#i accept your flower *tearfully sniffs*

[devoti]

why does HE look like the worm from insects💀😭😭 what have u done to him

Child anyways have a flower 🌷🫣😳

BECAUZE HE TURNED INTO A WORM BEA 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 *UGLY SOBS* MY B-BABY ー *BURNS DOWN HOUSE* 👹👹

the author turned him into a worm. he's slimy. he's disgusting. i'd still fuck him though i'm obsessed.

[undertheaethier]

A Grove of Vengeance, Ch. 1: Eulogy of the Century

I was sick of funerals. Sick of planning them. Sick of the apologies and the condolences. Sick of trying to “tone down” my appearance to fit in with the funeral crowd. Sick of flowers in vases I would end up donating, and casseroles I would not want to eat. Seriously, why were casseroles still a thing? If someone wants to comfort the bereaved, they should buy them a sack of breakfast tacos or a 50-piece chicken nugget box, not green beans in soggy breadcrumbs, right?

It was my third funeral in four years. Grandma when I was sixteen, Grandpa when I was eighteen and just starting college, and now Great-uncle Ward, two years later. It sucked.

I hadn’t even known Great-uncle Ward very well. He’d been closer to my parents, whom he’d worked with at the university, than my grandparents, with whom I’d lived. In fact, in the six years I’d lived with Grandpa, he’d only called his brother once, and Ward had once come over for a rather tense Christmas dinner. Other than that, I’d hardly spoken with him, either. I thought it probably had something to do with the fact that Mom and Dad chose Ward to guard their estate for me, instead of Dad’s parents. They’d always seemed a little hurt by that.

No matter. You don’t really have to know someone to plan their funeral, I guess.

Father O’Connell would conduct the service the way he had for both Grandma and Grandpa at St. Jerome’s. He had a nice template for me to follow that made things easier. I’d arranged the cremation, the flowers, the reception (with the help of a very insistent Mrs. Hart, from the church’s volunteer committee) and printed the pamphlets for the service. Now I just wanted to get it over with.

Greeters from the church led in attendees, and no one had yet come up with an excuse to come and talk to me at the front of the church. So Father O’Connell approached me, taking the seat on the pew next to me. I didn’t know him terribly well--I’d never been a super devoted church-goer--but I certainly preferred to talk with him than Ward’s old friends and colleagues that I didn’t know.

“Hello, Emrys,” he greeted. I smiled as warmly as I could, knowing he’d likely be the only person today who addressed me by my middle (and preferred) name, since the obituary for my great-uncle had called me Meredith, in a mix-up between the obituary writer and I. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing okay, Father O’Connell, thanks,” I said. Besides feeling lonely, anxious, and self-conscious, that was.

I was wearing my trusty black funeral dress, long-sleeved despite the warm June weather, in order to cover the tattoos on my shoulders and forearms. The dress couldn’t cover my many ear piercings, nose piercing, or my hair, dyed pink, but it had finally faded just to the shade I’d wanted it, and I wasn’t going to dye it to a natural color just because the old folks at the funeral might waggle their finger at me. Still, sitting in the imposing chapel of St. Jerome’s and the priestly gaze of Father O’Connell, I couldn’t help but feel a bit...judged. Or at least, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was being judged. I fingered the necklace that was probably the only “respectable” part of my outfit: a silver key on a chain given to me by my parents.

Father O’Connell gave me a look of understanding, then moved a little closer to take my hand. “You can do this, Emrys,” he said kindly. “I know what a rough journey you’ve been on.” And really, more or less, he did. Before the three funerals I’d had a hand in planning, he’d seen me at my parents’. “But remember what we talked about. We each have a path we must walk. There are twists and turns, and the destination may seem dark and unclear, but you are equipped for the journey. God never gives us more than we can handle.”

Father O’Connell was not the first person to tell me that. Yet still, I had the distinct feeling that God was testing that idea, waiting to see how far I could bend before I broke. I wasn’t even particularly broken up about Great-uncle Ward, but he’d been my only surviving family. I’d felt alone before, but now it was true. Truer than it had ever been.

I just nodded. “Yeah. Thank you, father.”

He patted my hand and gave me that sympathetic little funeral smile, then stood and left me in order to play his part in the pre-service activities.

No body meant no casket to visit, and the people at this service knew each other way better than they knew me--I recognized a few of them as mutual friends of my grandparents, or coworkers of my parents, but it was very few--so I was left alone on the front left pew reserved for family. Some of the people glanced at me, but I decided I needed to take the time of the funeral to prepare myself to have to speak to them later at the reception, and instead I fiddled with a loose string on the hem of my dress.

Father O’Connell began the service just a few minutes later in the way his template dictated: this welcoming speech, that prayer, this hymn, that homily…

“Now the great-niece of Ward Spencer would like to speak a few words in memory of her great-uncle.”

Oh shit. I did? Right… The template had family giving remarks during the service. For Grandma and Grandpa’s funerals, it’d been easy. I’d known them well enough, loved them enough, that while speaking about them had been painful, I’d managed ten-minute eulogies for both of them. What was I supposed to say about Great-uncle Ward, whom I’d only met a handful of times and about whom I knew almost nothing?

Father O’Connell looked at me encouragingly and invited me up again. My legs shaking, I tugged my dress farther down, hoping it really did cover the tattoo on my thigh completely, and walked up to the podium.

I cleared my throat. “Great-uncle Ward was…” I shook my head as if in reverence. “...indescribable. What a--what a man, you know? He truly lived every day like it was his last.” I hoped that was true. Luckily, a couple of the people in the pews tearfully nodded. Feeling like I was onto something, I continued, “Some people might be surprised, and others won’t be, but he was quite a risk-taker.” A few chuckles. Cool. What other overused phrases could I come up with?

“He really believed…” I took a moment to sniff and look at the ceiling, as though the words were hard to produce. “He believed that nothing is promised. You have to be the change you wish to see in the world. After all, life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, right? And you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Life is too short not to be happy. I really think that’s what Great-uncle Ward would want us all to remember as we leave here today, thinking on his memory. Every day is precious, and every day is another chance to be happy. Remember…” I made my voice sound a little heavier, more meaningful, as I came to the finish line. “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift...that’s why we call it the present.”

Boom.

The gathered crowd immediately began clapping. A few people had begun wiping at their eyes and noses. Father O’Connell grasped my arms in a very open kind of hug and I wondered if he’d realized my eulogy had basically been a thirteen-year-old’s motivation board on Pinterest. If he did, he didn’t call me out on it in front of Ward’s friends and God. That was nice of him.

We sang a little more, mumbled a few more prayers, and Father O’Connell invited the attendees to join us after the service at the next-door activities center for a short lunch reception. Way too many people accepted the invitation.

I mean, we had plenty of little sandwiches and cake for all of them, I’d just hoped to only have to speak to one or two people before heading home to the comfort of my empty bed and a package of Twizzlers.

Instead, I was passed around like a hot potato from mourner to mourner.

“Oh, Meredith, honey--” (I’d called it, remember?) “--how are you doing? You’re so grown up!”

“You’re such a strong young woman, Meredith Spencer. Why, by your age, I’d only lost one grandparent! I can’t even imagine…”

“Did you enjoy the casserole? I’ve got a recipe for another one I think you’ll like.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you, okay, dear?”

Empty promises from unaffected strangers. They would get to go home and forget about Great-uncle Ward and poor orphaned Meredith Spencer. I guess I could, too, but I had a reception to clean up and casseroles to throw away before I did.

I got a few minutes to sit alone with a plate of grapes and crackers, and someone ruined it by sitting down.

I recognized him. His name was Reid, I thought, but first name or last name, I wasn’t sure.

“Emrys. Right?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought your parents called you that.”

That’s who he was, yeah: Dr. Jeremy Reid, professor of Elizabethan literature at the university. He’d been a colleague of my parents, and I was pretty sure I’d seen his name on an office door in the last couple of years.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s my middle name. Much cooler than Meredith, but you don’t find it on very many keychains.” I’d been named in honor of my mother’s late sister, but Mom and Dad had always called me Emrys. I wasn’t sure where they’d gotten the name, but I liked it better than my other option.

Dr. Reid smiled drily. “That was a nice eulogy you gave.” His tone told me that he’d seen through my bullshit.

“Thanks,” I muttered. “It was from the heart.”

“You didn’t know him very well?” He didn’t sound accusatory or critical. Just wondering.

I shook my head. “He and my grandfather didn’t speak much.”

“Hm.” Dr. Reid nodded. “Ward was kind of a weird guy. Always well-meaning--he had a heart of gold. Just also a little strange.”

I hadn’t realized they’d been so close. “How so?”

“He was always onto something, you know?” Dr. Reid chuckled. “Just caught up in his head. Daydreams. Or some new idea or story. He talked to himself a lot. And you know, sometimes it really seemed like he believed in all that faerie tale stuff.”

I laughed. “What?”

Dr. Reid grinned. “I know, I know. But Ward talked about faeries and elves and stuff like they were just in another country, instead of another reality. I probably just got the wrong idea. But I guess that’s what happens when you study something like that for so long. Become so dedicated. Hell, I have dreams where I’m having dinner with Christopher Marlowe. At some point, your study becomes your life.”

I stopped smiling. I knew what he meant. It’d been like that for my parents. Always caught up, always busy, always gone.

Dr. Reid seemed to guess what I was thinking. “Margaret and Edward were kind of like that, too, I guess. But I promise, their first priority was always you.”

I didn’t really want to think about that now. I didn’t need to have a stranger tell me how my parents felt about me. Whether I’d been their first priority or their last, they were dead now. Sans priorities. It didn’t matter.

“Thanks,” I said anyway.

Dr. Reid chatted with me for a few more minutes about school and the university, then excused himself to visit with another colleague.

Afterward, a couple of people stayed to help clean up. I assisted the church volunteers in wiping tables and stacking chairs, and then I, laden with plastic food containers, also returned home.

When I got back, my roommate, Daphne, was sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of Doritos, half-covered in a throw-blanket, watching a rom-com on Netflix.

“Hey.”

“Hey!” She peeled her eyes away from the TV and stuck them on me. Noticing the dress and the seven large plastic containers, she scrunched up her eyebrows. “Where’ve you been?”

“Great-uncle Ward’s funeral.”

I put my keys in their usual place on the shelf by the door and slipped off my shoes on the way to the kitchen. Only then did I notice that my casually comfortable flats didn’t actually cover the bird tattoo on my foot. Damn. At least I’d made the effort to look like a “good” kid for the funeral.

I heard the TV go silent. “What?!” Daphne clambered off the couch and followed me into the kitchen. I began to rearrange the food in the refrigerator for our new casseroles and assorted fruits. “That was today? What the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

I had told her, twice. But Daphne was the kind of friend to invite to the mall, or to a football game, or to employ to stalk your ex to check out their new fling (that story was not mine, but it stands as a good example of Daph’s character). She wasn’t really the kind of friend who comforted you through a distant relative’s funeral.

“I didn’t want to put you through it,” I answered.

The moment of hesitant silence Daphne created was one of gratitude. I didn’t feel as though Daphne and I were particularly close, but I thought I knew how she worked. She’d feel shitty if she thanked me and admitted she hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, but she’d also feel shitty if she lied and said she’d wanted to be there.

To make her feel better, I said, “It’s fine, Daph, it was something I had to do for myself.” I didn’t mean it, but at least she smiled.

“Well, then, good. You should feel proud of yourself.”

I thought back to my speech. I was definitely not proud of myself.

“I guess. I think I’m just going to lie down and take a nap for a while.”

She leaned against the counter. “I thought you had a meeting with the lawyer today. To discuss the whole probate thing?”

“No, that’s--” I glanced at the calendar on the refrigerator. Indeed, on today’s date, I’d written Lawyer, 3:00. “Oh, shit.” How did she always know my schedule better than me?

Daphne looked at her phone. “It’s almost two-thirty, Em.”

I could get there in a half hour. But only if I left now.

I sighed. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you later, then.” I was partially talking to Daphne and partially calling out apologies to my bed. I ran from the kitchen and slipped my shoes back on, grabbing my keys and purse as Daphne laughed a little and wished me luck.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, though that was fairly usual for our college town. The warm June weather had everyone that wasn’t stuck in summer classes on vacation or inside to avoid the heat.

I parked my car and ran into the law office at two minutes to three, trying to calm my breathing and grateful my black dress wouldn’t show sweat as I took the stairs to the second floor. The receptionist looked a little startled at my appearance.

“Sorry,” I said. “Busy day. Uh. I’m here to see--”

“Miss Spencer,” a voice called to me from down the hall. A short black woman in a red pantsuit stood there, sporting a polite smile. “Come on in.”

“Oh. Never mind,” I told the receptionist. I went to the other woman and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Emrys Spencer.”

“Kelly Grabel. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

She gestured me into her office and I took a seat in front of her imposingly large desk. The cream-and-white walls and conspicuous lack of decoration put me a little on edge. Maybe it was just because I was a person who happened to vomit their personality on everything around them, but I found the lack of personalization of any space a little off-putting. At least the chairs were nice.

“First of all,” said Ms. Grabel, taking a seat opposite me and clicking her mouse before giving me her full attention. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Second of all, we don’t actually have much to talk about today.”

“We don’t?” I’d made sure Ward’s bills had been paid, taken inventory of his assets, and all the right forms had been filled out. Surely I hadn’t done anything wrong; I’d watched Grandpa do it for Grandma, and the lawyer had helped me do all of this last time with Grandpa… I’d expected Ms. Grabel to re-explain the probate process to me, go over the inventory, and try to help me figure out how long it would take to receive my inheritance.

“No. Your great-uncle had good foresight, I guess.” Ms. Grabel opened a folder and held it out to me. There were several sheets of paper, but the two on top I read immediately as a house title and a bank statement. “A few weeks ago, he transferred the house to your name, and he moved most of his funds into a separate savings account that I believe your parents set up for you.”

He had what? But how had he known? Ward had died peacefully but rather spontaneously in his sleep. His heart had just stopped. How had he known to transfer those things in advance? The feeling of guilt again swept over me for not having contacted Ward after Grandpa’s funeral. I wished I’d known him a little better.

“Which means, if nothing else comes up, you should basically already have your inheritance. Everything else Mr. Spencer left to you in his estate isn’t enough to warrant a probate case, so as long as you already have access to it, everything’s yours. The bank should transfer his account to you soon, and you can close it. In your inventory of his estate, I think it was mostly just the house, the car, the accounts, and your parents’ account, yes?”

“Okay, yeah, but--why wasn’t I informed about any of this?” I asked. “My uncle never let me know he was going to do any of this in advance of his death. Wouldn’t I have been contacted if I suddenly owned his house?”

The lawyer just shrugged. “I’m really not sure, Miss Spencer. It’s possible they did attempt to make contact and you just missed it. If you have any issues with it, certainly bring it to me and I’ll do what I can to make sure you get what you’re owed. That goes for the other things, too--if the bank or anyone else gives you a hassle, just give me a call, okay?”

She looked at her computer screen for a moment, then to the folder, then back to me. “But this looks pretty straightforward. All I can say is that I think Mr. Spencer may have realized he wasn’t going to live much longer. He’s saved you a lot of headache by doing things this way, so I suggest just being grateful and moving forward.” She smiled. “You’re also going to want to transfer the utilities accounts from the house to your name as soon as you can, and check on that bank account situation.”

I nodded numbly. “Yeah, I will.”

“Okay. Then let me get you copies of a few of these documents, and I think we can be done here.” She smiled again, and stood up, taking the folder with her and leaving the office.

What?

Because Grandma and Grandpa had been married, a lot of things had been pretty easy with her will. She and Grandpa had had both of their names on a lot of things anyway, like the house, their cars, and their accounts, so there’d been no problem.

When Grandpa died, there had been more difficulty, but nothing awful. It had taken a few months for me to get everything, and a few months more to sort things out. It’d been another long process to get the house sold and pay off the bills, and then finally everything had been settled. As far as I’d been concerned, the state of Virginia was considerably helpful and easy to navigate when it came to inheritance. But this was crazy.

Why hadn’t he reached out to me? If Great-uncle Ward had suspected he wouldn’t be living much longer, wouldn’t he have wanted to reach out to friends and family? In the latter category, I was all he’d had left. He hadn’t wanted to see me, even then? As far as I knew, he hadn’t called on anyone. Did the poor man really spend the last few weeks of his life preparing himself for death alone? It was enough to make my lip wobble and my eyes burn, and I suddenly wish I’d thought harder about my words at the funeral. I could speak eight languages, but I couldn’t come up with words to even genuinely compliment my last living family?

Ms. Grabel’s return was the only thing that kept my emotions in check. I took in a deep breath and sat up straight, and she handed me a new manila folder. “Here you go. That’s a copy of everything I’ve got here, so you should be set. Remember to call the bank and the utility companies, and let me know if you have any problems.”

I took the folder and stood. “Thank you so much, Ms. Grabel, this is--weird.” I tried for a laugh. “Really weird. But I’m glad it could go so smoothly, so thank you for your help.”

“Of course. Have a good day.”

I returned the sentiment and left her office feeling lighter and emptier.

[hail-inspiration]

Grove of Vengeance, Ch. 1: Eulogy of the Century

I was sick of funerals. Sick of planning them. Sick of the apologies and the condolences. Sick of trying to “tone down” my appearance to fit in with the funeral crowd. Sick of flowers in vases I would end up donating, and casseroles I would not want to eat. Seriously, why were casseroles still a thing? If someone wants to comfort the bereaved, they should buy them a sack of breakfast tacos or a 50-piece chicken nugget box, not green beans in soggy breadcrumbs, right?

It was my third funeral in four years. Grandma when I was sixteen, Grandpa when I was eighteen and just starting college, and now Great-uncle Ward, two years later. It sucked.

I hadn’t even known Great-uncle Ward very well. He’d been closer to my parents, whom he’d worked with at the university, than my grandparents, with whom I’d lived. In fact, in the six years I’d lived with Grandpa, he’d only called his brother once, and Ward had once come over for a rather tense Christmas dinner. Other than that, I’d hardly spoken with him, either. I thought it probably had something to do with the fact that Mom and Dad chose Ward to guard their estate for me, instead of Dad’s parents. They’d always seemed a little hurt by that.

No matter. You don’t really have to know someone to plan their funeral, I guess.

Father O’Connell would conduct the service the way he had for both Grandma and Grandpa at St. Jerome’s. He had a nice template for me to follow that made things easier. I’d arranged the cremation, the flowers, the reception (with the help of a very insistent Mrs. Hart, from the church’s volunteer committee) and printed the pamphlets for the service. Now I just wanted to get it over with.

Greeters from the church led in attendees, and no one had yet come up with an excuse to come and talk to me at the front of the church. So Father O’Connell approached me, taking the seat on the pew next to me. I didn’t know him terribly well--I’d never been a super devoted church-goer--but I certainly preferred to talk with him than Ward’s old friends and colleagues that I didn’t know.

“Hello, Emrys,” he greeted. I smiled as warmly as I could, knowing he’d likely be the only person today who addressed me by my middle (and preferred) name, since the obituary for my great-uncle had called me Meredith, in a mix-up between the obituary writer. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing okay, Father O’Connell, thanks,” I said. Besides feeling lonely, anxious, and self-conscious, that was.

I was wearing my trusty black funeral dress, long-sleeved despite the warm June weather, in order to cover the tattoos on my shoulders and forearms. The dress couldn’t cover my many ear piercings, nose piercing, or my hair, dyed pink, but it had finally faded just to the shade I’d wanted it, and I wasn’t going to dye it to a natural color just because the old folks at the funeral might waggle their finger at me. Still, sitting in the imposing chapel of St. Jerome’s and the priestly gaze of Father O’Connell, I couldn’t help but feel a bit...judged. Or at least, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was being judged. I fingered the necklace that was probably the only “respectable” part of my outfit: a silver key on a chain given to me by my parents.

Father O’Connell gave me a look of understanding, then moved a little closer to take my hand. “You can do this, Emrys,” he said kindly. “I know what a rough journey you’ve been on.” And really, more or less, he did. Before the three funerals I’d had a hand in planning, he’d seen me at my parents’. “But remember what we talked about. We each have a path we must walk. There are twists and turns, and the destination may seem dark and unclear, but you are equipped for the journey. God never gives us more than we can handle.”

Father O’Connell was not the first person to tell me that. Yet still, I had the distinct feeling that God was testing that idea, waiting to see how far I could bend before I broke. I wasn’t even particularly broken up about Great-uncle Ward, but he’d been my only surviving family. I’d felt alone before, but now it was true. Truer than it had ever been.

I just nodded. “Yeah. Thank you, father.”

He patted my hand and gave me that sympathetic little funeral smile, then stood and left me in order to play his part in the pre-service activities.

No body meant no casket to visit, and the people at this service knew each other way better than they knew me--I recognized a few of them as mutual friends of my grandparents, or coworkers of my parents, but it was very few--so I was left alone on the front left pew reserved for family. Some of the people glanced at me, but I decided I needed to take the time of the funeral to prepare myself to have to speak to them later at the reception, and instead I fiddled with a loose string on the hem of my dress.

Father O’Connell began the service just a few minutes later in the way his template dictated: this welcoming speech, that prayer, this hymn, that homily…

“Now the great-niece of Ward Spencer would like to speak a few words in memory of her great-uncle.”

Oh shit. I did? Right… The template had family giving remarks during the service. For Grandma and Grandpa’s funerals, it’d been easy. I’d known them well enough, loved them enough, that while speaking about them had been painful, I’d managed ten-minute eulogies for both of them. What was I supposed to say about Great-uncle Ward, whom I’d only met a handful of times and about whom I knew almost nothing?

Father O’Connell looked at me encouragingly and invited me up again. My legs shaking, I tugged my dress farther down, hoping it really did cover the tattoo on my thigh completely, and walked up to the podium.

“Great-uncle Ward was…” I shook my head as if in reverence. “...indescribable. What a--what a man, you know? He truly lived every day like it was his last.” I hoped that was true. Luckily, a couple of the people in the pews tearfully nodded. Feeling like I was onto something, I continued, “Some people might be surprised, and others won’t be, but he was quite a risk-taker.” A few chuckles. Cool. What other overused phrases could I come up with?

“He really believed…” I took a moment to sniff and look at the ceiling, as though the words were hard to produce. “He believed that nothing is promised. You have to be the change you wish to see in the world. After all, life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, right? And you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Life is too short not to be happy. I really think that’s what Great-uncle Ward would want us all to remember as we leave here today, thinking on his memory. Every day is precious, and every day is another chance to be happy. Remember…” I made my voice sound a little heavier, more meaningful, as I came to the finish line. “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift...that’s why we call it the present.”

Boom.

The gathered crowd immediately began clapping. A few people had begun wiping at their eyes and noses. Father O’Connell grasped my arms in a very open kind of hug and I wondered if he’d realized my eulogy had basically been a thirteen-year-old’s motivation board on Pinterest. If he did, he didn’t call me out on it in front of Ward’s friends and God. That was nice of him.

We sang a little more, mumbled a few more prayers, and Father O’Connell invited the attendees to join us after the service at the next-door activities center for a short lunch reception. Way too many people accepted the invitation.

I mean, we had plenty of little sandwiches and cake for all of them, I’d just hoped to only have to speak to one or two people before heading home to the comfort of my empty bed and a package of Twizzlers.

Instead, I was passed around like a hot potato from mourner to mourner.

“Oh, Meredith, honey--” (I’d called it, remember?) “--how are you doing? You’re so grown up!”

“You’re such a strong young woman, Meredith Spencer. Why, by your age, I’d only lost one grandparent! I can’t even imagine…”

“Did you enjoy the casserole? I’ve got a recipe for another one I think you’ll like.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you, okay, dear?”

Empty promises from unaffected strangers. They would get to go home and forget about Great-uncle Ward and poor orphaned Meredith Spencer. I guess I could, too, but I had a reception to clean up and casseroles to throw away before I did.

I got a few minutes to sit alone with a plate of grapes and crackers, and someone ruined it by sitting down.

I recognized him. His name was Reid, I thought, but first name or last name, I wasn’t sure.

“Emrys. Right?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought your parents called you that.”

That’s who he was, yeah: Dr. Jeremy Reid, professor of Elizabethan literature at the university. He’d been a colleague of my parents, and I was pretty sure I’d seen his name on an office door in the last couple of years.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s my middle name. Much cooler than Meredith, but you don’t find it on very many keychains.” I’d been named in honor of my mother’s late sister, but Mom and Dad had always called me Emrys. I wasn’t sure where they’d gotten the name, but I liked it better than my other option.

Dr. Reid smiled drily. “That was a nice eulogy you gave.” His tone told me that he’d seen through my bullshit.

“Thanks,” I muttered. “It was from the heart.”

“You didn’t know him very well?” He didn’t sound accusatory or critical. Just wondering.

I shook my head. “He and my grandfather didn’t speak much.”

“Hm.” Dr. Reid nodded. “Ward was kind of a weird guy. Always well-meaning--he had a heart of gold. Just also a little strange.”

I hadn’t realized they’d been so close. “How so?”

“He was always onto something, you know?” Dr. Reid chuckled. “Just caught up in his head. Daydreams. Or some new idea or story. He talked to himself a lot. And you know, sometimes it really seemed like he believed in all that faerie tale stuff.”

I laughed. “What?”

Dr. Reid grinned. “I know, I know. But Ward talked about faeries and elves and stuff like they were just in another country, instead of another reality. I probably just got the wrong idea. But I guess that’s what happens when you study something like that for so long. Become so dedicated. Hell, I have dreams where I’m having dinner with Christopher Marlowe. At some point, your study becomes your life.”

I stopped smiling. I knew what he meant. It’d been like that for my parents. Always caught up, always busy, always gone.

Dr. Reid seemed to guess what I was thinking. “Margaret and Edward were kind of like that, too, I guess. But I promise, their first priority was always you.”

I didn’t really want to think about that now. I didn’t need to have a stranger tell me how my parents felt about me. Whether I’d been their first priority or their last, they were dead now. Sans priorities. It didn’t matter.

“Thanks,” I said anyway.

Dr. Reid chatted with me for a few more minutes about school and the university, then excused himself to visit with another colleague.

Afterward, a couple of people stayed to help clean up. I assisted the church volunteers in wiping tables and stacking chairs, and then I, laden with plastic food containers, also returned home.

When I got back, my roommate, Daphne, was sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of Doritos, half-covered in a throw-blanket, watching a rom-com on Netflix.

“Hey.”

“Hey!” She peeled her eyes away from the TV and stuck them on me. Noticing the dress and the seven large plastic containers, she scrunched up her eyebrows. “Where’ve you been?”

“Great-uncle Ward’s funeral.”

I put my keys in their usual place on the shelf by the door and slipped off my shoes on the way to the kitchen. Only then did I notice that my casually comfortable flats didn’t actually cover the bird tattoo on my foot. Damn. At least I’d made the effort to look like a “good” kid for the funeral.

I heard the TV go silent. “What?!” Daphne clambered off the couch and followed me into the kitchen. I began to rearrange the food in the refrigerator for our new casseroles and assorted fruits. “That was today? What the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

I had told her, twice. But Daphne was the kind of friend to invite to the mall, or to a football game, or to employ to stalk your ex to check out their new fling (that story was not mine, but it stands as a good example of Daph’s character). She wasn’t really the kind of friend who comforted you through a distant relative’s funeral.

“I didn’t want to put you through it,” I answered.

The moment of hesitant silence Daphne created was one of gratitude. I didn’t feel as though Daphne and I were particularly close, but I knew how she worked. She’d feel shitty if she thanked me and admitted she hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, but she’d also feel shitty if she lied and said she’d wanted to be there.

To make her feel better, I said, “It’s fine, Daph, it was something I had to do for myself.” I didn’t mean it, but at least she smiled.

“Well, then, good. You should feel proud of yourself.”

I thought back to my speech. I was definitely not proud of myself.

“I guess. I think I’m just going to lie down and take a nap for a while.”

She leaned against the counter. “I thought you had a meeting with the lawyer today. To discuss the whole probate thing?”

“No, that’s--” I glanced at the calendar on the refrigerator. Indeed, on today’s date, I’d written Lawyer, 3:00. “Oh, shit.”

Daphne looked at her phone. “It’s almost two-thirty, Em.”

I could get there in a half hour. But only if I left now.

I sighed. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you later, then.” I was partially talking to Daphne and partially calling out apologies to my bed. I ran from the kitchen and slipped my shoes back on, grabbing my keys and purse as Daphne laughed a little and wished me luck.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, though that was fairly usual for our college town. The warm June weather had everyone that wasn’t stuck in summer classes on vacation or inside to avoid the heat.

I parked my car and ran into the law office at two minutes to three, trying to calm my breathing and grateful my black dress wouldn’t show sweat as I took the stairs to the second floor. The receptionist looked a little startled at my appearance.

“Sorry,” I said. “Busy day. Uh. I’m here to see--”

“Miss Spencer,” a voice called to me from down the hall. A short black woman in a red pantsuit stood there, sporting a polite smile. “Come on in.”

“Oh. Never mind,” I told the receptionist. I went to the other woman and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Emrys Spencer.”

“Kelly Grabel. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

She gestured me into her office and I took a seat in front of her imposingly large desk. The cream-and-white walls and conspicuous lack of decoration put me a little on edge. Maybe it was just because I was a person who happened to vomit their personality on everything around them, but I found the lack of personalization of any space a little off-putting. At least the chairs were nice.

“First of all,” said Ms. Grabel, taking a seat opposite me and clicking her mouse before giving me her full attention. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Second of all, we don’t actually have much to talk about today.”

“We don’t?” I’d made sure Ward’s bills had been paid, taken inventory of his assets, and all the right forms had been filled out. Surely I hadn’t done anything wrong; I’d watched Grandpa do it for Grandma, and the lawyer had helped me do all of this last time with Grandpa… I’d expected Ms. Grabel to re-explain the probate process to me, go over the inventory, and try to help me figure out how long it would take to receive my inheritance.

“No. Your great-uncle had good foresight, I guess.” Ms. Grabel opened a folder and held it out to me. There were several sheets of paper, but the two on top I read immediately as a house title and a bank statement. “A few weeks ago, he transferred the house to your name, and he moved most of his funds into a separate savings account that I believe your parents set up for you.”

He had what? But how had he known? Ward had died peacefully but rather spontaneously in his sleep. His heart had just stopped. How had he known to transfer those things in advance? The feeling of guilt again swept over me for not having contacted Ward after Grandpa’s funeral. I wished I’d known him a little better.

“Which means, if nothing else comes up, you should basically already have your inheritance. Everything else Mr. Spencer left to you in his estate isn’t enough to warrant a probate case, so as long as you already have access to it, everything’s yours. The bank should transfer his account to you soon. In your inventory of his estate, I think it was mostly just the house, the car, the accounts, and your parents’ account, yes?”

“Okay, yeah, but--why wasn’t I informed about any of this?” I asked. “My uncle never let me know he was going to do any of this in advance of his death. Wouldn’t I have been contacted if I suddenly owned his house?”

The lawyer just shrugged. “I’m really not sure, Miss Spencer. It’s possible they did attempt to make contact and you just missed it. If you have any issues with it, certainly bring it to me and I’ll do what I can to make sure you get what you’re owed. That goes for the other things, too--if the bank or anyone else gives you a hassle, just give me a call, okay?”

She looked at her computer screen for a moment, then to the folder, then back to me. “But this looks pretty straightforward. All I can say is that I think Mr. Spencer may have realized he wasn’t going to live much longer. He’s saved you a lot of headache by doing things this way, so I suggest just being grateful and moving forward.” She smiled. “You’re also going to want to transfer the utilities accounts from the house to your name as soon as you can, and check on that bank account situation.”

I nodded numbly. “Yeah, I will.”

“Okay. Then let me get you copies of a few of these documents, and I think we can be done here.” She smiled again, and stood up, taking the folder with her and leaving the office.

What?

Because Grandma and Grandpa had been married, a lot of things had been pretty easy with her will. She and Grandpa had had both of their names on a lot of things anyway, like the house, their cars, and their accounts, so there’d been no problem.

When Grandpa died, there had been more difficulty, but nothing awful. It had taken a few months for me to get everything, and a few months more to sort things out. It’d been another long process to get the house sold and pay off the bills, and then finally everything had been settled. As far as I’d been concerned, the state of Virginia was considerably helpful and easy to navigate when it came to inheritance. But this was crazy.

Why hadn’t he reached out to me? If Great-uncle Ward had suspected he wouldn’t be living much longer, wouldn’t he have wanted to reach out to friends and family? In the latter category, I was all he’d had left. He hadn’t wanted to see me, even then? As far as I knew, he hadn’t called on anyone. Did the poor man really spend the last few weeks of his life preparing himself for death alone? It was enough to make my lip wobble and my eyes burn, and I suddenly wish I’d thought harder about my words at the funeral. I could speak eight language,s but I couldn’t come up with words to even genuinely compliment my last living family?

Ms. Gabel’s return was the only thing that kept my emotions in check. I took in a deep breath and sat up straight, and she handed me a new manila folder. “Here you go. That’s a copy of everything I’ve got here, so you should be set. Remember to call the bank and the utility companies, and let me know if you have any problems.”

I took the folder and stood. “Thank you so much, Ms. Grabel, this is--weird.” I tried for a laugh. “Really weird. But I’m glad it could go so smoothly, so thank you for your help.”

“Of course. Have a good day.”

I returned the sentiment and left her office feeling lighter and emptier.