Chapter 12
The chapel journal became a family joke.
Carefully.
Gabriel—my cousin, not a brother, because Blackthorne already had enough dramatic relatives—read the “vigil” entry and laughed for ten straight minutes.
“You nearly got buried because nobody turned the page?”
“Shut up.”
“Historic leadership.”
“Leave.”
He did not.
Then he helped review other old traditions.
That became unexpectedly useful.
Half were myths.
One supposed oath ceremony originated because my great-uncle spilled wine and someone wrote around it politely.
A seating tradition began because a heating vent made one side of the room unbearable in winter.
Generations later, people defended these things as sacred.
I started asking a dangerous question:
Why?
At dinners.
Meetings.
Household routines.
Why do we do this?
Sometimes good reason.
Sometimes forgotten reason.
Sometimes none.
Older relatives hated me.
Wonderful.
Vesper heard about the review.
She sent one message:
Turn the page.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then laughed.
No reply.
Some truths do not require reopening relationships.
The coffin remained below the chapel.
Edwin eventually asked whether I wanted it removed.
“Yes.”
“What should I do with it?”
“Whatever carpenters do with unwanted wood.”
He looked almost disappointed.
“No ceremony?”
“No.”
He dismantled it.
Useful boards went back to his workshop.
The brass fittings were recycled.
Nothing became a bench.
Nothing became a shrine.
Wood became wood.
Good.
The room beneath the chapel became storage for folding chairs and seasonal decorations.
Emmeline insisted the ventilation holes be fixed because rain got in.
That felt exactly right.
A place once designed for a secret loyalty ritual now held Christmas garlands.
May you like
History survived.
Drama did not have to.
