Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Thatcher Moretti is a Marine vet, identical twin, full-time bodyguard to Jane, and the only person who’s breeched the Cobalt walls. It took a literal Marine to enter my family. I’m not so sure it will happen as easily again, and it wasn’t really easy for him. For months, we all tested him with a series of elaborate Truth or Dares. Prying into his personal life. Seeing how far he’d go for Jane.
He’s bouncing their unusually fussy nine-month-old in his arms. Maeve Rose Moretti. My niece is the only one crying. And it’s a literal conundrum how no one is commenting on the baby bawling at a funeral.
Mom has her fingers to her temple in a slight cringe, hating infant cries, but it’s obvious she absolutely adores Maeve because she’s not banishing the baby out of the circle.
“Shh, shh,” Thatcher coos, rubbing Baby Maeve’s back.
Jane waves a very old stuffed animal. “Look, Mr. Lion! You love Mr. Lion.”
Tom cringes at the ratty toy. “Ew,” he whispers, trying to save his voice. Thankfully no vocal bruising. It was just strained, Farrow diagnosed.
“I bleached Mr. Lion,” Jane says. “He’s good as new.”
Tom opens his mouth to respond, but Eliot kicks Tom’s shins. He shuts up.
Jane’s blue eyes flit to me, then she also goes quiet.
They’re being really obvious now.
“Shall we begin, Mother?” Audrey asks.
“Yes, that silence was long enough.”
Agreed.
Our mom hands out white roses from a bouquet to each of us. I swear she tries to smile warmly at me, and her face makes a robotic twitch.
What the fuck is happening?
When she returns to our dad, I hear him whisper, “You’re overdoing it, darling.”
She smacks his side. “He’s watching us.”
Our dad makes direct eye contact with me, and I give him a short, confused headshake. His features are impossible to read.
So I just try to concentrate on Theodore. He’s why we’re all here. I think.
Audrey has on black silk gloves. Reaching down, she takes my hand, and my chest swells with more emotion as I feel my sister trying to comfort me over seeking comfort for herself.
“Theodore,” she says. “You were beloved. And I would like to read a poem in your honor.” She takes a deep breath before reciting it by memory. “‘Do not stand…By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep—I am the thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond that glints in snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain.’”
I recognize the poem. “Immortality” by Clare Harner. Tom has recited it a handful of times at Wednesday Night Dinners.
I’ve never heard Audrey deliver it, and in her whimsical, breathless voice, it twists the raw parts of me.
“‘As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush. Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the day transcending night. Do not stand…By my grave, and cry—I am not there.’” She exhales deeply. “‘I did not die.’”
I blink, expecting tears. Waterworks. Something.
Emotions feel coiled inside my chest. Tightly balled rather than unspooled threads. “That was beautiful, Audrey,” I breathe. “Thanks.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and cup the back of her skull below her hat, trying to let her know I don’t need the comfort. I’m okay.
“Theodore.” Mom tosses her white rose onto the grave. “What can I say about you? You were a beloved winged creature that didn’t abide by nightly quiet hours. You once yanked my diamond necklace right off my throat when I graciously changed your water. And your favorite word to mimic was Satan, to which I blame Eliot and Tom as your teachers.”
Eliot mutters, “Terrific student.”
“The best,” Tom whispers.
They set their roses on the dirt.
Mom continues, “But you would also say, bird, and I found that endearing in its self-awareness. All in all, you weren’t bad.” She intakes a sharp breath. “I guess…I will miss you.” She eyes me and adds, “Very much.”
I smile now. That sounds like her, and it’s about as good of an admission of my mom liking Theodore as I’ll ever get. Dad squats down and puts the white rose on the dirt. “Memoria De valens vivat tamque vestri.”
I can’t translate the Latin, but I think it has something do with memorial…memory?
Audrey nods like she understands it, and I have no doubt Jane and my brothers know the translation too. But it’s one of those many times in my family that I’m not really in the mood to ask for it.
Charlie says nothing, just places the rose with the others.
“You’ll be missed,” Beckett whispers, crouching to rest his rose on the earth.
“Forever loved and cherished,” Jane says in her breezy tone. Another rose tossed.
Thatcher adds his flower to the stack, then helps Baby Maeve with hers. Jane is seriously smitten.
I’m up last, and my knees sink into the dirt. I press a hand to where I buried the shoebox. “We had a good run,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.” It was my fault. I’m sorry. “Thank you.” I nod a couple times, then stand back up.