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Stealing the remaining ten Hours from Master Pimsleur is a simple job for a master thief of Bienca's caliber, year off or no; the greater concern is that she'll be operating unsanctioned in Nightsorrow's city. Well, that, and quietly transporting ten moderately heavy objects that *move* once an hour. But if there were any problems, she does not find them worth mentioning when she turns the statuettes over to Dawn two days later. With the last of Bonesteel's pieces in their possession, Dawn contacts Loria and they prepare for another bit of... well, whatever the opposite of grave-robbing is. In what was either a nod to propriety or perhaps a last show of hope from a man who had given up on hope long ago, the directives in Bonesteel's will had provided for a second grave site to be prepared beside his own for his beloved lady. Angel's shovel finds the marker half-sunk into the grass, and from there it is relatively easy (well, easy for anyone not holding a shovel) to find the four corners of the protective stone crypt and open it. Dawn's plain wooden box is probably not the "burial in state" most nobility would hope for, but the treasures of the Dancing Hours he arranges around her more than make up for any lack. He places the wedding rings on top of the box. Loria says a few words over Sylvia's body as the others stand around her grave, a bit awkwardly solemn for this woman none of them knew. There is a brief silence. Jewel cracks open an eye, peeking around as if waiting for something else to happen. Silence. A cleared throat. Loria nods, and Dawn and Angel drop back down into the hole to replace the cover on the stone vault. The sealing of the crypt seems anticlimactic after everything that has gone before. It is short work to pile the loose dirt back over the grave and replace the disturbed sod. Something... unusual tugs at Dawn's senses as the last square of turf is fitted back into place. Orange blossoms. At the same moment, Jewel lifts her head, reaching for Angel's hand and tugging him closer to her as she looks around. At first the perfume is a bare breath of scent, barely noticeable. Within moments, though, the honeyed sweetness pervades the air, apparent to all, as if an enormous orange tree had burst into full bloom immediately over the grave site. A cloud obscures the late afternoon sun, and the sudden shadow is enough to render two faintly glowing figures noticeable. Lord Bonesteel and his wife stand arm in arm a little distance from their graves, in the shadow of the trees. Sylvia is dressed in the same rich gown Dawn saw her dressed in. A spray of white flowers adorns her dark hair-- orange blossoms. Sylvia is-- was-- a beautiful woman, although at the moment she looks drawn and thin, almost as a mortal might look upon recovering from a long illness. Her ghost-light flickers slightly, but her warm smile never wavers as she looks up at the man by her side. Lord Bonesteel is transformed. The clothes are the same, as is his noble bearing, but the harsh, pinched lines around his eyes and mouth have vanished. His near-permanent scowl has been replaced by a relaxed smile, and he looks decades younger, almost handsome. It is easy to see the man that Sylvia fell in love with. His eyes are soft as he gazes down upon his young wife before turning his attention to the mortals surrounding his grave. "I thank you. My Sylvia has returned to me, and at last we can be together again. I--" he stops, his form flickering agitatedly as he puts a hand to his face for a moment, obviously overcome. Sylvia's quiet murmur of reassurance to him is like the susurration of wind in the leaves. He nods to her and lowers his hand again, revealing cheeks streaked with tears. "There are not words or treasures enough on earth to repay the good you have done us. You have brought me back the other half of my soul. Our thanks and blessings to you, all of you. You have our deepest gratitude." Slowly, with surprising grace, Bonesteel lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head to the thieves and putting his hand over his heart in a reverence one of his lineage would generally reserve for his king. Sylvia rests a hand on Bonesteel's shoulder and puts the other over her heart as well, dipping her head to the little group before her. Her voice is thinner, almost a whisper of sound, but still audible. "My thanks as well." Her dark eyes find Dawn's. "The Box would have consumed me utterly... *was* consuming me, even as you freed me. But you have destroyed it, and for that I am glad. I wanted you to know the great good you have done, in giving it up. All of you." Her eyes move over each of the assembled mortals. "This will not be forgotten. Thank you." Bonesteel rises to his feet, putting his arm around his lady's waist again. "It is only a token for what you have done, but... the box of papers you found with my lady. If you wish, you may bring them to my factors in Suzail-- Couvain & Bartholomew-- and give them a name. They will know what to do, no questions asked." A light breeze shudders through the trees. Bonesteel looks up and nods his head, as if in answer to a voice only he can hear. "Farewell, until we meet again." The breeze whisks the cloud away from the sun, and they are gone, the scent of orange blossoms fading behind them. |
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