Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XIX: Funeral Talk

It was late afternoon, and Elsa sat with Sir Sandy by the ruined arch at the entrance to Burlington Manor. Sir Sandy enjoyed getting out, particularly at this time of day. He could no longer see the golden sunlight shining on the walls of his ancestral home and warming the surrounding fields, but he often told her that it remained his favorite time of day. It was Elsa's as well, and she was glad to indulge his desire to sit outside as dusk approached. The air was growing chill with the sun's descent, and Elsa retrieved the old man's brown woolen cloak from the cart. While there, she put on her own as well. Returning to Sandy, she wrapped the cloak around his shoulders. The old man caught her hand in his own and gave it a small squeeze, favoring her with a grateful smile. She sat beside him, her face tipped toward the setting sun, savoring its warm caress. Sandy inhaled deeply.

My nose has learned something since my eyes failed me," he said. "So—mark this, Elsa—here between the myrtle and the wild strawberry patch, make my funeral pyre. Strip the turf east-west a foot deep—"

"This is mere mischief," Elsa broke in, trying to make light of what the old man had said. "Frightening me with your funeral talk. I'll laugh at you when you're a hundred." Despite her brave words, though, Elsa felt an odd chill. Shivering, she pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders.

Sandy gave a small laugh, but when he spoke again, it was in the same dark vein. "Lay a platform of slow-burning hardwood, spaces between to make a good draft. Then, pine laid crosswise—the sap will heat body and bones to vapour and to ash, which I will have scattered—"

"Stop!" Elsa said. She stood and turned away from him, huddling ever deeper within her cloak. "Is this a funeral for a good Christian gentleman?" She tried once more to turn this into a jest. "I'll tell on you as a pagan to Jackson when he returns from his campaigns."

"Jackson is dead, Elsa."

She spun toward him, feeling the blood drain from her face. "Who says so?"

"Jackson," the old man said levelly. "He told me himself."

"In a dream?" Elsa demanded, her voice spiraling upward. She rarely allowed herself to grow angry with Sandy. He had been so kind to her; he had cared for her as if she was his own daughter for all the years Jackson had been away. But this was too much! Frightening her so with his superstitions and foolish pronouncements.

Sir Sandy shook his head slowly. "No. A visitation in my sleep. I've lived long enough to know the difference."

"Well, he didn't tell me!" Elsa could hear the petulance in her own voice, but she couldn't help herself. Her entire body trembled and her stomach felt hollow and tight.

Sandy reached out a hand, searching for hers. Reluctantly, she grasped it.

"I'm so sorry, Elsa. I brought you here to know what I know. Your husband is not coming home."

He pulled her close to him and embraced her. Elsa resisted, not yet ready to credit what he was telling her; not yet ready to give in to the grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

"And this is why you thought to instruct me about your last resting place?" she asked in a softer voice. "Because your son will not be here to be instructed?"

Sandy swallowed, then nodded. His dead eyes brimmed with tears.

Elsa bent and kissed his forehead. "Then I grieve for you. But do not grieve for me yet. I also know what I know. Sir Jackson Overland will ride out of Burlington Manor once again and through the streets of Dorfeld with me at his side. May the forest gods grant me that, or I swear, I'll go and live in the Greenwood if they will have me.

Sir Sandy pulled her close again, and this time she returned the old man's embrace.

Come home to me, Jackson, she pleaded silently. Come home to this man who loves you so.