without Dim Billy, he could have dealt with this one.
He returned to the dray, where the boy was still waiting.
— Is it a chair? A table? — asked Billy.
— What're you babbling about? —
— The furniture. —
Jack went around to the wagon and whisked off the tarp. — Help me move this. —
Billy slithered off the buckboard and came around to the rear. — It's a log. —
— You are so clever. — Jack grabbed one end and dragged it from the wagon.
— Is it firewood? — asked Billy, grabbing the other end. — Don't it need to be split? —
— Just move it, eh? — They carried the log to the coffin and set it down. — Now help me lift this out, — Jack ordered.
Billy took one look into the coffin and froze. — There's somebody in there. —
— Come on, pick up that end. —
— But it? it's someone
— You want your ninepence or not? —
Billy looked up at him, eyes enormous in the wan and skinny face. — I'm afraid o' dead people. —
— They can't hurt you, idiot. —
The boy backed away. — They come after you. The ghosts do. —
— Ain't never seen a ghost. —
The boy was still retreating, moving toward the gate.
— Billy. You get your arse back here. —
Instead, the boy turned and fled from the courtyard, fading like a jerky marionette into the mist.
— Useless, — grunted Jack. He took a breath, hauled up the shrouded body, and rolled it out of the coffin. It thudded onto the cobblestones.
Daylight was brightening fast. He had to work quickly, before anyone saw him. He heaved the log into the coffin, positioned the lid, and with a few swings of the hammer nailed it back into place. May you rest in peace, Mr. Log, he thought with a laugh. Then he dragged the corpse, still sewn into its shroud, across the courtyard to his wagon. There he paused, panting, to glance around at the street. He saw no one.
Moments later he was back on the dray, guiding his horse down North Allen Street. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked his tarp-covered cargo. He had not laid eyes on the corpse itself, but he didn't need to. Whether young or old, male or female, it was fresh, and that's all that mattered. This time, the fee needn't be shared with anyone, not even Dim Billy.
He'd just saved himself ninepence. That was worth a bit of extra effort.
Nine
ROSE AWAKENED to find Meggie sleeping beside her, and she heard the clucking and flapping of chickens, the rustle of straw. None of these sounds was familiar, and it took Rose a moment to remember where she was.
To remember that Aurnia was dead.
Grief seized her in its fist, squeezing so hard that for a moment she could not breathe. She stared up at the barn's rough-hewn beams, thinking: This is more pain than I can bear.
Something nearby beat a steady tattoo, and she turned to see a black dog staring at her, its wagging tail slapping against a bale of hay. It shook itself, sending straw and dust flying, then trotted over to lick her face, leaving a trail of slime on her cheek. Pushing it away, she sat up. The dog gave a bored whine and headed down the stairs. Peering over the edge of the hayloft, she saw it trot past a stabled horse, moving purposefully as though late for an appointment, and it disappeared through the open barn door. In the distance, a rooster crowed.
She looked around the loft and wondered where Billy had gone.
So this was where he sheltered. She saw hints of him here and there, amid the bales of hay and the rusting implements. A depression in the straw marked where he had slept last night. A chipped cup and saucer and trencher were set upon an overturned crate, like a place setting for a fine meal. She had to smile at his resourcefulness. Last night, Billy had disappeared for a short time and returned with a precious cup of milk, no doubt squeezed furtively from someone's cow or goat. Rose hadn't questioned his source as Meggie had sucked on the milk-soaked rag; she'd been grateful for anything with which to satisfy the baby's hunger.
But while the baby had been fed, Rose had eaten nothing since yesterday noon, and her stomach rumbled. She prowled through the hayloft, rooting in the straw until she found a hen's egg, still warm from that morning's laying. She cracked it open and tipped back her head. The raw egg slid down her throat, the yolk so slick and rich that her stomach instantly rebelled. She doubled over, nauseated, fighting to keep the egg down. It may be the only thing I eat today, she thought, and I will not waste it. At last her nausea eased, and as she raised her head, she spotted the little wooden box, tucked into a corner of the loft.
She lifted the hinged lid.
Inside were pretty pieces of glass, a seashell, and two whalebone buttons, treasures that Billy had collected as he roamed the streets of the West End. She'd noticed how his gaze was always fixed on the ground, his thin shoulders hunched over like an old man's, all to glean a penny here, a lost buckle there. Every day was a treasure hunt for Dim Billy, and a pretty button was enough to make him happy. For that he was a lucky boy, perhaps the luckiest in all of Boston, to be so easily pleased by a button. But you cannot eat buttons, and you cannot bury the dead and pay for it with worthless glass.
She shut the box and crossed to the window to peer out through smudged glass. In the yard below, chickens scratched in a garden that was little more than brown stalks and vines, withered in the cold.
Billy's treasure box suddenly reminded her of something she'd put in her pocket, something she'd completely forgotten until now. She pulled out the locket and chain and felt a sudden flash of grief at the sight of Aurnia's necklace. The locket was heart-shaped and the chain was feathery light, a delicate strand meant for a fine lady's neck. She remembered how it had gleamed around Aurnia's cream-white skin. How beautiful my sister was, she thought, and now she's merely food for worms.
This was gold. It would buy Aurnia a proper burial.
She heard voices and peeked out again through the window. A wagon filled with bales of hay had just rolled into the yard, and two men stood dickering over the price.
It was time to leave.
She scooped up the sleeping baby and made her way down the steps. Quietly, she slipped out the barn door.
By the time the two men finally agreed to the price of hay, Rose Connolly was already well away, shaking the straw from her skirt as she carried Meggie toward the West End.
