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Mors non est finis.
Death is not the end.
For centuries, those born under the Carver name were fed this motto like children starved. They thought death to be the highest honour.
It was celebrated, worshipped, ritualised.
The private mausoleum held bodies of past relatives, keeping them as shrines for the living. A tradition intent on remembering only the most extraordinary of deaths. Verity wondered if her body would end up there. If her death would be good enough to worship.
Her mother's hadn't been, according to father.
It should have been.
And now she was forced to part with her mother's soul. Forced to watch as the coffin disappeared under the dirt and the body was left to rot.
Her sister grasped her hand, she had refused to let go. Little Vivienne understood perfectly what had happened. Verity had told her the truth. She knew that their mother was gone, and that what she felt was grief.
A man took a few steps towards the sisters, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight. Chuckles left his mouth as he looked down at the headstone.
"Don't mourn. She's more useful now."
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