The man Jack stood outside the gates to the graveyard. The stranger stood inside the gate, and he locked it again, and put the key away.
“Where are you going?” asked the man Jack.
“There are other gates than this,” said the stranger. “My car is on the other side of the hill. Don’t mind me. You don’t even have to remember this conversation.”
“No,” said the man Jack, agreeably. “I don’t.” He remembered wandering up the hill, that what he had thought to be a child had turned out to be a fox, that a helpful caretaker had escorted him back out to the street. He slipped his knife into its inner sheath. “Well,” he said. “Good night.”
“A good night to you,” said the stranger whom Jack had taken for a caretaker.
The man Jack set off down the hill, in pursuit of the infant.
From the shadows, the stranger watched Jack until he was out of sight. Then he moved through the night, up and up, to the flat place below the brow of the hill, a place dominated by an obelisk and a flat stone set into the ground dedicated to the memory of Josiah Worthington, local brewer, politician and later baronet, who had, almost three hundred years before, bought the old cemetery and the land around it, and given it to the city in perpetuity. He had reserved for himself the best location on the hill—a natural amphitheater, with a view of the whole city and beyond—and had insured that the graveyard endured as a graveyard, for which the inhabitants of the graveyard were grateful, although never quite as grateful as Josiah Worthington, Bart., felt they should have been.
There were, all told, some ten thousand souls in the graveyard, but most of them slept deep, or took no interest in the night-to-night affairs of the place, and there were less than three hundred of them up there, in the amphitheater, in the moonlight.
The stranger reached them as silently as the fog itself, and he watched the proceedings unfold, from the shadows, and he said nothing.
Josiah Worthington was speaking. He said, “My dear madam. Your obduracy is quite, is…well, can’t you see how ridiculous this is?”
“No,” said Mrs. Owens. “I can’t.”
She was sitting, cross-legged, on the ground, and the living child was sleeping in her lap. She cradled its head with her pale hands.
“What Mistress Owens is trying to say, sir, begging your honor’s pardon,” said Mr. Owens, standing beside her, “is that she dun’t see it that way. She sees it as doing her duty.”
Mr. Owens had seen Josiah Worthington in the flesh back when they were both alive, had in fact made several pieces of fine furniture for the Worthington manor house, out near Inglesham, and was still in awe of him.
“Her duty?” Josiah Worthington, Bart., shook his head, as if to dislodge a strand of cobweb. “Your duty, ma’am, is to the graveyard, and to the commonality of those who form this population of discarnate spirits, revenants and suchlike wights, and your duty thus is to return the creature as soon as possible to its natural home—which is not here.”
“His mama gave the boy to me,” said Mrs. Owens, as if that was all that needed to be said.
“My dear woman…”
“I am not your dear woman,” said Mrs. Owens, getting to her feet. “Truth to tell, I don’t even see why I am even here, talking to you fiddle-pated old dunderheads, when this lad is going to wake up hungry soon enough—and where am I going to find food for him in this graveyard, I should like to know?”
“Which,” said Caius Pompeius, stiffly, “is precisely the point. What will you feed him? How can you care for him?”
Mrs. Owens’s eyes burned. “I can look after him,” she said, “as well as his own mama. She already gave him to me. Look: I’m holding him, aren’t I? I’m touching him.”
“Now, see reason, Betsy,” said Mother Slaughter, a tiny old thing, in the huge bonnet and cape that she had worn in life and been buried wearing. “Where would he live?”
“Here,” said Mrs. Owens. “We could give him the Freedom of the Graveyard.”
Mother Slaughter’s mouth became a tiny O. “But,” she said. Then she said, “But I never.”
“Well, why not? It en’t the first time we’d’ve given the Freedom of the Graveyard to an outsider.”
“That is true,” said Caius Pompeius. “But he wasn’t alive.”
And with that, the stranger realized that he was being drawn, like it or not, into the conversation and, reluctantly, he stepped out of the shadows, detaching from them like a patch of darkness. “No,” he agreed. “I am not. But I take Mrs. Owens’s point.”
Josiah Worthington said, “You do, Silas?”
“I do. For good or for evil—and I firmly believe that it is for good—Mrs. Owens and her husband have taken this child under their protection. It is going to take more than just a couple of good-hearted souls to raise this child. It will,” said Silas, “take a graveyard.”
“And what of food, and the rest of it?”
“I can leave the graveyard and return. I can bring him food,” said Silas.