Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
The music builds, becomes more complex. Individual instruments break away from the main melody to create counterpoints that weave through the procession. A trumpet here, a clarinet there, each one picked up and amplified by the acoustics of the narrow streets.
I start humming along even though I don’t know the melody. Everyone is humming or singing words in languages I don’t recognize. German, maybe others. The sound rises around us, human voices joining with brass and percussion to create something powerful and ceremonial.
The cemetery gates stand open, wrought iron painted black and decorated with ravens that seem to watch our approach. Jasper Crane, the gravedigger, waits inside, dressed in formal black instead of his usual dirt-stained work clothes. He falls into step beside the procession, adding to the growing chorus.
The cemetery itself has been transformed. Every headstone bears a candle. Paths between graves are lined with flowers—not the cheerful bouquets you see at spring funerals, but something darker. Dark roses and deep purple blooms that look almost black in the dim light.
We wind between the graves in serpentine patterns, the brass band never missing a beat. The music grows louder, more triumphant. What started as a funeral march has become a celebration, a declaration that death cannot diminish the impact of a life well lived.
Hans’s burial plot sits beneath an enormous oak tree, its branches spread wide enough to shelter the entire gathering.
The brass band forms a circle around the grave, still playing, still maintaining that hypnotic rhythm. The rest of us fill in behind them, creating concentric rings of mourners that pulse with the music.
The rhythm changes, becomes triumphant. Around me, people begin to dance—not the wild abandon of the Dryad’s Dance, but something structured, ritualistic.
They move in patterns around Hans’s grave, weaving between headstones, hands joined and faces turned skyward. The brass band follows, instruments gleaming in the gray light, creating music that makes the air itself seem to glimmer.
I find myself swept up in the movement, following steps I don’t know but somehow understand. Blue’s hand finds mine, steady and warm, guiding me through turns and spirals.
The dance builds to a crescendo that seems to shake the earth. Every instrument playing at full volume, every voice raised in harmony, every body moving in perfect synchronization. For a moment, the boundary between life and death feels thin enough to step through.
Then, suddenly, silence.
Complete, absolute silence that rings in my ears after the overwhelming symphony. We stand frozen in our dance positions, breathing hard, connected by invisible threads of shared experience.
Reverend Bridger approaches Hans’s casket, places his hands on the polished wood.
“Go well, faithful friend,” he says simply. “The doors between worlds are open today. Choose your path.”
The casket begins its descent into the earth, lowered by ropes that move in perfect rhythm. No mechanical winches, no modern funeral home efficiency. Just human hands working together to send Hans to his final rest.
As dirt falls onto the casket, each person in the congregation drops something into the grave. Flowers, yes, but also personal items. Dr. Finch drops a small notebook. Dame Gothel contributes a silver bracelet. Elliott places a perfectly formed pastry beside the flowers.
When it’s my turn, I drop in the compass necklace Dad gave me. The one that’s supposed to help me find my way home.
Hans deserves something that mattered to me. Something that meant direction when everything else felt lost.
Blue steps forward and drops in his pocket watch—the one he checks constantly, the one that’s clearly precious to him. Then he steps back beside me.
“It’s finished,” Reverend Bridger announces. “Hans Müller has joined the honored dead. Let us return to the business of living.”
The brass band strikes up a different tune—lighter, more hopeful. The procession reforms, but the energy has changed. People talk and laugh as we make our way back toward town, sharing stories about Hans, about life, about the peculiar magic of Grimlock funerals.
“That was beautiful,” I tell Blue as we walk.
He nods but doesn’t respond. The wall between us remains intact.
By the time we reach Maison Rouge, the sun is setting. The house looms against the darkening sky, all towers and Gothic windows that catch the last light.
Blue stops at the front door, finally turning to face me directly. But he doesn’t say anything.
I wait.
I wait.
Finally, I break the awkward silence. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blue
“Have a nice evening,” I tell Saylor at the front door, each word clipped and cold.
She stops on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, and I can see her building up to another attempt at conversation. Another push against the walls I’ve built between us since Hans died. But I don’t have the energy for whatever she wants to discuss, and I sure as hell don’t have the strength to pretend everything is normal when Hans’s body is cooling in the ground because of choices I made.