A Day at the Inn, A Night at the Palace and Other Stories
Catherine Lundoff
Copyright 2011 by Catherine Lundoff.
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.
These stories are fiction.
Published by Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Ave, Maple Shade, NJ 08052.
lethepressbooks.com lethepress@aol.com
Book design: Toby Johnson
ISBN-10: 1-59021-378-5
ISB-13: 978-1-59021-378-0
For Jana, once again, and for all the editors and readers who have encouraged me to write over the years. With many additional thanks to Steve Berman of Lethe Press who always asks for more.
Table of Contents
Great Reckonings, Little Rooms
A Day at the Inn, A Night at the Palace
Introduction
I first began writing fiction in 1996 during my ill-fated foray into law school at the University of Iowa. I had just closed my bookstore and was looking for something to occupy me for the next couple of years while my partner, now wife, completed her papermaking apprenticeship. Law school didn’t just make me miserable, it made me telekinetic. I broke plates with my mind simply by walking into the room. I know it sounds far-fetched, but it’s all true.
In a desperate effort to preserve sanity and what was left of the kitchen, Jana suggested that I try writing a book. I was so excited by the prospect that I not only started writing a nonfiction book, I wrote my first short story at the same time. That story was “M. Le Maupin,” which you will find collected here, though slightly changed from the original. I submitted it to a little magazine called Lesbian Short Fiction and much to my surprise, it was accepted. And artist Alicia Austin drew an amazing cover for the magazine based on my story. I was hooked. I was going to be a writer. Law school vanished into the distance.
Fast forward to the current era and I’ve written a lot of short fiction since that first story. In addition to my lesbian erotica, which is collected elsewhere, there were romances, historical swashbuckling adventures, fantasies, science fiction, alternate histories and sundry other tales about queer women and men.
I grew up reading Dumas and Sabatini and Hope, dreaming about more active roles for their women characters. As I got older I researched the lives of real women who were pirates or who took up the sword and had adventures so it’s not too surprising that I would write about those women when I first put cursor to screen. Some of the fruits of that research are collected here. Aubigny Le Maupin and pirate Jacquotte Delahaye were real women, and some of the events in “Great Reckonings, Little Rooms” did occur the way I wrote about them.
Other events and other stories are more speculative. Considerably more speculative: other worlds, things that might have been, magic, all of these have always been a source of fascination and inspiration for me. My stories explore love magic gone wrong, a planet settled by humans who use noir films as the basis for their culture, the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays and the death of Christopher Marlowe as well as the perils of editing for small horror presses, among other things.
But I think I’ve said enough. It’s been a wild ride getting here and I hope you enjoy the fruits of that journey.
Catherine Lundoff
Summer 2011
The Egyptian Cat
Erica turned over the last page of the manuscript with a sigh. Somehow, a collection like Hairballs Over Innsmouth should have been more fun to edit. She wondered why writers were having such a hard time writing humorous cat-related horror stories that included an homage to H. P. Lovecraft. It should have been a snap. But perhaps the rewrites would look much better.
The thought cheered her enough to go and get the mail, even though it might contain yet more manuscripts. And it did. But along with the envelopes with addresses written in crayon and the one that seemed to contain nothing but melted chocolate, there was a box. She looked at it carefully, noting that although her name and address were printed on a mailing label, the return address was completely illegible.
She wondered if she should contact the bomb squad or something before she opened it. You couldn’t be too careful these days. Some of the writers who she’d turned down for her last anthology, Catnip and Hashish, had been pretty irate.
Finally she decided she was overreacting. Her writers were cat people, after all; their limited attention span would have moved on to some new source of fascination or irritation by now. She swept up all the mail and dumped it on the dining room table.
She opened the bills first, of course, then the manuscripts, but her gaze was drawn repeatedly back to the mysterious box. Something about it spoke of unfathomable mysteries beyond human ken.
So, after she had opened everything else, separated the mail into piles and fed the cats when their cries became too inconvenient to ignore, she reached for it. First she held it up to her ear to listen for telltale ticking sounds. The brown paper crackled reassuringly but apart from that, the package made no other sound. She cut open a flap in the paper on one side. Nothing leaped out or blew up.
She slowly removed the paper to reveal a completely nondescript cardboard box. Maybe it was shoes. Would a fan have sent her something as useful as a new pair of shoes? She doubted it. One of the cats uttered a piercing whine and she jumped. The cat, a large tabby named Sarnath, rubbed himself ingratiatingly against her leg while she pondered the box. Open it, the cat seemed to be saying. It might be treats.
“It might be a bad thing too, Sarny. You just never know.” She reflected that living alone had left her with the unfortunate habit of talking to her cats. And listening to them. Sarnath’s inscrutable slitted gaze met hers and she reached for the box as if under a spell. She opened it, though not without a remaining qualm or two.
But if she had hoped to see its contents immediately, she was doomed to disappointment. Whatever it was, it was buried under styrofoam peanuts that crinkled and rolled beneath her questing fingers.
But at last they encountered something hard. She shivered, then forced herself to grasp whatever it was and pull it from its nest. For a brief instant, she looked away only to find herself looking deep into Sarnath’s eyes. The cat had begun to purr, a deep, rumbling noise that should have been reassuring but somehow only served to fill her with a vague apprehension.
With an effort, she turned her head to look at the contents of the package, now cradled gingerly in her right hand. Slitted emerald eyes stared back at her and she very nearly dropped whatever it was. Regaining control, she found her jaw falling open in astonishment. Her unknown admirer had sent her a statue of a cat. And what a statue it was!
Clearly of Egyptian origin, it was made of some sort of black stone and covered with carvings that appeared to be hieroglyphs. A single gold earring hung from one ear and the eyes were greenest glass. Or were they tiny emeralds? She couldn’t be sure. She set it down so that it met her gaze with an impassive expression, filling her with both a nameless dread and an unexpected excitement, as if her life could be completely transformed at any moment.
It was at that same moment the doorbell rang, causing Erica to start from her reverie. Surely it couldn’t be Mr. McGillicuddy from next door again. He’d already dropped by three times this week and one could only borrow so many cups of sugar. Perhaps Phyllis and Felicia from her bridge club were right and he was interested in more than the contents of her kitchen. She groaned. If only…but there was no point in dwelling on what might have been.
The doorbell rang again, impatience clear in the length of the chime that echoed through the hall. Erica resigned herself to answering it. “Coming! Give me a minute.” She remembered to look through the gauzy curtain that hung over the door before she opened it. Even in Foggy Harbor, Massachusetts, there were criminals inclined to prey on a woman living alone.
But all she could see was that the person on her doorstep was broad of shoulder and wearing an elegant suit and a hat that covered her/his hair. He or she also had their back to the door and was looking out over the garden. She did catch a glimpse of dark golden brown skin as the person, whoever they were, raised one hand to brush away some speck on the beautiful dark gray suit. Erica’s pulse raced and she tried in vain to catch her breath. It couldn’t be...
She admonished herself to stop acting like a schoolgirl. Rashida Simmons was gone for good, along with any hopes she’d had in that quarter. Still she trembled as she reached for the knob and opened the door.
Her visitor turned, almost reluctantly, as if they too feared what they might see. An involuntary cry escaped Erica’s lips. The woman on her doorstep pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her short curls. She didn’t look up from the threshold as she spoke, “Hello, Erica. I’m sorry for dropping by like this. I’d have called if…I had the number.”
At that moment, Erica forgot the ten years that stretched between them, forgot the professional editor that she’d become and spoke her mind without hesitation or forethought. “Rashida Simmons, you get your ass in here right now! You’ve got some explaining to do!” She reached out with the strength born of desperation and yanked the other woman’s arm, pulling her inside. With shaking hands she locked the door behind her, sealing off any chance of easy escape.
Only then did she turn, chest heaving with pent-up indignation. Her quarry met her eyes this time as she took a deep breath and murmured, “It wasn’t like that, Erica. I had to leave Foggy Harbor. Let me try and explain but before I go any further, I have to ask: did you receive a package in the mail today?”
“You just drop by after no word for ten years to inquire about the local postal service? Things a little slow wherever you’ve been keeping yourself?” Erica shook in every limb, part of her longing to hurl herself into Rashida’s arms, part of her wanting to throw her out, never to be seen again.
Rashida winced but persisted. “Did it?”
“Yes. Why? Was it from you? Not that a token of affection wouldn’t have been too much to ask.” Erica uttered a most unladylike snort.
“Where is it?” Rashida ignored the snort, spinning around on her heels as if the statue would be lying around the foyer. She strode around purposefully, looking into each room as if she were welcome to do so. Erica sputtered indignantly after her as she discovered the study. “At last!” she cried out as she dropped into the chair in front of the statue.
The words were a spear through Erica’s heart. She forced that organ to harden around a rapidly widening hole. “Well, now that you’ve found what you came for, I suggest you take it and get out.”
Rashida studied her with large golden eyes, almost amber in the afternoon light. Erica strangled stillborn the memory of what they looked like at dawn when her former lover first awakened. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for Rashida to take her statue and go.
Instead, the other woman leaned her arms on the table and gave her a serious look. “I know you better than that, Erica. You could never have changed this much. Besides, you’re editing cat horror anthologies. You have to know why I’m here; you’ll never be able to sleep until you find out.”
So Rashida had been following her career? The idea was somehow soothing, warming the coldness of the hard-edged hole in the center of Erica’s being. Perhaps…but no. She forced the hope away. Still, it would be nice to know what all this was about. Rashida was right about that much.
She propelled her response out between frozen lips: “Oh, very well. But you’ll leave after you’re done explaining. I suppose you want tea?” Not gracious certainly, but far more than she intended. She cursed the good manners she’d been brought up with.
“Tea would be wonderful. Thank you.” Rashida smiled, and it was like watching dawn over the harbor. Erica very nearly melted, only just forcing herself to flee the room in search of cups and hot water. Rashida trailed after her into the kitchen, giving her no time to recover.
“You’ve done a lot with the place since your aunt died. I like it.” She held the words out like a peace offering and Erica grimaced, knowing that the ceiling was covered with cracked and peeling paint and the random stains of old leaks. Her small inheritance and the income from her books were scarcely enough to pay the property taxes and her own needs, certainly not enough for upkeep in a place this big.
A quiet rage filled her. “I’m engaged. To be married. To Mr. McGillicuddy next door.” She blurted the words out, unable to stop herself.
Rashida’s dark face paled and she looked away, as if from something she could not bear to see. At last, she murmured, “Congratulations,” so softly that Erica barely caught the word.
She cursed the impulse that made her invent such a patent falsehood and longed to throw herself at Rashida’s feet to beg for forgiveness. But pride held her upright, made her pour the tea and seal her lips.
Rashida rose, pacing, as she blew on her tea to cool it, her agitation clear. “I had hoped…well, never mind about that now. Can we go back to the other room? I hate to let the statue out of my sight for long.” She walked out the door and down the hall without a backward glance or even the saucer that Erica held out to her.
Erica followed her down the hallway, already making up her mind to admit that she’d told a little fib about Mr. McGillicuddy. But when she got to the study, Rashida was sitting at the table, eyes fixed on the cat, and she found she couldn’t say it. Instead, she picked up Rashida’s cup and smacked it onto the saucer with unnecessary force. “All right, so it’s clear that you didn’t come back to see me. What’s the story about the statue?”
Rashida brought both hands up to her face and rubbed her cheeks as if suddenly exhausted. “All right. You remember when my mother disappeared?”
As if Erica could forget the most traumatic moment of their high school years. Mrs. Simmons had vanished into the night, leaving only the briefest of notes for her husband and teenage daughter. She had assured them that she’d be back and told them not to worry. They never heard from her again.
Erica had spent months consoling Rashida; it had been what had drawn them together. How ironic that Mrs. Simmons’ disappearance was somehow instrumental in today’s events, too. “Of course I remember. The FBI never found a thing. Your father became a private detective but he never found any trace of her. Why? Have you heard something?”
Rashida reached into the front pocket of her immaculately tailored suit and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Wordlessly, she handed it to Erica. For an instant, Erica contemplated refusing to read whatever it was. After all, what did it matter now? But her curiosity was aroused. She took it, opening the envelope slowly and carefully as if something inside might bite her. A distant part of her brain noted the two-year-old postmark.
The letter inside was typed on an actual typewriter; there were even smudges where the correction tape failed.
My dearest daughter,
I hope you can forgive me. There’s no time to try to explain it all now – it wouldn’t be good enough for what you’ve lost anyway. Just know I always meant to come back and that I love you and your father very much. If I hadn’t left, I’d have lost both of you.
Now I have to ask you to do something for me. My family, generation upon generation back to our ancestors’ time in Nubia of old, were appointed as the guardians of a sacred relic. It is an object of great power and it must be protected from those who would misuse it. The time has come when I must pass it onto you, my child. I know you have started your training and are almost ready to take on this great burden. I will come to you soon to tell you more.
If you do not hear from me again, know that I am prevented from coming by forces beyond my control. I will send the object into safekeeping with friends who will guard it until you are ready.
Return to the beginning to seek what you need.
Your loving mother,
Keira
“I never heard from her again. I believe that she may have run afoul of forces trying to find the statue. I think my aunt and uncle knew what befell her, but feared to tell me in case her fate frightened me from performing my duties,” Rashida offered up in spectral tones.
“Not to be overly skeptical, Rashida, but are you sure that your mother was quite…right when she wrote this? Or that this letter is even from her? What ‘training’? What sacred relic?” Erica’s questions all rushed together until they emerged almost as a single sentence. She bit back a few others. Nubia? The Simmons family has been here in Foggy Harbor for generations.
“Still the same old cautious Erica.” Rashida smiled wistfully as she took the letter from Erica’s hand and carefully folded it before putting it in the envelope and tucking it back in her suit. “My aunt and uncle came to visit about a week before I left Foggy Harbor. They told me some of this back then but I didn’t believe it either. Not at first. But then they showed me some things and I…had to leave home with them. It was my duty. Can I trust you with one of my family’s greatest secrets, Erica?” Her face was grave and her eyes didn’t waver from her former lover’s.
Erica bit back a few more responses and thought about it through the numb cloud currently filling her mind. Even if she suspected Rashida was now as crazy as the letter writer, who would she tell? Her bridge club? Her publisher? Not likely. Besides, how different could this story be from anything she’d read recently? There was even a cat in it. She shrugged and sat down at the table. “Disclose away.” She sipped at her tea and waited.
Rashida stood and closed all the blinds and curtains, shrouding the room in twilight gloom. Then she walked over to the table and the cat. She raised her hands to shoulder height and a distant look crossed her features, as if she traveled across time. Her lips parted to emit a chant in a language that Erica did not recognize, one that was at once guttural and musical. The hairs stood up on Erica’s nape and she shivered despite herself, filled with a heretofore unknown sense of eldritch dread.
Rashida’s eyes were pools of molten gold, her face that of a warrior goddess of old. Erica could not tear her gaze away, though her heart cried out in fear that this new Rashida could never be hers again. The statue’s eyes began to glow as the hieroglyphics on its sides were outlined in light. A strange humming sound filled the room, vibrating its way through Erica’s china cabinet. The hieroglyphs blazed brilliantly, far too bright to look at, and Erica threw her arm over her face.
The humming lasted a moment more before dying away into silence, and the room went dark once again. “It’s safe to look now.” Rashida’s voice was reassuring but Erica still hesitated a moment before lowering her arm. The cat’s inscrutable emerald eyes glowed back at her.
She found her voice with an effort. “So does it do anything besides glow and hum?”
Rashida gave her a look of disbelief. “Of course it does. It’s an object of destiny, a source of ancient and terrible power.”
“Okay. So what does it actually do?” Erica was beginning to remember one of Rashida’s less desirable traits, namely a tendency toward the unnecessarily dramatic.
“It can be used as a weapon of awesome destructive power. And it can bring back what was lost and change destinies, perhaps even raising the dead if the user is powerful enough.”
Or it could just be battery-powered and you might be a few scarabs shy of a full complement. Erica stopped the words before they escaped her lips, focusing instead on Rashida’s first statement. “What do you mean ‘it can be used as a weapon’? What kind of weapon? Used by whom?”
“Only the followers of Set himself, clearly nothing you’d be worried about.” Rashida glared at her and Erica realized that she had been using the same voice she used on Mrs. Grayson, her neighbor who had early onset Alzheimer’s. “Very well,” Rashida said finally. “I can see that you don’t believe me. I’ll take the statue and go. I have one last task to perform in Foggy Harbor, then we need never see each other again.”
“No, wait. What are you going to do next? At least let me cook dinner for you before you go. For old time’s sake.” Perhaps she could find a way to bring Rashida back to a little of her old, saner self, she thought. Or get her to spend the night. She squelched the second thought.
The doorbell rang again and Erica rolled her eyes. “Let me just get rid of whoever it is and we can have a cozy chat. I’d really like to hear about what you’ve been up to.” At least I hope I’ll like it. She skirted around the statue as she headed for the front door. No point in taking too many chances. At least it wasn’t changing fate right now, and Rashida wasn’t bolting for the door.
The doorbell rang again and Erica found herself looking into Alex McGillicuddy’s faded blue eyes through the glass pane. She could have screamed with frustration. Instead she made herself open the door. “Hello, Mr. McGillicuddy. I’m afraid I can’t stop to chat. I have a guest. Did you need something?” Such as a shove off my porch? She held the words back. Clearly Rashida’s return was doing nothing for her good nature.
“Well, hello there, neighbor. I didn’t mean to intrude -- I was just hoping to get that recipe from you again, the one for that wonderful chicken dish you dropped off when I moved in. I seem to have misplaced the copy you gave me. But it can wait. I’ve got a frozen pot pie I can just heat up.” Alex gave her a look of pure longing that nearly made Erica roll her eyes before he turned away, shoulders slumped with rejection.
Damn the man. “Wait a minute, Alex. We can’t have you resorting to the microwave every night. Just follow me back to the kitchen and I’ll give you another copy of the recipe.” She ushered him, trying not to cringe at his beaming smile.
That was the moment when Rashida emerged from the study. Erica couldn’t help the tremor that went through her. After all, Rashida still thought… “Hello. I’m Rashida Simmons,” she announced before Erica could say anything. “I understand that congratulations are in order.” She gave Alex a stiff, wooden smile and clutched his hand in a death grip, white knuckles clearly visible.
Alex looked surprisingly alert, if a bit baffled. “How do you do? I was just stopping by for a recipe. Congratulations, you say?”
Rashida chose that moment to twist their hands so that Alex’s wrist was exposed. Erica caught a brief glimpse of a snakelike tattoo before he yanked his arm away and pulled his sleeve down. Rashida and Alex glared at each other as if they were about to engage in mortal combat.
Desperate to end the standoff, Erica began to babble. “Let’s talk about that later, Alex. Rashida and I were just going to sit down to dinner and chat about old times. Why don’t we head back to the kitchen so you can get on with your own dinner?” She seized Alex’s arm and steered him down the hallway with unnecessary force.
She couldn’t help but notice the glance he sent after Rashida as she receded down the hallway in the distance. Had he always possessed that gleam of pure malice in his faded blue eyes? It made her think of ancient temples, their walls oozing with ichor and unspeakable evil. The thought made her scowl fiercely at him. He blinked innocently back, which made her scowl more.
She snatched her recipe box from the stove and yanked the card from the front. “Here you go. Just copy it over and give it back to me when you get around to it. Have a lovely evening!” She flung her back door open and gave him a smile that contained no ambiguities whatsoever.
“Your friend seems very nice and of course I don’t mean to intrude, but perhaps we could all dine together. She seems as though she’d be very interesting to talk to.” Alex smiled ingratiatingly at her and made no move toward the door.
“Perhaps another time. We have a lot to catch up on. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Erica glanced pointedly from the door to her neighbor.
At a glacial pace, he stepped toward the door, mumbling words like “sorry” and “intrude.” Erica smiled and nodded, making it clear that her mind was somewhere else entirely. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he oozed out of her kitchen. She watched him make his way down the garden path and out the gate with a fierce enthusiasm.
Then she raced back to the study. An empty room met her eyes: both the statue and Rashida were gone. Erica delivered herself of several unladylike comments before she noticed the note at the edge of the desk. As she reached for it, a part of her could not help but notice that the room felt better somehow. There was no sense of dread, eldritch or otherwise, only her familiar comfortable furniture and her sleeping cats. She glanced at them as if hoping for answers, but only got gentle snores in response.
She opened the note, knowing what it would say. Rashida was gone for good, driven away by some nonsensical quest and the stupid lie that Erica had told her. In a moment of stunning clarity, she recognized that perhaps even a somewhat unhinged Rashida was worth having, at least to her, and she knew despair even before she began reading. The actual text only confirmed her fears.
Dear Erica,
I’m sorry to have intruded on you like this. I had forgotten how people’s lives change. Please know that I wish only the best for you in your future life and rest assured that I will not burden you again.
Yours,
Rashida
Erica was just slumping into the chair Rashida had recently occupied when she remembered something that the other woman had said. Something about “one last task.” Where could the long lost scion of Nubian priests guarding a sacred relic perform a task here in Foggy Harbor? She wouldn’t have gone back to the old Simmons place, surely. Mr. Simmons had passed on a few years back and the family who bought the place had done a drastic remodeling job. That left his old office and...Mrs. Simmon’s mausoleum! Of course, why hadn’t it occurred to her before?
Erica leapt to her feet and threw caution to the winds. She grabbed her purse and her shoes. Following some instinct she hadn’t known she possessed, she bolted down the hall to the kitchen and obtained a small flashlight and, after a moment of hesitation, a box of matches, several packages of salt, and a longish kitchen knife.
Had there been anyone to ask her why she chose those items, she would not have been able to answer them. Perhaps it was one of her own ancestors advising her, maybe a long forgotten Goodie Somebody or Other who narrowly avoiding meeting her death in Salem. Or perhaps it just was editing too many cat horror anthologies. But whatever the reason, the knife felt good and comforting in her hand and the rest felt like essential tools.
She seized her coat from the hook and made sure the cats had enough to eat in case she was gone for a while. The bridge club would take them in if need be, she reminded herself sternly. Then she was off like a shot on her bicycle, peddling as if her life depended on it toward the Shady Oaks Resting Place out on the edge of town. Rashida would be there already, if that’s where she was headed. Erica hoped for the best and rode as she had never ridden before.
Fortunately, the cemetery was not far away and traffic was light. Erica skidded to a halt in front of the locked gates moments later and wondered how she was going to get inside. Then she remembered that Rashida had another way in, a gap in the fence some ways down that she used when she wanted to visit the family tomb after hours. She rode her bike on a bit further, then chained it to a post near where she thought the hole was.
With a deep breath, she straightened out her coat and marched up to the fence. Her memory had served her well. An impossibly skinny opening met her searching gaze and she despaired. Then she heard the noise of an engine, one that sounded vaguely threatening, if an engine could be described that way. She shrank into the shadows and glanced around.
Alex was parking his car on the street near the cemetery entrance. And he wasn’t alone. There were two men with him, neither of them familiar, but both of an aspect that would have caused a braver heart than Erica’s to quail. They got out of the car and made for the locked gates of the cemetery.
For an instant, she thought of going home and calling the police. But what would she tell them? Then she thought of the way Alex had looked at Rashida when they met. There had been something in his expression that filled her with urgency. She found that if she held her breath and twisted just right, she was able to squeeze through the fence to fall, gasping, onto the soft green grass on the other side.
She could hear an ominous clicking noise from the entrance; they must be cutting or picking the lock. Brushing herself off, she rose and sprinted for the deeper shadows under the trees. Then she pulled out her little flashlight, and shielding it as much as she could with her fingers, she dashed forward through the tombstones and trees toward the Simmons mausoleum.
It took longer than she expected and she got lost once, but she finally found it. To the amazement of Foggy Harbor, Rashida’s grandfather had built the family tomb as a small stone pyramid in the midst of the more standard marble structures. It was trimmed with black stone and guarded by statues of Anubis and Bastet. There were even hieroglyphs, which everyone else in town thought was an unbearable pretension. Erica had thought so herself upon occasion. Now her nerves were so agitated, it was all she could do to approach the structure.
As she got closer, she noticed that the hieroglyphs were glowing faintly. Could Rashida be inside, unaware of her danger? Still, she mustn’t overreact. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that Alex presented any kind of threat. Perhaps he just enjoyed late night visits to cemeteries with large male friends. Large terrifying male friends.
Erica squared her shoulders and tried to remember where the catch for the door was hidden. Then she reached into the recess next to the door and opened it. The mechanism still worked flawlessly after all these years. Without stopping to marvel at that minor miracle, she slipped inside and let it click shut behind her.
She had expected to walk into Stygian gloom but to her surprise, the interior was lit with a pale golden glow. It was bright enough to illuminate the names on the memorials, including those of Rashida’s parents. Erica wondered who, if anyone, was buried in her mother’s tomb before she turned away, shivering a bit.