Carol looked in his direction, miming shock. It was clear the old man was having the time of his life. “You haven’t got the body yet?” He turned to Esben and said, “What, is he one of your fellow circus performers?”
“Carny, actually,” said Esben. “Ran the ring toss.”
“Ha, ha,” said Seamus. “Seriously.”
“Yes!” shouted Carol. “Get the automaton!”
The bandit gave a quick bow, gesturing to Martha to follow. The two of them began to make their way beyond the throw of the fire when Seamus stopped. “One thing,” he said, turning around. “Where would I find it?”
Esben stopped the old man before he made another sardonic comment by saying, “The cemetery. There’s a mausoleum.”
“Right,” said Seamus, remembering.
“And don’t forget the teeth,” added Esben.
“The teeth?” Seamus and Martha exchanged a confused glance.
“The whole thing is kaput without the teeth,” said Carol. “The body must have its teeth.”
“Got it,” said Seamus.
“You know the way?” asked Martha as they began their trudge through the calf-deep ivy. The warmth and the light from the smithy’s pyre ebbed away slowly.
“I think so,” replied the bandit. “I was the emissary here, after all. Passed the place a few times. Most things don’t much look like they did, though.” The bandit was about to say something more when he suddenly shouted, “Watch it!” to Martha.
Martha tried to leap backward, but she found she was stuck; a particularly deep patch of ivy had caught her heel and was in the process of sending shoots up her leg. With a single deft motion, the bandit had drawn his saber and brought it down in a quick cutting motion, severing the vines from the plant.
“Thanks,” said Martha, leaping away, freed, from where she’d stood.
“You better take this,” said Seamus, pulling out a long dagger from his belt and handing it to her, hilt first.
They blazed a trail through the trees before arriving at what they assumed to be a road: Here even the ghost of a path could be made out through the blanket of ivy, like a mountain road after a heavy snowfall. After a few turns and intersections, blearily remembered by the bandit, they came to an ivy-draped metal gate. Once they’d cleared the vines away, the words SOUTH WOOD CEMETERY could be read there in tall, Gothic letters. The mausoleum of the deceased animatronic prince was not hard to locate; in the center of the cemetery, towering over every other ivy-blanketed tombstone and memorial, was a house-sized pile of writhing vines. Unlike the other crumbling buildings of the province, the structure, made of implacable granite, had proven impervious to the ivy. It wasn’t long before they’d peeled away the screen of vines to reveal the ornate iron door that guarded the entrance to Alexei’s tomb.
Oddly enough, the door was slightly ajar, and several strands of ivy had made their way through the opening into the dark foyer of the tomb. Seamus quickly dispatched these invaders with his sword before slipping into the chamber; Martha followed. The darkness was pervasive. Martha lit a match and held it to the wick of the candle she’d brought, and the small glow dispelled some of the gloom.
“Ever been in a tomb before?” asked Seamus, making nervous conversation.
“No,” said Martha. “You?”
“Nope. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“I’m experiencing a lot of firsts lately,” replied the girl. She nodded quickly, making her goggles fall down over her eyes. “I have a question for you, actually.”
“What’s that?” asked the bandit.
“Are there ghosts? You know, in this world?”
The bandit guffawed a little, saying, “Nah. Children’s stories. Campfire tales.”
Martha paused a moment, chewing on this logic. “But there are, like, magic powers.”
“Sure.”
“And talking animals.”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“But ghosts don’t exist.”