Ghosts swarmed the graveyard that brisk evening, hovering around the mournful folks of Briarwood. The Undertaker, a lanky man with a head full of snow white hair, lowered Charlotte’s mahogany coffin into the freshly dug grave with her initials carved into the box. Lucien trembled alongside his mother and father as silence befell across the land. Not even the children uttered a sound amid the graveyard.

His mother reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. Beneath her black veil, a lone tear trickled down her cheek, but she swiped it away. She didn’t say anything to Lucien, only sparing him a melancholy smile before focusing her attention back on the coffin in the ground. His father remained stoic at her side, gaze focused on the Cromwell plot they lowered Charlotte into.

Gone too soon her headstone read, and how sad of a truth that was. Lucien bowed his head as the Undertaker spoke a prayer for his sister. Part of him had hoped to see her among the other lost spirits, roaming the grounds, but she was nowhere to be found. Dread submerged in his chest as he considered the possibility of her soul restless somewhere else, but he held onto hope her kind spirit crossed over into the heavens.

A chorus of “Gods be with you” rang out among the graveyard, and Lucien choked on his own words. The floodgates reopened, blurring his vision. He didn’t understand why she was taken from them so soon.

Chills crept down Lucien’s spine as he turned around. The ghost of a young woman smiled sadly at him. Spiderwebs of black spilled across her porcelain face, making her resemble a broken doll. Lucien inhaled a sharp breath of shock, but when he met the mournful eyes of those around him, none appeared to notice her. And just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished into thin air.

Why was Lucien the only one who saw her? Ghosts played games with people all the time, but never during a burial service. Was it possible that she sought him out for a reason? She had died the same way as Charlotte, so did it mean something? Lucien loosened his grip on his mother’s hand, treading through the crowd of wizards with caution to find her.

However, his search turned up nothing, and he sulked back toward Charlotte’s new grave with rheumy eyes. Before he reached his folks, the Vales’ emerged from behind some headstones, each carrying fake rhododendron flowers, Charlotte’s favorite.

“Hey, did you get any rest?” Castor asked, his expression softening with concern.

“No, this is surreal. Like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.” Lucien shook his head. “Thanks for being here though. It means a lot.”

“Of course. I told you, anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask,” Castor said.

Lucien remembered his offer to teach him black magic, and he bristled to imagine wielding such deadly power in his hands. But when he gazed back toward Charlotte’s grave, a dark and twisted part of him wanted her killer to suffer the same way she had. Maybe there was some sort of middle ground, or maybe he was trying too hard to justify wicked magic that had been banned for a good reason.

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you and your family.” Mrs. Vale reached down to hug him. “Please, don’t be a stranger, okay? We’re here for you.”

“I will, and thank you.” Despite how many others had offered their condolences to him during the funeral, their words were the only ones that truly felt genuine. Lucien was tempted to hug her again just to spite the townsfolk gawking and glaring at them.

Despite how they whispered rumors of their involvement, Lucien knew better than to believe their ridiculous accusations. Just because they had knowledge about black magic didn’t mean any of them had cast the curse that killed Charlotte. What would it take to make them understand that?

Even his own mother glared at him, but he avoided her gaze and swallowed the painful lump in his throat. Her murderous eyes pierced daggers through his soul. He shivered beside Mrs. Vale, wishing he could have disappeared like that ghostly woman had.