A Murder of Crows

I | A Most Dismal Prospect (Part 1)

The worst part was not being allowed to scream.

If I'd had it my way, everyone from the hunch-backed pallbearers, to the long-faced priest, to the undertaker with his black hat and long coat would have gotten a scream in the face, just so they'd know exactly how I felt about the whole affair. Unfortunately, the proper bearing for funerals is non-negotiable: you are to shed tears (but not bawl), be respectful (but not dour), and stand up straight and tall throughout the long-winded preaching (all without being too stiff). Considering that, screaming is not generally considered appropriate, even when you think it should be.

Even when it's a better option than breaking things.

Even when it's your dad who's died.

The undertaker had brought him into the house the previous evening, all readied for the Resting. So, while Mother and William dressed upstairs, I sneaked down to our black-curtained parlour to spend one last morning with my father.

The first thing I noticed were the Deathmarks. It was the first time I'd actually seen Deathmarks, but they weren't difficult to recognize. Lines and circles covered Dad's face and hands in a dizzying pattern of ash, drawn on his skin by the undertaker to make sure his spirit didn't end up haunting our attic, to protect all of us from stray magic, and to keep Dad intact for the Resting. The sight of them made my skin crawl. The Marks weren't anything like magicians' spells, but they still held power. And more than anything else, the Marks were a certain sign that the mourning drapes, the coffin, the silence left behind in his absence – all of it was real. He was gone. And there was nothing any of us could do about it.

I didn't even notice when William came downstairs – our creaky old steps never made so much as a single complaint for him: my brother was too small and sneaky. I only noticed when he stepped up next to me, lifting himself onto tiptoes to see into the casket. With a sigh, he fell back onto his heels and said:

'It doesn't look right, Abby.'

I gave him a look – the look, if you know what I mean. 'Of course it doesn't,' I said. 'He's dead.'

Still, I turned back to Dad, lying there in the middle of our parlour, and I had to admit that William was right: despite the arrangements (and even ignoring the Deathmarks) there was something off about it – something that didn't quite make sense. Dad's hands lay folded across his chest: he looked more like a doll or some sort of waxwork than my father. Even sleeping, Dad was never so still.

Yet, somehow, we'd mistaken it for sleep at first. The morning he died had been traitorously bright and blue and beautiful, and waking late, I wondered why Dad wasn't already up. He was usually up before the rest of us – examining plants in his study, or tending to the overgrown patch of yard out back that he insisted on calling the garden. But the house lay silent: he was nowhere to be found, and so at last, I knocked on his half-open door to find him pale and still and sleeping – or so I thought.

It wasn't until Mother came by with a kiss to wake him that we knew.

The doctor was called, and the coroner, and a pair of pale-faced lawyers came by to talk to Mother about 'necessary considerations' – which I guess is what lawyers call all the paperwork they need to do when someone dies. All the while, I sat with William in our parlour, going over my Defences and helping him with his smoke bombs and watching the bustle of strangers pass through our house. And all the while, I wondered, how could any of this be real?

But finally, at the end of the day, after the coroner had satisfied himself with his poking and probing and Mother had talked to a priest about the funeral arrangements (she had needed to sell her favourite pearl earrings to pay for all of it), after the sun had set and the house had darkened, after even William had gone upstairs, I was left in our empty parlour to stare at the dying fire and wonder about a different question, the most obvious question, the one question that no one else seemed bothered about asking: