The passenger door on the hearse popped open for Mrs. Kettleburn, who stood with the rest of the staff on the Dross manor driveway, dressed in black netting and over-pressed flannel. Rose stood at her mother’s side, watching with the others as the real black coffin—designed in dramatic glossy black, and topped with mountains of roses, per the old master’s request—was loaded into the back.

  “Not many request coffins over caskets these days,” Reverend Collins had remarked, when the box was first brought to the house. “Expensive, impractical…” were some of the reasons he’d listed.

  He’d tactfully left out creepy, and melodramatic, and generally vaudeville.

  Rose had followed him, silently, through the house, when he went to assist with placing the body into its final receptacle.

  “You’re sure he’s dead. He’s really… gone?” she had asked, at least a dozen times.

  Not sleeping, or drugged, or just maybe got too cold? She wanted to ask.

  Since the evening before, she’d been reading. Was there any way he could still be alive? Could dead people talk? But every source agreed—no pulse+no breath=no life.

  Kindly, the reverend had checked for her, each time, probably attributing her persistence to something less suspicious, like ‘grief.’

  He really was gone. Master Dross was gone, and the seconds were slipping through her fingers faster than they ever had, as though they were impatient to be getting on. As though they were ready to leave.

  “Wait,” she said, before the rest of the car doors closed.

  She stepped forward and tossed the lily she’d been carrying on the top of the pile of flowers, where it was immediately swallowed by a mound of thorns and petals. It was such a small offering. It made no difference in what was there, and yet, the reverend accepted her action as the others did—with nods, and dry eyes, and calm expectancy.

  “Where are they burying him?” she whispered to Louise, when Reverend Collins began his final remarks.

  “Someplace up North. Reverend’s got connections.” Louise shrugged. “The man wouldn’t take him himself, but they’ll put him somewhere public when it’s all said and done. Dontcha worry.”

  The staff and neighbors stood til the reverend was done, and Mrs. Kettleburn stepped up to say her final farewells, but it wasn’t the old Master she approached.

  “Well, Rosie-child. I suppose this is goodbye unless we run into you up north someday.”

  “It’s—it’s what?” Rose spluttered as Louise and Kettleburn shared another of those ‘looks.’ “You’re leaving, too?”

  “All the staff is,” Louise explained. “Hired off. New assignments. We were all just waiting until the Master’s farewell was settled anyways. Most of us are gone already, actually.”

  Rose’s mother said something in response that passed through her ears like a blur.

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  All leaving? All gone?

  Suddenly, Rose’s eyes were swimming, and she dove into the cook’s already reaching arms.

  “You’re sure? You can’t stay?” Even as she said it, Rose knew it was as futile as stoking a long dead fire.

  “Oh, don’t get all water-eyed on us now!” Louise scolded, joining the embrace. “If you do, we’ll get runny eyeliner, and we were doing so well, too! Made it through a whole funeral and everything!”

  “Don’t leave,” Rose begged, feeling the emptiness in her plea as she said it. She tried something better, feeling the weight of her pleas change. “Or if you do, then promise me you’ll write.”

  “Of course we’ll write, dearie!” Kettleburn promised, but she was already eying the empty passenger seat next to the reverend.

  “Leave me with an address at least.” Rose refused to pull away from the embrace until she’d at least been promised that much.

  “She really is grown,” Louise chuckled, pulling out a pen. “Here you go, Miss Rose. Best keep us accountable while you can, hm?”

  Rose’s mother said something else, and then left to mingle with the rest of the staff as they filed away.

  “Yes,” Rose agreed. “You two… I know you have your own lives to chase, but for me… I don’t know how to tell you how much you mean to me.”

  “Well now,” Louise wiped one eye.

  “I never,” agreed Kettleburn, misty-eyed, but still stalwartly refusing to ruin her makeup in front of the reverend.

  “With an ask like that, we can’t forget, now can we?”

  “You’ll tell me when you’ve gotten settled? Where the burial ends up being? If you two are alright?”

  “Hah!” Mrs. Kettleburn laughed at that. “Worried we’ll find ourselves a home? Don’t fuss so, little Rosie. We’ve done this all before. It will take more than a little transplant to make these old ladies wilt.”

  “But we can’t dally in the driveway all day, girlie!” Louise said smartly.

  “No indeed, we can’t!” Mrs. Kettleburn said distractedly, as George loaded her valise into the back seat next to the coffin. “Careful with that, George!”

  “I’ll miss you,” Rose said simply, holding tighter to them both.

  “You might see us sooner than you think,” Louise smiled, and with that smile, Rose’s heart broke a little. She saw the lie in that smile again.

  “Be a good girl now,” said Louise, detaching herself, she turned to go.

  “Oh, and before I forget now, Rosie, this is for you.” Mrs. Kettleburn held out a package.

  Rose took the crinkled brown paper hesitantly. “For me?”

  “Yes, dear!” the cook said brightly. Waving off Louise, she bent down to whisper: “I know you’ll want to come back to the old house someday, but try your best to stay away as long as you can, and when you do come… well, this will protect you during the daylight hours, but remember your promise, dear.”

  Rose looked up, confused. “My promise?”

  “Never go into the house past dark,” Kettleburn said sternly.

  Rose gaped, her mouth fell open.

  “You know. You know! Is he really gone? He can’t be! I promised him, and no one else heard! What’s happening Mrs. Kettleburn?” She demanded it more angrily than she should.

  “Hush, hush child. Yes. He’s gone. He truly is—”

  The words dashed at Rose’s heart, but she was too angry to cry. She was too angry for reason.

  “You knew. Was he really dead, then? Did you all kill him?” She was breathing heavily, voice raised, and she didn’t care who heard. Miraculously, no heads turned, not even her mother’s. They faded to gray in her vision, Mrs. Kettleburn the only face able to keep her attention for more than a heartbeat. They all acted like they couldn’t hear her. So she yelled louder.

  “Tell me! Did he even have to go when he did? You couldn’t let him have a few more days? A month? A year?”

  “Heavens, child!” Mrs. Kettleburn put an affronted hand over her chest. “Of course not! The doctor was there when he—when—” she cleared her throat. “He deserves this rest more than you know. But he keeps his promises, Rosie child. He keeps them. So you just remember yours.”

  With that cold goodbye, Mrs. Kettleburn sat down in the hearse and slammed the door, leaving Rose with a promise from a man long dead, and a wrinkled parcel.