The Accidental Afterlife of Thomas Marsden by Emma Trevayne

two things: that the boy was awake and speaking with his mother over his breakfast, and that he would indeed accompany her to the market.
    They stopped next at the graveyard gates.
    They crossed the river in silence that lasted until Marigold stopped him at the graveyard gates. “Let me,” she said, and as with the last time they were in this place, he let her even though he shouldn’t have. She grasped the iron, and muffled her scream as the new angry brand lay itself over the healing one.
    â€œIt didn’t hurt much,” she assured him. He had no choice but to believe her.
    The soil had been softened by their digging, and Thomas’s, and so it was quick work to pull Thistle from the earth and replace him with the coins Deadnettle put into another small pouch. He saw the moment comprehension broke across her small face as to why they were not just leaving her friend buried, but she did not mention it until they were almost back at the river again. Panting, they laid the body down, wrapped in its musty cloak, on the muddy bank.
    â€œIt’s been hurting you,” she said, and there was no hint of question in her voice. But she did not look at him, instead busying herself with finding heavy enough rocks with which to weigh Thistle down.
    â€œYes,” he agreed. “And this is not the time for me—for any of us—to be weaker than we absolutely must. Humans”—he spat into the water—“and their cruel, silly faery stories. Painting us as cunning, conniving, sneaky creatures, when nothing could be further from the truth. Any lie we tell hurts us, even when told to a thieving monster such as Mordecai.”
    By herself, in a burst of strength, Marigold pushed Thistle’s body into the dark, black waters. “There,” she said, calm as the river itself. “Now it won’t be a lie. We’ve done with him what we do with everyone who leaves.” Her face twisted suddenly into disgust. “Mordecai should do this himself,” she spat. “But he would have to touch us then, wouldn’t he?”
    â€œYes,” Deadnettle whispered. The relief was immediate, the burden lifted from him as surely as the stones were dragging Thistle to the bottom to join the others, where no one would ever find them. Peace, for them at least, but some for Deadnettle, too. Already he ached less, and his muscles felt stronger, despite the long and taxing night. “Thank you.”
    â€œWhy do they tell such stories about us?”
    It was nearly irritating, Marigold’s almost ceaseless talent for asking questions to which he had no good answers, or none of which he could be certain, butinstead a sadness lapped at him like the water at their feet. “I suppose because it would have been difficult to make us sound evil, back in the time when our land and this one were one and the same. Lies are reflections; in this case, a mirror was held to the truth so its exact opposite was told.”
    Marigold nodded and looked up at the lightening sky. “Where are we going now?”
    Filled with more energy, lighter on his feet, Deadnettle took Marigold’s hand and led her to the market. She seemed suddenly weary, but it had been an exhausting time for her, too. Mordecai wouldn’t be looking for them until afternoon, the fancy ladies who visited the Society preferring to drink tea in bed until at least midday, or whatever it was that such women did.
    It wasn’t difficult to locate what, or rather whom, Deadnettle required next. Mordecai and his fellow spiritualists were at the forefront of the craze that swept the country for contacting loved ones who had already crossed to the beyond. Indeed, it could be said that Mordecai was leading and the others scrapped at his ankles like terriers, but the fad had created people who catered to every aspect of the Mysteries.
    Whether anyone but Mordecai actually succeeded in efforts to contact the dead, or see into