Saturday's child works hard for a living.

As Beatrice stood at the threshold of the cemetery, her hand resting on the rusted copper red of the gate, she wondered what the place must have looked like in its heyday. Built in the mid-19th century when Winthrop's Hollow was first being settled, she imagined it must have been quite picturesque; a quaint little parish nestled between rolling green hills.

Now, even in the dead of winter, it was an exaggeration to say the crumbling ruins was a stain on an otherwise lovely view. Truthfully, she thought it fit rather well with the rest of the tired grimy town- not a cause of its hopelessness but rather a symptom.

And even after all the years, it was exactly how she remembered it. Rows and rows of gravestones, weathered and somewhat forgotten, shrouded by a layer of grey snow. She had explored the place countless times growing up. She still remembered the stiflingly hot summer nights racing around the dark graveyard, hearing nothing but the relentless drones of cicadas and occasionally the muffled giggles of her friends.

It had been a game of theirs. One that Frances and Evelyn found endlessly amusing but seemed all too frightening to both Beatrice and Annie. Being surrounded by pitch darkness and hiding amongst the dead- especially in a graveyard rumoured to be haunted, was far too macabre for Beatrice. Still, she, in an attempt to keep up with the ever fleeting friends she had, always complied to go on those adventures.

And the graveyard was just as familiar as ever. She knew well enough that if she walked to the thorny gnarled mess of a withered blackberry bush she would find the disintegrating obelisk of Marigold Atwood-Jones (1823-1876) and that directly below the mossy granite form of an angel, was the ruined ledger marker of someone named Robert, surname and dates too faded to make out. Her heart thudded to a stop however, when she spotted the white marble marker behind which Henry Morgan was standing. It was much better maintained than most.

Perhaps, she thought suddenly and morbidly, it was because it was far newer.

She watched him lay down a wreath at the foot of Evelyn's grave- a thing made out of white roses that sank into the snow, blending almost seamlessly with the dull grimy expanse. "I'm sorry I'm late," she muttered, eying the marker rather distractedly.

Evelyn Florence Young

Beloved daughter, sister, friend

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God

May 1, 1910- August 19, 1929

Henry kneeled upon the slush, tracing the engraved letters of the grave. He regarded Beatrice with a cool stare and then laughed softly. "It's somewhat poetic isn't it- her epitaph?"

"No," Beatrice said earnestly, "It might seem beautiful and tragic to you- the thought of a sad pretty girl- but she was far more than just an idea to me. She was one of my closest friends and when she died I broke and it hurt. Almost as much as when-"

Her voice, thin and tremulous already, cracked. Her eyes were beginning to sting with the threat of tears and she blinked slowly, once, twice, to keep them from emerging.

She had almost mentioned him.

It still pained her to say Johnny's name- not because she couldn't bear the thought of his death, no. She was obsessively and constantly reliving those moments in her mind, the mildew stained wallpaper, the haggard police officer and the awful acrid smell of formaldehyde.

His name was different.

It was something she had said countless times in the past. But saying it now, knowing that she, no matter how loudly she screamed or how raw her throat was, would be able to summon him from the oblivion of death, was a miserable thought.

And much like New York, his name had become an unsettling relic to her - something that made her feel such inconsolable despair when there was once was happiness.

"If anything," she continued, desperate to hide her lack of composition, "this has to be the most ironic epitaph I've ever read in my life."

To her avail, Henry still looked anxious and somewhat embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you would be this emotional about Evelyn today."

It was obvious to her that his interest in her diminished that much more. She seemed duller, sadder, than when she had conversed with him previously. It was only a matter of time, she thought, before he too would grow wary of poor unhappy Beatrice.

"It was not your fault," she said, attempting to redeem herself to the striking boy facing her, "I was thinking of- something else. I don't have a problem discussing Evelyn, if that is what you're after."

He seemed reassured and grinned rather bashfully at her. "Thank goodness then," he chuckled, "or else I'd have wasted so much precious time. Scott says money is power and I do rather agree, I could be earning millions right now as opposed to talking to a fascinating girl in a creepy graveyard."

"Why aren't you quite the charmer? Didn't anyone ever tell you not to be so forward with modest young women?" she joked, her voice a high pitched attempt at appearing cheerful.

"So what kinds of sordid things," she continued, "are you prepared to ask me, dragging me out to a place like this?"

"What happened?"

"Oh don't you know? I'm sure half the people here haven't stopped talking about Evelyn since the day they found her out by the lake. I for one, haven't found the gossip to be lacking."

"Well that's why I came to you. The others, they tell me things, but God knows if half of them are true or made up by some bored housewife. You were close the Evelyn. Surely you would have known what really happened. Frances was practically venomous the one time I dared to mention it and Annie is far too guarded. Perhaps it was fate that we met, Beatrice."

"Not fate," she insisted quickly. "Coincidence."

"Of course," he said and smiled in a distractingly charming way. "Going back to what we were discussing moments earlier. You must tell me everything you know about Evelyn. An artist needs his muse."

"Isn't it morbid that your muse is dead?"

"I don't mean Evelyn. I mean you."

Beatrice felt her cheeks go warm at the attention from Henry. Placing a kidskin gloved hand on her face, she wondered briefly if her blotchy red complexion could be blamed on the biting winter wind. "You're too kind Henry."

"Were you there that night?" he asked, his dark eyes suddenly bright and fervent.

"When Evelyn died? No. I- I should have been there. I don't doubt that some of the townspeople must blame me for her death."

"Why on earth would they do that?"

She figured he didn't know about Jinx- the girl who brought misfortune on everyone she met. No doubt if anyone had told him, he would have retreated far from her long ago. As she eyed the wreath of white roses with an intensity, far too nervous to make eye contact with him, she couldn't but help think it was for his own good.

Maybe, just maybe, she could avoid the curse for once.

Yes, she thought, relieved at justifying her guilty conscience. That was the reason he wasn't aware of her reputation, or her dead husband for that matter.

"I haven't the slightest idea either, to be frank." She lied, her voice smooth and without hesitation.

"She told us to meet her in the woods. There's this old ash tree there, you see. Its right in the middle of this remarkably eerie clearing and God knows how long it's been there. It's this knotty mess of branches and bark and the only tree for miles that is always barren."

"Cryptic," Henry commented.

Beatrice chuckled. "Evelyn liked being cryptic. She always thought the anticipation of knowing was far better than actually knowing. None of us ever found out what she was to tell us that night. Maybe it's a grand cosmic joke, that her last and most tantalising secret was the one she took to the grave."

"They found her dead the next morning? And neither Frances, Annie nor you had showed up?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Frances showed up on my porch the next morning. She was hysterical and utterly incoherent. Out of all of us I think she took it the hardest. She was the closest to Evelyn."

"That's strange," Henry commented. "Who could have imagined that my dear sister in law had a heart?"

"She grows on you once you get to know her," Beatrice argued, though even her conviction of the fact of somewhat weak.

He laughed darkly, tucking a stray strand of Beatrice's ashy hair underneath her beret. "I would imagine. Pray tell, Beatrice, how long does it take to "know" Frances? She's been married to my brother for years. Would I have to travel back in time and become close confidants with her from birth to see that she has a soul?"

She laughed this time, genuinely. "My personal theory," Henry continued, brightening up at Beatrice's amusement. "Is that Frances killed Evelyn. God forbid after all, that anyone, even her closest friend, manages to find Frances's morsels of humanity."

"Of course. That was the dramatic revelation she was going to give us."

"Did you find out what it really was?"

"No." Beatrice said shortly.

It was true she could not fathom could have made Evelyn so awfully smug and delighted to share with the girls on that arid awful day. The possibilities however, drove Beatrice crazy. It was undeniable that she had never quite let that go- as if finding out what it was, or perhaps who it was that Evelyn was dying to reveal, would be the esoteric key to the mysterious circumstances of her death. Annie was probably right, it was most likely another boy, as it had been countless times before a brief reprieve of Evelyn's monogamous stint with Scott. Still, being ever the escapist, she liked to imagine it was a dark clandestine tale that had cost Evelyn her life.

Or any explanation other than her bad luck really.

"That's a pity. Come." Henry said, pulling the sleeve of Beatrice's scratchy wool coat quite suddenly. "Let's explore some of these graves. I've heard they go back to the first settlers in the 18th century. You can tell me more about Evelyn."

"Alright I sup-"

Beatrice shrieked a little, quite girlishly and half caught off guard as her steps were interrupted by a patch of ice hidden under the perpetual frost. Scrambling to catch onto something to maintain her balance, her wildly grasping hands held on tightly to Henry's collar. The pair, clutching each other, crashed quite violently into a snowdrift.

Henry emerged first, his cashmere coat dripping with droplets of the grey slush he crawled out of. His normally smooth complexion was blotchy and red, half in amusement and half from the sheer cold. His lips curled into a half reluctant smile as he stared down at his equally red companion. Beatrice, on the other hand, felt her face burning hot, though hardly for the same reasons as her raw hands, currently buried in a foot of snow. She was blushing furiously.

"I'm so sorry. You'll have to forgive me, I'm usually not so clumsy."

"It's quite alright sweetheart. I'm willing to overlook this if just to extract more engaging conversation out of you."

"That's fair I suppose," she said, hoping desperately he found her more endearing than off-putting.

Henry took notice of her wind whipped face, as well as the sorry soaked state of both their winter wear. "I think we'll have to postpone that romantic graveyard walk in the middle of January. Let's go inside the church to get warmed up," he suggested.

"Unlike you suspiciously non-fiction novel, that's the best idea I've heard all day," she teased.

He didn't respond, merely stared at her again with those dark flashing eyes. Beatrice's heart gave a little jump as he grasped her fingers, frozen hand in frozen hand, and led her, much more carefully this time, towards the rickety old parish. "I hope the church isn't closed on Saturday. It's been a long time since I've sat in service and God knows I was never the most pious and-"

Beatrice found herself rambling. While she was glad that she had finally somewhat broken out of her mourning slump, she found herself shamefully reminded of her old coping habits. Saying as much words as she could possibility get in, hoping that some of it registered, was the only way to stay relevant in a discussion ever conservational Evelyn or the witty sardonic Frances. Even Annie, in her own sweet, idealistic way had felt far more enthralling than Beatrice.

"I don't think we'd have to worry about that too much," Henry chuckled, pushing the faded wood doors of the building rather easily.

A smell of mildew hit Beatrice almost immediately as she stepped inside. The place, much like the entirety of the town, was exactly as she last remembered it from the Sunday services her aunt had always dragged her to. It was constructed entirety from wood planks, as was the habit of settlers at the time, and had a very rustic feel to it. It was dim within the space, the sole sources of light coming from the tiny stained glass windows (Beatrice swore the second one on the right was crooked) and the flickering candles at the front of the altar. Whether they served a spiritual purpose or were simply for ambience, Beatrice, the ever devout attendee, hadn't the faintest clue.

"Let's go to the pews near the fire to get dried off. I'll die of pneumonia if I walked home soaked like this."

"You walked here?" Henry asked, genuinely astonished. "It's freezing today, I can't imagine travelling anywhere except from the fireplace to the kitchen in this weather."

"Well I mean how else would I have gotten here?"

"You should have just asked your chauffer like- right. I apologize. I didn't realize that was insensitive of me. Listen, I may have terrible tact but I have more than enough money to make up for it. I could give you some money if you need it, especially in this economic climate."

"That's a very generous offer," Beatrice said and she meant it. "Frances offered the same but I- I'd feel bad though."

She wished more than anything that she didn't. Beatrice's famished and lethargic demeanour didn't just come from the constant Greek play like tragedy within her death. Anyone, even her, would be far better suited to deal with it when living in a comfortable townhouse and in silk sheets at night. Perhaps, she thought, she had more in common with Evelyn than she thought. It was hard to imagine that a childhood with the girl didn't leave her a shred of Evelyn's pride.

Henry however, appeared puzzled. She supposed he would be. As someone who never lacked or needed a single thing in his life, he wouldn't understand the act of refusing charity. Not when he saw himself as the benevolent gift giver. Still, it was clear he was doing his best to appease her, something Beatrice found just as charming as the charismatic way he had about him or his lopsided smirk.

"How about I split the royalties with you after I get this book published? You're helping me author the damn thing. It's only fair."

"I have no choice but to accept. It's only fair," she echoed.

"In that case," he said, relieved to be past the awkward moment, "you'll have to put up with your end of the deal. Tell me about Evelyn Florence Young."

"Which Evelyn? The irresistible creature Scott saw her as? The wild restless tramp the town thinks she is? The shrewd and manipulative Evelyn that Frances's saw as a rival for the attention of boys? Perhaps the mysterious but wise friend I always thought she was. Or maybe yours- the tragic yet beautiful victim who has always just been dead."

"You don't have to get philosophical on me, I'm hardly Plato, seeking an objective truth or Kierkegaard pondering individual meaning. I just want to know the person young Beatrice knew."

"Alright. I don't profess to have your expertise on pretentious schools of thought you no doubt learned in college, but I will take great comfort in knowing at least something better than you."

"For the first and last time, Miss. Grace," Henry injected back, laughing. "Tell me more then. Do you think it was an accident?"

The sudden urgent and solemn nature of his tone took Beatrice by surprise. She struggled to articulate her words- the words to describe Evelyn, reflectively at least, were as tangible as the wind or other abstract societal concepts Henry no doubt favoured.

"I- I don't know. I saw her that morning you know. I think it was a Monday. This was after when Frances had broken down on my porch and we have made our way down to the lake. When I saw her body, floating in that lake, it was the most macabre thing I ever witnessed. Yet- yet I couldn't help thinking how fitting her death was. How it was completely and utterly Evelyn."

"How so?"

"Everything about it," she laughed darkly. "The people. The young and beautiful corpse. Her mysterious demise. The rumours- oh God. She would have adored those rumours. Someone like Evelyn, their worst fear isn't death or poverty or sickness. They crave a different kind of immortality. The kind that can be found in poetry or songs or in the pastel coloured memories of those long after their time."

"How very eloquent Miss. Grace. I'm starting to think you should be the one dictating the novel, not this young man."

Beatrice and Henry whipped around suddenly, bolting upright and out of the intimate distance they had found themselves drifting into over the course of their talk. She craned her neck to the morose old man emerging from his office, back bent from both the haggard nature of old age and no doubt the burdens of others that had been brought to him in his long tenure as a member of the clergy. "Father Carey, how long- how long have you been listening to our conversation?"

"Is that the first thing you say to me in years, Miss Grace?" Father Carey croaked, his voice just as weary as the rest of him.

"I apologize," she muttered, waiting as he slowly ambled towards the pair taking refuge by the front pews.

Stepping into the light of the candles, she could make him out more clearly. Everything about him, from his moth bitten clothes to the defeated way he had about him, was exactly what one would expect from the spiritual advisor of an equally defeated and drained town.

"No matter. I was rather surprised you returned. I hadn't believed it at first, not when it came from the gossip of those bored housewives. They're awful creatures you know, with their vindictive vapid rumours. The hypocrisy of it. Masking their spiteful nature for one day of the week and then fooling themselves into believing their own insincere piety," he commented, a surprising tinge of disgust in lieu of his normally apathetic tone.

"I agree completely," Henry jumped in, ever the charmer. "There's even more of that type among society women. I've seen enough for four lifetimes at least. One starts spotting them out at first glance when they become as cynical as I