Free The Faerie Lord by Herbie Brennan Page B

would they want to do that?’
    ‘To release his soul.’ Blue tugged his arm. ‘Come on, Henry. We should leave them to do their work.’
    Although he hadn’t seen them enter, the room was filled with wizards in their ceremonial robes. Some had Trinian servants carrying rosaries, thuribles and other religious equipment.
    ‘He’s not from your world,’ Henry said. He couldn’t think straight, but somehow it felt wrong that Mr Fog-arty should have his mouth opened by a spell. Surely he should be in a proper coffin, ready to be buried in a proper grave? It occurred to Henry he didn’t know Mr Fogarty’s religion, or if he even had one. But people who were dead should go to the nearest Church of England, where the vicar would conduct a service and say nice things about them –

    He was a bank robber, but everybody loved him,
said an imaginary vicar inside Henry’s head.
    - and then when everybody had paid their respects, they were carried to the churchyard and …
    Henry discovered there were tears streaming down his face even though he didn’t feel all that sad. He didn’t feel anything really, except perhaps numb.
    ‘He wanted our funeral rites,’ Blue said. ‘We discussed it days ago.’
    That was before I came,
Henry thought inconsequentially.
That was before I even knew.
    The room was swimming behind a veil of tears, so he allowed Blue to lead him out into the corridor and down the Palace stairs.

Chapter Twenty

    It was like his very first visit to the Realm when he’d ended up in the Palace kitchens, fussed over by matronly women. Now Blue brought him here again and sat him at a scrubbed pine table amidst the bustle and the cooking smells. Someone plump in an apron brought them steaming mugs of what turned out to be tea – a kind thought because tea was expensive in the Realm, but they all knew where he came from and wanted to make him feel at home.
    Henry stared down into the amber liquid – they didn’t know about adding milk here – and watched ripples spread across its surface as a teardrop struck it. For some reason he couldn’t stop crying, even though it was unmanly and embarrassing.
    Blue sat on the bench beside him, so close that her thigh touched his. She curled her hands around her own mug as if to warm them. She had very long, slender fingers. He loved her fingers. She seemed more feminine than he remembered, probably because of the dress. He loved her dress.
    ‘What are you going to do?’ Blue asked softly.
    Henry looked at a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. He should write and tell Mr Fogarty’s daughter that Mr Fogarty was dead, except Mr Fogarty’s daughter already
believed
Mr Fogarty was dead because Henry had lied to her on Mr Fogarty’s instructions. So he couldn’t write to her now. But he would have to go back and tell Hodge. Hodge would want to know.
    Henry’s body began shaking uncontrollably and he felt Blue’s arm around his shoulders. ‘Hush,’ she said into his ear. ‘It’s all right, Henry. It’s all right.’
    But it wasn’t all right. Everything had changed. Everything had … stopped.
    ‘I think I’d better go home,’ Henry said.
    ‘Will you stay for his funeral?’
    He turned his head slightly and focused on her face. After a moment he said, ‘Yes. Yes, I should stay for the funeral, shouldn’t I?’
    ‘He would have liked that.’
    They stared into their mugs together, but neither of them drank.
    ‘It will be a proper funeral,’ Blue said. ‘A State funeral, with full honours. He was our Gatekeeper.’
    It didn’t make any difference. Mr Fogarty had always been impatient with ceremony, but he was dead now so it wouldn’t matter to him what they did. But to please Blue, Henry said, ‘That’s good. That’s very good.’
    ‘I’ll have your old room made up,’ Blue said.
    Pyrgus didn’t know. He would have to go back and tell Pyrgus. ‘I have to go back and tell Pyrgus,’ he said.
    ‘It’s all right,’ Blue said. ‘We’ve sent