Free The Accidental Afterlife of Thomas Marsden by Emma Trevayne Page A

brand-new leaves on the trees overhead.
    Perhaps there were ghosts. Thomas never felt alone in graveyards, and this night he felt more imagined eyes on him than ever. They prickled the hairs on the back of his neck and turned his breath shallow.
    There he was, right where he’d first spotted the easy pickings that’d turned out to be anything but. Thomas could picture Silas nearby.
    Find your bones , the trees whispered in Silas’s voice.
    But, as Thomas had guessed, his bones were gone. The shallow grave had been emptied, but it was not yet refilled with the pile of earth that sat beside it. He could only wonder what the caretaker had thought, discovering it. Likely the police had been called in, though perhaps not. One less urchin on the street, one less mouth to feed, might be nothing for anyone to worry about.
    Perhaps only Thomas wanted to know the truth.
    He inched toward the uneven hole, slowly, slowly. No, there was no boy in there, looking like Thomas or anyone else.
    There was something , however. He climbed down and picked it up, surprised at its weight, unsurprised by the gentle clinking noise that came from within.
    â€œHello?” Thomas called, too loud to be careful, just in case whoever had left the bag had stayed to watch him collect it.
    That was real silver, that clink. None of the shoddy stuff.
    Only the trees replied, but Thomas was certain.
    Someone was watching him.
    Someone was helping him.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Why, he could buy a palace with this. The coins glittered in the light, like a handful of stars. Two handfuls. Three. He let all but one slide back into the leather pouch and held the last between his fingers. It was strange, the face etched on one side utterly unfamiliar, and he’d no hope of identifying what was on the other. Thomas had never been much good with plants and herbs.
    The markings around the edges . . . those, he knew. He saw them when he closed his eyes, etched not on silver but on paper and wood.
    Queen Wintercress , Thomas read as the letters wriggled and his eyes watered.
    The trees shivered, and so did Thomas.
    Something very odd indeed was going on. His head swam with what he had seen and heard since the first time he’d stood right here.
    Climbing from the grave for the very last time—any grave, of this he was resolved—Thomas peered around, slowly at first, then darting his head back and forth, trying to catch glimpses from the corners of his eyes of anyone who didn’t want to be seen.
    There was no one there, but Thomas was coming to believe that didn’t mean they weren’t there. To be safe, he crept around the graveyard, even down into the dark, oldbit where the moonlight didn’t shine and the gravestones had crumbled to dust along with the people they named.
    No one.
    A thought struck, and he tucked the pouch inside his satchel, with Lucy’s scarf wrapped twice around it. Any London rake worth his salt would have Thomas by the throat at the first clink . He let himself out the same way he’d come, turning his little metal tools in the lock until it snapped closed. Shadowy figures moved around the night as he walked home, none paying the slightest bit of mind to Thomas, their business as dark and nefarious as his own, at least.
    Thomas’s stomach growled. His hand fished in the satchel and closed around the sack of silver. Oh, the things he could eat now! Strawberry tarts and jellied eels and a whole pie if he liked, dripping with gravy.
    A bundle of rags woke when nudged with Thomas’s toe, and a grubby hand seized his ankle.
    â€œI’ll ’ave your guts for—oh, it’s you. Whatcha doing waking me up for?”
    â€œNeed your help. There’s breakfast in it if you do.”
    That got Charley up jackrabbit-quick. “What can I do for you, my lad?”
    Thomas checked over both shoulders, twice, before showing Charley one of the coins. “Someone