The grey light under the door was a cruel intrusion. It did not illuminate; it merely diluted the darkness, turning the deep blacks of the charnel house into grim shades of grey, making the shapes in the jars more indistinct and somehow more menacing. It was the light of the world outside, a world that had buried Elara Vane alive and that would hang Alistair Finch without a second thought.
They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the distant sounds of the city above beginning to stir. A cart rumbling over cobblestones, the far-off cry of a milkmaid. Each sound made Alistair's nerves jangle. Every footfall on the pavement above could be the one that stopped at the rusted iron door.
Elara had not moved from her spot on the floor. She had drawn his greatcoat tighter around herself, a fortress against the cold and the horror. Her eyes were fixed on that sliver of dawn, but she seemed to be looking through it, at something miles or perhaps just inches away.
"They will be looking for you," Alistair said finally. The words were hoarse, scraping against the silence.
She didn't look at him. "Who?"
"Your family. They buried you yesterday. They will have come to… to pay their respects. They will find the grave disturbed. The soil scattered." The image was vivid in his mind: the raw, gaping hole, the empty coffin, the frantic, horrified confusion. He had been the cause of that. The violation, which had once been a clinical necessity, now felt like a profound and personal sin.
A bitter, hollow sound escaped Elara's lips. It wasn't a laugh. "My family," she repeated, the words laced with a acid irony he didn't understand. "I would not be so sure."
He waited for her to elaborate, but she fell silent again, retreating behind a wall of her own. Her hand crept to her throat, fingers pressing against the delicate skin as if assuring herself it was still whole, still uncut.
The need for action, for some semblance of control, itched under Alistair's skin. He stood abruptly, the stool legs screeching against the stone. Elara flinched, her eyes snapping to him with a fresh shot of alarm.
"I need to…" he began, gesturing vaguely. "The… the evidence. It needs to be dealt with."
Her gaze followed his to the canvas sack, still slumped by the wheelbarrow, stained with fresh earth. To the tools on the slab. The reality of what he had almost done lay between them, a specter that couldn't be ignored.
He moved to the slab first, gathering the scalpel, the probes, the saw. His hands, which were usually so steady in this very act, now trembled. He cleaned each instrument with methodical, frantic care, scrubbing away non-existent blood with a rag and strong-smelling alcohol, the scent making his eyes water. He needed to erase the intention, to purify the tools for their original, sacred purpose: to heal.
Every clink of metal on metal was a gunshot in the quiet. He could feel Elara's eyes on his back, watching his every move. Was she judging him? Calculating her chances? He was a caged animal, and she was the one holding the key to the lock, if only she knew how to turn it.
When the tools were clean and stored away in their chest, he turned to the sack. This was harder. It was heavy, not just with the weight of the soil, but with the weight of his crime. He couldn't just dispose of it. The earth was fresh, different from the London clay that surrounded the charnel house. It would be noticed.
"I have to put it back," he said, more to himself than to her.
Elara stared at him, her horror returning. "Back?"
"The soil. It has to go back into the grave. If it's found scattered… the investigation will be more intense. They might look harder. They might find… this." He gestured around the basement. "It has to look like nothing was taken."
The sheer, audacious madness of the plan hung in the air. He would have to return to the cemetery. In the daylight. And refill the grave he had emptied last night.
"You're mad," she breathed, and for the first time, it sounded less like an accusation and more like a statement of awe.
"Perhaps," he agreed, a weary resignation settling over him. "But it is the only way. For both of us now."
He began to heave the sack into the wheelbarrow, his muscles straining. The effort was a relief, a physical pain to distract from the churning in his gut.
"You can't go out there," Elara said, her voice gaining strength. "Not now. It's morning. Someone will see you."
"I have no choice."
"Then I will come with you."
He froze, halfway through lifting the sack. "Absolutely not."
"Why? Are you afraid I'll run? Scream?" she challenged, a flicker of her spirit returning. "Where would I go, Alistair? Look at me." She gestured at herself, swamped in his coat, pale as the specimen in the jars, her hair still caked with bits of dirt. "I look like a ghost who robbed a second-hand clothes stall. The first constable who saw me would lock me in a madhouse. Or return me to my family." A shadow passed over her face at the last words, a darkness he couldn't decipher.
She had a point. Leaving her here alone was a risk. What if she decided the madhouse was a better option than his cellar? What if she tried to leave, stumbled, and was found? Her presence was a threat, but her absence could be a catastrophe.
"You are too weak," he argued, a last, desperate defense.
"I am alive," she countered, her hazel eyes blazing with a fierce, newfound light. "And I intend to stay that way. That means ensuring you are not caught dragging a sack of grave-dirt through the streets in broad daylight. I can watch. I can warn you. I can…" She faltered, the burst of energy leaving her. She slumped against the shelf, a cough building in her chest. She fought it down, swallowing hard. "I can be a pair of eyes."
The offer, born of sheer survival instinct, was the first thread of collaboration. It was not trust. It was a pact between two prisoners in the same condemned cell.
After a long, tense moment, Alistair gave a single, curt nod. "Stay close. And stay quiet."
Preparing to leave was a surreal pantomime. He found an old, moth-eaten scarf and a worn flat cap for her to wear, anything to hide her face and her dirt-streaked hair. Wrapped in the oversized coat and bundled in the scarf, she looked like a pile of rags with eyes. It would have to do.
He cracked the iron door open, the groan of its hinges sounding deafening in the morning air. The alley outside was narrow and choked with shadows, the tall buildings on either side blocking the weak morning sun. The air, thick with the smell of coal smoke and sewage, was still a shocking improvement over the cellar.
Elara hesitated on the threshold, breathing in the foul air as if it were the sweetest perfume. She was seeing the world with the eyes of someone returned from the dead. A single, fat tear traced a clean path through the grime on her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, her expression hardening into one of grim determination.
They moved through the labyrinthine alleys of the East End, a bizarre procession. Alistair pushed the wheelbarrow, its wheel squeaking a protest with every revolution. Elara walked slightly ahead, her head constantly moving, scanning every corner, every window, every potential witness. Her vigilance was unnerving. She was right; he had been prepared to be reckless. Now, with her watching, every sound made him jump.
They saw a few souls, a beggar huddled in a doorway, a washerwoman already hanging linens, her red hands raw from the cold. Each time, Elara would freeze, holding up a hand in a silent signal. They would press themselves into a doorway or behind a stack of crates, holding their breath until the coast was clear. She was surprisingly adept at it, moving with a natural stealth that spoke of a life lived with caution long before her burial.
The gate of Saint Bartholomew's cemetery was, thankfully, still quiet. The main traffic of mourners would not arrive for another hour. They slipped inside, the world dropping away into a silence broken only by the cawing of crows.
The sight of the disturbed grave was even more ghastly in the daylight. The raw, brown earth was a violent wound against the green grass. The empty coffin lay exposed at the bottom, a stark, wooden accusation.
A fresh wave of nausea hit Alistair. Elara stopped dead at the edge of the plot, her hand flying to her mouth. Her breath hitched. She was staring into her own grave.
"Don't look," Alistair said, his voice softer than he intended.
"I have to," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I have to know it's real."
He didn't try to stop her. He simply began to work, shoveling the pile of earth back into the hole with a frantic, desperate energy. The thud of soil on wood was a morbid drumbeat. He was sweating despite the chill, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every second felt like an hour.
Elara stood sentinel, her back to him, watching the gate. But every few moments, her head would turn, just slightly, and he would see her profile, pale and set, her eyes fixed on the hole in the ground that had been meant for her eternity.
He was almost finished, the grave nearly filled, when she suddenly stiffened. Her hand shot up, clenched into a fist.
Alistair froze, spade in hand.
Voices. Drifting from the path near the gate. Two groundskeepers, starting their morning rounds.
His blood ran cold. There was nowhere to hide. The wheelbarrow, the spade, the freshly turned earth, it was all a confession.
Elara didn't panic. Her eyes darted around, then locked on a large, ornate mausoleum a few yards away, its door slightly ajar. She moved quickly, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward it. He dropped the spade and followed, too stunned to resist.
They squeezed through the narrow opening into the cold, dark interior just as the groundskeepers rounded the corner. The smell of dust and decay was overwhelming. Through the crack in the door, Alistair watched the two men pause near Elara's grave. One of them nudged the fresh soil with his boot.
"'Ey, look at this. Animals, prob'ly. Dug it right up." "Bloody pests.I'll fetch a rake to smooth 'er over. No one'll notice."
They moved on, their voices fading.
In the profound darkness of the tomb, Alistair's every sense was heightened. He could feel the press of Elara's shoulder against his arm. He could hear the ragged, controlled rhythm of her breathing. He could smell the faint scent of her damp earth, sweat, and beneath it, the cloying sweetness of illness.
They stood there for a full five minutes after the men had gone, not moving, not speaking. The shared danger, the closeness in the dark, had forged a new, unspoken understanding between them.
Finally, they emerged back into the grey light. Without a word, Alistair finished smoothing the earth over the grave, making it look as undisturbed as possible. The act was complete. The body was gone, but the grave was filled. It was a perfect, terrible cover-up.
The journey back to the charnel house was made in a silence that was no longer just fraught with fear, but with a shared, exhausting trauma. They had faced the world together and retreated back into their shared secret.
Back in the basement, with the iron door bolted shut behind them, the reality of their situation settled back upon them, heavier than before. They were bound together now, not just by secret, but by action.
Elara sank back onto the floor, spent. The brief outing had cost her dearly. Her face was grey with fatigue, a sheen of sweat on her brow.
Alistair watched her, the frantic energy of the morning gone, replaced by a deep, weary hopelessness. He had a witness to his crime living in his basement. He had just involved her in covering it up. There was no going back.
He walked to his apothecary table and began preparing a proper draught for her cough, measuring out elecampane and lungwort with a practiced hand. He added a few drops of a gentle febrifuge to bring down the fever he could see building in her.
He brought it to her. This time, she took it without hesitation, her fingers brushing his again. A repeat of that tiny, electric contact.
"Why did you say that?" he asked quietly, as she drank. "About your family? That you weren't sure they'd be looking?"
She lowered the cup, her eyes guarded. She studied him for a long moment, as if deciding whether this new layer of hell warranted a new layer of truth.
"Because," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "the last thing I remember before the fever took me was my stepbrother, standing over my bed. And he wasn't weeping. He was smiling."