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Morning came far too early for Alana’s taste.
Neither she nor Margot had slept a wink. After Hannibal had disappeared with Will, they’d confronted and killed Mason and planted Hannibal’s hair in his fist before rigor mortis could set in. Then they’d carefully avoided the mutilated bodies strewn throughout the manor house and locked themselves in a room to call the cops. It had been surprisingly easy to sound distressed and in fear of their lives over the phone — once the adrenaline had left Alana’s bloodstream, so had any previous semblance of calm.
The police had been appropriately horrified when they arrived on scene and “saved” Alana and Margot from their hiding spot. Hannibal had done quite a number on Cordell and Mason’s guards. If Alana hadn’t been used to crime scenes from her time as an FBI consultant, she might’ve retched at the sight. As it was, she hadn’t needed to exaggerate her reaction, and Margot had pulled off a convincing faint at the sight of all the mutilated bodies and pools of dark blood.
Now, after hours of questioning, they stood in Margot’s bedroom, watching strangers in FBI and police uniforms stream in and out of the manor house two stories below. Alana had hoped to feel triumphant, but all she felt was dead on her feet. Her hips ached like a motherfucker. Margot hadn’t wiped away the tracks of mascara drying on her cheeks, and she looked as if she’d aged ten years overnight.
Yet they couldn’t sleep, not yet.
Margot wanted to bury her son.
They found appropriate shovels in one of the sheds on the property. It had stopped snowing for the moment, but dark gray clouds on the horizon promised more to come. Their breath solidified in front of them as they trudged through the snow towards the Verger family graveyard. Alana had borrowed a pair of snow boots from Margot, but even then, she needed to lean heavily on her cane to keep from slipping and falling. She carried two shovels in her other hand and used them as a second cane. Margot held the baby to her chest, cradling it as if it were asleep, but the illusion was shattered by the light blue baby blanket wrapped around it like a cocoon.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
The Verger family graveyard was several hundred feet away from the manor house and stables, hidden from view by a small copse of trees. An elaborate wrought iron fence lined the perimeter. Most of the anterior gravestones were large ostentatious things made of white weathered stone or marble, but farther back, the older graves were mostly marked by small tombstones or simple crosses. A lone crow swaggered through the snow, fixing them with one beady black eye before squawking and flapping away. Alana pulled her scarf closer to her neck. She followed Margot silently through the gravestones until they came to a stop near an old twisted tree by a long stretch of empty snow.
Margot’s breath furled out in front of her like pale smoke from a fading funeral pyre. Her green eyes were glassy with grief, distant. “I suppose here is as good as any.”
She placed the bundle down gently at the base of the tree and stepped back. Alana held out the shovels, and Margot took one, her gloved fingers lingering on Alana’s for a few moments longer than necessary. Then she picked a spot several feet away from the tree and began to dig.
The sky darkened imperceptibly above them as they cleared away the snow and cracked the icy ground with their shovels. The whole enterprise would’ve been easier if they had waited for the snow to melt and leave the ground soft and muddy, but there was something oddly therapeutic about the exertion required to break up the dirt. Alana channeled her anger into every push of her shovel. That one was for Hannibal threatening to kill her; that one was for all the betrayal and lies; the next one was for what Mason did to Margot, and the next for what could’ve been, in both her and Margot’s lives. Soon, sharp, shooting pain traveled up and down her spine with every movement. She had planned on working through it for Margot’s sake, but her distress must’ve shown, because Margot gently stopped her, took away her shovel, and made her sit down at the base of the tree. Alana cradled the bundled body of the child in her lap — it felt wrong to leave it sitting next to her on the frozen ground, somehow — and watched Margot work.
Margot was the picture of anger, exhaustion, and grief. Sweat and tears rolled down her face as she carved out a place for her son. Her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks, flushed red from exertion. Diamond tears glistened and froze to her eyelashes. She was beautiful, even in her pain, and Alana ached to pull her into her arms and put her pieces back together. Instead, she stayed where she was, knowing that it was not possible to fix someone who was broken. Alana herself was a perfect example of that.
Finally, the hole was big enough to be a grave. Alana struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on a shovel, and brought the bundle to Margot, who placed it gently at the bottom of the hole. They shoveled dirt into the grave until it was full and marked it with one of the shovels so that they could come back later with a tombstone. Then Alana and Margot leaned against each other, mourning together in silence, watching as the snow began to fall again and cover up the overturned dirt.
“Have you thought about a name?” Alana asked after a while.
Margot nodded against Alana’s shoulder.
“William, as a nod to his father. And Henry, after my great-grandfather. He would’ve thrown a fit if he’d had a chance to see how Mason and Papa ran this place. As it was, he’d disagreed with how my grandfather ran it once he’d retired. He didn’t want the pigs to suffer. He was all about more humane practices. But his son was all about the money.” Margot sighed. “I guess that’s where Papa and Mason got it from.”
“William Henry Verger. It’s fitting. Powerful. Regal.” Alana didn’t bother to mention how Will would’ve felt about it, had he known. She knew Margot didn’t really think of the baby as ‘his’ beyond his short-lived contribution. “Perfect for a Verger heir.”
“A would-be heir.” Margot’s words were so soft that they were nearly carried away by the snowy wind that stung at their exposed cheeks. “This baby was supposed to be my legacy. I should’ve known that I don’t get to have one.”
Alana tightened her grip on Margot. “You do, and you will. Mason can’t stop you now. He’s gone. You’re free.”
Margot shook her head. “I’m not free. I’ll never be free.”
“You gained control over a quarter of the Verger family inheritance after Mason’s incapacitation, and once you have this baby, you’ll have it all.”
“Except a womb.”
“You have me.”
Margot pulled away from Alana as a variety of emotions flitted across her face in quick succession: incredulity, pain, grief, gratitude, hope, fear. Her eyes were huge and wet. Snowflakes settled in her hair like a crown. “You’re...you’re staying? You don’t have to stay.”
Alana gripped her hands tightly in hers, as if she could transfer her absolute certainty through touch alone. “Where else would I go?”
Margot let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “You could go anywhere.” But she sounded uncertain, unable to tear her eyes from Alana’s. “You got what you wanted. You captured Hannibal, you saved Will, you eliminated Mason. What is there left here for you?”
“You,” Alana said simply.
Tears trickled down Margot’s cheeks. “You’d...you’d carry my baby for me?” she whispered.
“I’d carry our baby, if you’d let me.”
“Our?”
“Our.” Alana squeezed her hands. “I’m here to stay, Margot. If you’ll have me, that is.”
Margot’s lip trembled. Then she lurched forward and buried her face in Alana’s neck, sobbing and holding onto her as if she never wanted to let go. “God, I– I– yes. Yes. Please.”
Alana held her as tightly as she could. “I will. I am. I’m here.” Warmth and pure affection swept through her, and along with it, a new strain of protectiveness: for Margot, for the yet-to-be-born baby, for their future. “You’re going to get your legacy, Margot. I’m going to make sure of that.”