Part 10 (1/2)

James held my hand tighter. ”Do you think she'll come back again?”

”I hope not,” I said, but I couldn't hide the uncertainty in my voice.

”Perhaps her spirit isn't here anymore,” James said. ”Perhaps she's with Mama and Papa.” He looked at me as if for confirmation.

I nodded, hoping it was true.

”Maybe she's not angry now,” James said softly. ”Maybe she's not jealous. Maybe she knows now that she can't change her fate.”

I nodded again, still hoping it was true, still not sure. Sophia was not the sort who would accept what could not be changed.

”I miss her sometimes,” James said. ”She wasn't always mean, you know. She could be quite nice when she wanted to be.”

”I'm glad to hear that.” I stared at the gravestone, warmed by the afternoon sun. It was almost impossible to picture Sophia lying peacefully six feet below us, tucked into her grave as snugly as a child is tucked into bed. All that anger, all that energy-where had it gone?

For a moment, the gra.s.s over Sophia moved as if something deep down below stirred in its sleep. With a flash of terror, I remembered what she'd told me about crawling from her grave six months after her death. I backed away, almost tripping on a tree root. Six months, I thought. Six months today.

Unaware of my distress, James contemplated Sophia's headstone. ”Can we sit here for a while?” he asked. ”I have a mind to draw a picture of my sister's grave.”

I wanted to say no. I did not like graveyards, especially this one, but he'd already sat down and spread his art supplies on the gra.s.s.

While James sketched, I resisted the urge to seize his arm and pull him away. Perhaps I was being overly cautious, but I did not dare risk disturbing Sophia. Anything might rouse her-the scritch-scratch of James's pencil, the sad calls of the pigeons, the wind in the gra.s.s, even the soft sound of my breath or the solemn beat of my heart.

”James,” I whispered. ”We should go home. Uncle will wonder where we've gone.”

He looked at me and smiled. ”All right. I've finished my drawing.”

As James gathered his things, I glanced at his picture. He'd drawn not only the tombstone, but his sister as well, standing in its shadow, blending in with the trees behind her. I couldn't be sure if she was smiling or frowning.