Black Opal hesitated but walked into the tomb with her.
“Here, hold this,” she said, handing him the candle.
He took it and looked around the small, cold room. The light fell upon a coffin.
She forced the door closed. It was old and unused, and squeaked as it shut. As she turned she found Opal, visibly paler, seemingly holding his breath, and smiled inwardly.
“Thanks,” she took the candle from him and set it in a sconce on the wall. It smelled sweet inside a combination of long dead flowers, and long dead people. She turned to the suitcases now, opening and emptying one after another, pulling out all the blankets she could find. “I never thought these would come in handy for anything, but now I’m pleased I decided to pack blankets to give my baggage some heft instead of rocks or something else.” Her face seemed amused and warm in the golden light of the candle.
“Yes, that was a good choice,” Opal said absently as he leaned up against the coffin. “I don’t suppose that’s where you’ll be sleeping?”
“In a coffin? No, it’s already occupied.”
A look of disgust crossed his face, “Really?”
“He’s not terribly fresh if you’re concerned about the smell.”
Opal met her gray eyes, amused, and set his rather spectacular hat down on the coffin with a flourish. He looked down at the blankets spread out on the marble floor and sat down across from her.
“We’re sleeping here tonight?”
“It’s very safe. No one comes to the cemetery at night—”
“Except your master.”
She pulled some hardtack and her flask from some belt pouches. “Well, yes.”
The fop removed his pack and began to go through it, finding some apples and wine, and a hand-mirror.
“Ghost stories keep people away from Yetta. I figured that out when I was young.... Well, when I first had to hide from unhappy people.”
She took a swig from her flask, the whiskey was a welcome release from this dank cemetery. She lifted her eyes and found Opal staring at her chest unabashedly.
“You know, I can think of other clothes that are less conspicuous for a woman. Why not a dress after all?”
She appraised his purple ensemble as she peeled off her gloves, “Yes, let’s try not to be too conspicuous.”
Opal followed the delicate shape of her fingers and her hands as the gloves came off, revealing the three black tear drops, the tattoo of the Association. He uncorked the wine, “You said we were going to Lockenwood?”
“Uh huh.” She took a last drink of whiskey and laid down beside the coffin, facing him.
He glanced about the tomb for a moment, unsure where he was going to stretch out. “There’s not much room in here.”
“I know. That’s why I took the spot nearest the coffin.”
“Oh well. Thank you, my dear.” Opal quickly repacked his bag and tried to make himself comfortable on the very hard floor beside her.
“Aren’t you going to take off your sword?”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” He unbuckled his belt and set it off to one side.
She pulled a blanket over them.
He tried to relax within the mausoleum, next to a corpse, on a very hard floor...with Cameo’s breath against his neck. “I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“I trust you will.”
He could feel the press of something hard against his leg. “Are you still wearing your pistol?”
She laughed against the blanket.
He sighed uneasily.
After a time she said, “My master wants me to get something for him from someone in Lockenwood.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to go back to that place.”
“I don’t,” she said soberly.
“Don’t do it.”
She stared at his blonde ponytail lying on the floor in front of her, the curve of the his back in the tight lavender jacket. “I have to do it.”
The hopelessness of her situation frustrated her.
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Is he holding something over you? Blackmailing you?”
She snorted a bit in amusement, then said, rather defeatedly, “No.”
“Well, I don’t think I like this chap much. I don’t think you should run errands for someone if there isn’t something in it for you.”
She thought of the stab wounds that were now only scars on her torso. “I owe him.”
The floor pressed uncomfortably against Opal’s shoulder. “Do you sleep here a lot?”
“When I’m in trouble. So, it’s been a little while.”
“Hate to think of a lady sleeping out here in the cold.”
She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Uh huh.”
Cameo nestled in against his ponytail. “Your cologne smells really good.”
“Yes, Thank you.” The candle flickered as the wind started to kick up again.
* * * * *
Outside the sun was bathing the graveyard in a bit of a silver glow, and Cameo was sitting on a short, square headstone, eating breakfast. She was trying to absorb as much heat as she could from the stone beneath her thighs, which wasn’t much. Faetta had two seasons, winter and summer, and summer was long gone. She watched her own breath snake around her face between bites of bread, staring at the stones in front of her. It was early, and she was barely awake. She gazed mindlessly at the grass and dead leaves at the base and their shadows in the morning light. It stretched out toward her, it had form, and a torso—the shape of a man. Not far from it was another man, a shadow of a man, and then to her left, out the corner of her eyes, she noticed another.
She took a swig of wine. She realized there was a mob of shadow people surrounding her, unmoving, seemingly waiting her out.
Opal tumbled out of the tomb, holding the back of his neck; he did not seem to be able to stand up straight.
“Tell me again why I left Bellamy behind at that nice warm tavern?”
“I’m not quite sure,” she said, pulling her gaze from the shades.
“
Fun
. I actually think that was what I told him.”
Cameo appraised the purple jacket, which was much more crumpled than it had been a day ago, “That color is very lovely.”
He fixed her with a dark expression.
“Wine?” she offered.
Opal turned half-heartedly back toward the mausoleum, then stopped suddenly because his stiff neck would only turn so far before it protested. “Isn’t that my wine?”
“Oh, is it? It’s not too bad really—”
He took it from her and drank it down quickly.
“Yes, it does a fair job of numbing the pain... I suspect.”
“I can’t believe you slept in that place and aren’t even slightly sore.”
She shrugged. “We should get moving.”
“You’re joking, right? How about a moment to catch my breath?”
Cameo walked over to the tomb several yards away, “I need to get going.”
“Well, I need something to eat, and a change of clothes.” He dashed the empty bottle against a tombstone.
She turned swiftly to look at him.
Opal was up and was closing the space between them rapidly, “Ow....” He held his lower back but kept moving in on her.
“Look, if you want to work alone, fine.” He brushed past her and back into the mausoleum.
“If you work alone, you are just a walking target for the Association,” she hissed as she came in behind him.
Opal was going through his shoulder-pack; there were paints, food, and clothes strewn on the floor. Cameo looked down at the pitiful mess, and at Opal who was ripping off his jacket angrily.
She took a step back, uncertain.
“Does it really matter? You’re a target, too.” He faced her, trembling with rage, “Will I be less of a target without you tagging around?”
“Me tagging around?”
“Yes.” He folded his arms in front of him.
Cameo raised an eyebrow, her mood lightened. “All right.... I’m sorry I rushed you; take your time getting ready.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, yes, take your time. I’ll wait outside for you.”
Black Opal sat back down and began to collect his things, “You could always massage my shoulders a little.” The tenor of this voice changed, “I think that would help me hurry things up.”
She released a bit of muffled laughter.
When she had gone, he looked down at his things, all over the dirty floor of a tomb, and sighed. He missed having a washbasin and a hot cup of coffee.
* * * * *
“G’morning. Get your luggage for you, sir?”
A tall, slender young man looked at the wanted posters at the coach stop in Lockenwood. Smoke from a delicate clay pipe encircled his head as he turned to acknowledge the coachman.
“Get your luggage?” The man repeated.
The young man with the long, straight, dark hair and the black Association cape nodded, as if his mind were somewhere else, then went back to perusing the poster of Cameo.
“Met her once myself.”
“Oh, really?” The assassin glanced over at the coachman.
“Yeah, about a week or so back. She was a little thing, skinny, ‘bout so tall, but had these eyes—really creepy, almost like they had a filmy look—you know, like the dead? Yeah, didn’t help us much when our coach was hijacked by these two highwaymen.”
“Oh?” He cocked his head to one side clearly interested now.
“Yeah, no help at all. Just stood there and got robbed like the rest of us, but she left us after that. I think she probably wanted to kill them two,” he shrugged. “They did take her money.” He stood there with his hands on his hips for a moment, “That any help to you?”
The young man dropped some coin into the coachman’s hand as he boarded. “Is this the same coach?”
“That she took? Yes it is. We have only two, and this is the one with the purple cushions, so I know it’s the one.”
The man from the Association didn’t even crack a smile, just sat back in those purple cushions beside the local doctor.
* * * * *
Opal smacked his lips together liberally, attempting to evenly apply rouge to his mouth, then with a rather serene look on his face adjusted the black hat that matched his black duster.
Cameo caught a glimpse of his preening from the corner of her eye as they continued their trek through the graveyard. “You look rather smart in that coat.”
Opal grinned at her, “This old thing? I just found this at the bottom of my bag. I was thinking of donating it.”
“I see.” Cameo rifled through her pack. “Well, I think you should keep it.”
He smiled at her, “Oh, do you?”
“Do you have any more wine with you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The dandy preoccupied himself with his shoulder-pack, trying not to mess up the contents too much or he would have nothing but wrinkled suit-jackets.
“It’s getting colder. I hate the winte—”
The sound of a cannon blast rang out, and Opal looked up just as Cameo collapsed in front of him.
Opal was on the ground at her side an instant later.
“Winter....”
He pulled her behind a row of headstones nearby.
“Cameo....”
“Who was that?” she demanded.
They both glanced around the stones and noticed an open grave about ten feet from them.
“Two men.” Opal said squinting.
“Shot by a couple of grave-robbers,” she spat, almost amused by the irony in that.
“Where are you hit?”
“It’s not bad.” She pulled her Association cape around her shoulder protectively.
Black Opal leapt up, his duster whirled with a flourish, and he took a shot at one of them.
The man in the distance actually watched the shot pass quite far off the mark and hit a mausoleum to the left and behind him. Then he turned and seemed to be talking to the other grave-robber.
Cameo met Opal’s gaze, “You aren’t much of a shot, are you?”
“Why? What was wrong with that? Did I miss?” He ducked back down behind a blackened stone.
She pulled her pistol and a dagger.
“Where are you going? You’re injured. I can handle this.”
She moved out from behind the headstone. Opal was following her, his rapier drawn.
“It’s Cameo!”
She shot the man whom Opal had just missed, and in a plume of white smoke, he fell back into the open grave.
The man just beyond his wounded friend pulled his pistol.
“Ha ha!” Opal got to the second grave-robber as his attention was focused on Cameo, and he ran the man through before he realized what had happened.
The assassin jumped down into the grave with the wounded man. He was already bleeding from a stomach wound when Cameo plunged her dagger into his throat and chest several more times.
“Cameo, darling?” Opal was perched at the top of the grave; he reached for her.
She lifted several blood-stained wanted posters off the thug and handed them to him.
“What’s this, then?” He held one of the posters close to his eye and squinted as he read it, then incredulously said, “The so-called Black Opal fellow is wanted for murdering Prince Leon?”
Cameo bounded up and out of the grave, crawling further on the grass. She glanced over at the second robber, bloodied and lying dead on ground several feet from her.
“Well, this is all wrong. I’ve never killed anyone that...important before.”
She looked over the posters for herself, Bellamy, and Gail. “Apparently we’re a gang now.”
“Bel will love that one.”
“Can’t they ever get my face right?” He strained to see, “This looks nothing like me!”
“You are blind.”
Opal looked up, “What? Oh, most certainly not.”
“Uh huh,” she clasped her shoulder. “This explains a lot.”
He folded up the poster and stuffed it into his shoulder-pack, then turned back toward her. “That seems worse than you led me to believe.”
She sensed his gaze on her face as he came close and felt his hand on her arm, but she was collapsing, the edges of her vision were getting dark. She made one feeble attempt to push him back as she fell forward, her head pitched into his shoulder.
“Cameo?” He caught her. There was blood on his coat, his hands.
He rolled her onto her back gently in the cold graveyard. She had been hit in the chest not the arm at all. “Oh, my dear....” He bend over her and felt her breath against his cheek; it was somewhat labored but quite strong. “Cameo, can you hear me?”
She felt someone’s hand pressed firmly on her chest. She opened her eyes slowly. For a moment she thought she would see the black sky overhead, the stars...the face of Haffef.