The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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that this was it. There would be no new governesses, no new servants, no new staff. She
didn’t even have the money to place an advertisement down the coast anymore.
“They might be human remains,” Darya said.
“Nonsense.”
“Emmeline found part of a skull.”
“My dear. What does that have to do with me?”
They buried the bones, Darya and the cook, out behind the gardens when the children
were napping. They worked in silence, digging and scrapping, shielded only by the
rotten black trees that had once constituted—so Darya had heard—a rich orchard. She
tried to picture apples on those dark, slanted branches, and shivered.
The cook finished patting the last bit of earth on the mound. He spat on it, rubbing
his bald red head in the sun, and turned to go back inside.
“Should we mark it?” asked Darya. “The grave.”
“Ain’t a grave.” He made to move around her.
“But it…those…” Darya said, growing red. “They were human bones.”
The cook gave her a long, hard look. “Don’t make trouble for yourself where there
ain’t none.”
Darya blushed deeper. She knew that, probably better than this man and his
condescending advice. She had known it from the moment she had taken the position,
had given up her old life to come out to this estate, prepared lies on her lips (“Yes,
I’ve educated many children before; Yes, here are my letters of reference; Yes, all good
families, only the best”). Of course, it turned out that Lady Mordemag had only tested
her French, and briefly, and as her language experience was the one thing Darya had
not lied about, she was kept on. Looking back months later, though, she didn’t wonder
whether Lady Mordemag would have made the same decision, regardless of the strength
of her accents.
“Do you know who it is, then?” Darya said, pointing at the now-buried bones. She
thought they ought to share a little camaraderie, the two of them, even if they had never
been on particularly friendly terms before. The household used to be five times as large,
and that was in its destitute state—supposedly, at the height of its glory, the Mordemag
estate had employed hundreds. Now it was Darya the governess, the cook, and two
maidservants. And the bones.
“You live as long as me here, you don’t know anything,” the cook said, in a near
growl. His dark browns were knit over his eyes, and his thick hands were balled into
fists. For a moment Darya wondered if he would strike her. And then, she thought,
wouldn’t he be in for a surprise.
“Don’t mistake my curiosity,” Darya said. She leaned on her shovel, pressing one
sweat-soaked band of hair behind her ear. “I don’t care for justice. There is none out
here.”