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    Where The Heart Lives
    Where The Heart Lives
    Where The Heart Lives
    Ebook67 pages1 hour

    Where The Heart Lives

    By Marjorie Liu

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    About this ebook

    When Lucy is cast out by her father, she finds shelter and employment with the mysterious, golden-eyed caretaker of a small, rural cemetery. There, against all odds, she discovers a safe haven, acceptance—and, perhaps, love. But this new home is haunted by secrets, and a terrible, unnatural loss that is linked to the forest that surrounds them. It harbors its own deadly mysteries—as well as a cunning, powerful, force that desires nothing more than complete control over Lucy's soul.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarjorie Liu
    Release dateAug 22, 2012
    ISBN9780615685748
    Where The Heart Lives
    Author

    Marjorie Liu

    Marjorie Liu is the New York Times bestselling author of the Monstress series, illustrated by Sana Takeda. She also writes for Marvel Comics, including Black Widow, X-23, and Astonishing X-Men. Marjorie teaches comic book writing at MIT and divides her time between Boston, Massachusetts, and Tokyo, Japan.

    Read more from Marjorie Liu

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      Book preview

      Where The Heart Lives - Marjorie Liu

      WHERE THE HEART LIVES

      By Marjorie M. Liu

      ***

      Copyright © 2007 by Marjorie M. Liu

      Smashwords Edition

      ***

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

      CONTENTS

      Where The Heart Lives

      Within the Flames, Sample Chapter

      The Mortal Bone, Sample Chapter

      WHERE THE HEART LIVES

      By Marjorie M. Liu

      When Miss Lindsay finally departed for the world beyond the wood, it meant that Lucy and Barnabus were the only people left to care for her house and land, as well as the fine cemetery she had kept for nearly twenty years outside the little town of Cuzco, Indiana. It was an important job, not just for Lucy and Barnabus, but for others, as well, who for years after would come and go, for rest or sanctuary. Bodies needed homes, after all—whether dead or living.

      Lucy was only seventeen, and had come to the cemetery in the spring, not one month before Miss Lindsay went away. The girl’s father was a cutter at the limestone quarry. Her brothers drove the team that hauled the stones to the masons. The men had no use for a sister, or any reminder of the fairer sex; their mother had run away that previous summer with a gypsy fortune-teller, though Lucy’s father insisted his absent wife was off visiting relatives and would return. Eventually.

      When word reached the old cutter that a woman named Miss Lindsay needed a girl to tend house, he made his daughter pack a bag with lunch, her comb, and one good dress from her mother’s closet—then set her on the first wagon heading toward Cuzco. No good-byes, no messages sent ahead. Just chancing on fate that the woman would want his daughter.

      Lucy remembered that wagon ride. Mr. Wiseman, the driver, had been hauling turnips that day, the bulbous roots covered beneath a burlap sheet to keep off the light drizzle: a cool morning, with a sweet breeze. No one on the road except them, and later, one other: an old man who stood at the side of the dirt track outside Cuzco, dressed in threadbare brown clothes, with a thin coat and his white hair slicked down from the rain. Pale eyes. Lost eyes. Staring at the green budding hills as though the woods were where his heart lived.

      In his right hand, he held a round silver mirror. A discordant sight, flashing and bright; Lucy thought she heard voices in her head when she saw the reflecting glass: whispers like birdsong, teasing and sweet.

      Mr. Wiseman did not wave at the man, but Lucy did, out of politeness and concern. She received no response; as though she were some invisible spirit, or the breeze.

      Is he sick? Lucy whispered to Mr. Wiseman.

      Sick and married, said the spindly man, in a voice so loud, she winced. He tugged his hat down over his eyes. Married, with no idea how to let go of the dead.

      His wife is gone? Lucy thought of her mother.

      Gone, dead. That was Henry Lindsay you saw. Man’s been like that for almost twenty years. Might as well be dead himself.

      Which answered almost nothing, in Lucy’s mind. What happened to her?

      A sly smile touched Mr. Wiseman’s mouth, and he glanced sideways. Don’t know, quite. But she up and died on their wedding night. I heard he hardly had a chance to touch her.

      That’s awful, Lucy said, not much caring for the look in Mr. Wiseman’s eye, as though there was something funny about the idea. She did not like, either, the other way he suddenly seemed to look at her; as though she could be another fine story, for him.

      She edged sideways on the wagon seat. Mr. Wiseman looked away. People die, Miss Lucy. But it’s a shame it happened so fast. I even heard said they were going to run away, all fancy. A honeymoon, like they do out East in the cities.

      Lucy said nothing. She did not know much about such things. In her experience, there was little to celebrate about being husband and wife. Just hard times, and loss, and anger. A little bit of laughter, if you were lucky. But not often.

      She twisted around, looking back. Henry still stood at the bend in the road, his feet lost in deep grass, soaked and pale and staring at the woods, those smoky green hills rising and falling like the back of some long fat snake. Her heart ached for him, just a little, though she did not know why. His loss was a contagious thing.

      Honeymoon, she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word

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