What a terrible thing to be buried alive, to desperately ring the little bell and pray someone hears in time. I was not long on the road before the telltale chime reached my ear. I heard it before I even saw the cemetery over the rise. By that time, groundskeepers were already there, hurriedly shoveling dirt aside. The boy they pulled from the coffin several long minutes later was no older than fourteen.

My heart twisted a bit. It was not uncommon for children to be unlawfully buried alive. Few were lucky enough to be buried in a coffin with a grave bell. Some were dug up from barren hillsides long after they had decayed, forgotten and useless husks of failure. Many children wore bells just in case, and they eyed most adults with deep-rooted suspicion and hatred.

This boy, however, seemed less frantic than some were. There was a glow about him, and he smiled quite frankly at the harrowed men with shovels. His choice of burial seemed intentional: equipped with a bell, easily accessed and uprooted, and with an expensive and comfortable coffin. I almost looked around for his proud parents, who would still soon be arrested (once the groundskeepers found their wits).

I turned away before anyone could spot me, my own bells tinkling. If I was not back before dark, perhaps it would be me who awoke in a grave next. I tried not to think about how no one would be able to hear me no matter how I jangled the trinkets. They were small, but I liked to think their presence warded away those who would benefit from my death.

Adjusting the strap of my bag of rocks—literally; it was hell on my shoulders—I hurried down the road. It soon changed from the edge of a bustling city with a paved pathway and a crowded cemetery to an empty dirt road winding over rolling hills. I crested one and finally saw the silhouette of the small village on the blue horizon. Under bright, unclouded afternoon sunlight like today, the town looked particularly harsh and uninteresting. Its stone walls were overgrown with ivy, its buildings a muddy brown, and its markets far less crowded than the mining city of Aeil which I was coming from.

Mother often sent me to haggle for chunks of crystals, jewels, and other rocks she might be able to carve up into something nice enough to catch someone's eye. I could only haul so much on my own. It would have made more sense to send the cart, the men from the workhouse, and the horses, but Mother didn't always strive for sense. Usually, she sent me not because she needed supplies but because she wanted me gone for two days.

I didn't usually complain directly to her either. When I did, I would be met with the same sigh, the same defeated hunch, the same weary hand pressed to her forehead as though she might swoon in agitation. Then she would say the very words that had me hurrying out the door: If only you had magic, Celestine, my life would be much easier.

She didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it. If she did, I wouldn't be here as a jingling, bell-wearing sixteen year old who was under-appreciated, terribly powerless, and all around terrified of the idea of magic.

Not that it was the worst suggestion she could make. The other was to return to my father, and we both knew we would never do that. After all, he had died a year ago (and he was really, truly dead, as he was far too old for anything else). No doubt his brother had risen to his place, and he was just as miserable if not worse.

My mother and I did not lead a remarkable life. It was terrible, difficult, and frustrating, but it was simple and it was free. I would haul rocks back-and-forth every day if it meant I could keep my quiet, undisturbed life in the dingy town of Bevuin.

My shoulders did not agree. They were weeping by the time I reached the gates and passed through, and I was positively soaked in sweat. I must have stank of it too because the guardsman gave me a funny look as I passed. I wrinkled my nose at him, snapped my chin up, and walked a little faster. Before I had gone far enough, I heard him comment on the annoying sound of bells that followed me. Of course he would say that. He was too old to fear someone might decide his death was a greater benefit than his life.

After all, the only way to obtain magic was to die, but it didn't work for just anyone. No, only children and young adults, those with a full life ahead of them.

The man must have passed the age of twenty-five. Now, he was too shriveled to remember the fear of youth, to be chosen for a terrible gift and rise from the grave.

My walk was brisk, and I didn't stop for anything. Not for the kind wife of the baker who offered me a fresh cinnamon roll from across the street, for the girl selling flowers at the corner, or the drunk man crying out in the plaza that the world was coming to an end. I couldn't help but notice that there were many more guards around the town than usual, so many men with gleaming chestplates bearing the emblem of the king. Their faces were hard and mean, and their gazes followed me.

I could only walk so fast before I would look suspicious, not to mention the stupid rocks working against me, so I tried instead to be normal. I smiled, waved, and ducked hurriedly into the nearest dark alley. It cut away from the main street and opened up just across from Mother's workshop. I sped across the street, dodging a horse drawn carriage and its angry driver, and dove inside. I was breathing hard by then, and I leaned heavily against the door before collapsing at its foot.

Our little town was about as far from the capital city as one could get without leaving the kingdom. The only time the king's men ever ventured so far was when they were hunting someone. It wasn't really their mission that bothered me. It was more the shiny sigil on their chests, the royal blue capes fluttering at their backs, the cold regard they held.

They were so like Father. They carried his ghost everywhere they went.

"Celestine?" Mother emerged from the back through a curtain. Her graying hair was tied in a braid over one shoulder as it often was when she was working. She stripped off her work gloves as she approached me, a frown creasing her delicate face. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I've got your rocks," I said, extracting myself from my bag and hauling it up before tossing at her feet. It landed with a thunk and a clink as the materials inside it stirred against each other. I stood, dusting myself off. "I'm going to have a bath, some dinner, and a nap now. If you'll excuse me."

She sighed as she bent to pick up the heavy work bag. "They better not be rocks, Celestine. How many times do I have to tell you? We are jewelers. We work with—"

"Crystals, minerals, and gemstones." I didn't care what they were. The only reason I had become her apprentice at all was because it was quiet, secluded work. We had other employees to handle the market and customers while I ran errands and cut, shaved, and polished rocks. Mother did the delicate work. She had the vision.

"Once you've had something to eat, come back down," she said just as I began to escape to the stairs at the far side of the workshop. "While you were gone, a man placed an order for a ring. He's coming for it today. I need your help to finish it."

"Impatient much?" Usually we kept base rings in the workroom for occasions just like this, but carving and setting a stone was slow work, even with our new machinery. Normally, Mother told customers it would be three days. I frowned. "Is there something special about this request?"

"Don't dilly-dally," Mother said.

I sighed. So then there was something of note. It was pointless to argue when she had decided, for whatever reason, that it was need-to-know and I did not need to know, so I climbed up into our small apartment. It was little more than a kitchen, a bedroom, and a quaint bathroom. The water was frigid, but I scrubbed the road and sweat from myself quickly enough before dressing in clean, plain clothes. I returned the dangling silver bells to my ears and pulled my hair up. Sandy blonde strands snagged around on my fingers, and I glared at myself in the smudged mirror. "Behave," I muttered, "or I'll cut you short."

I had barely finished before Mother called my name from the workshop below. I tied off the ponytail and swung out of the bathroom, throwing together a sandwich of scrap cheese and meat before I hurried down. I stumbled over the steps and fell unceremoniously against the wall, half a sandwich in my mouth.

Mother was there in the workshop, her eyes wide as they flicked to me. Standing with her was a scruffy-looking man in the royal blue cape and stupid shiny chestplate stamped with the kind's sigil—the reaper's sickle and a crow in flight. I shot to my feet and swallowed my sandwich, desperately trying not to choke on it as the man took notice of me.

"Celestine," Mother said, clearing her throat, "this is the man who ordered the ring I told you about. His name is..."

I wasn't listening anymore, and I didn't care what his name was. Why would a soldier of the king come all the way to Bevuin for a ring? Mother did good work, and we certainly had a reputation among the smaller towns on the kingdom's outskirts, but the man had the hardened look of someone who served directly in the palace city—perhaps the palace itself. Surely there were better jewelers and silversmiths in the capital.

I thought of all the soldiers I had seen on the way home. The streets crawled with them. It was an infestation, a disease. Maybe they were looking for Mother.

But why? A dead man had no need of his unwanted mistress. We had six years of silence, six years of peace. The court hadn't been welcome to Mother while we were there and they'd treated me like a bug to be squashed. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting her back.

"...still awaiting my ring. I am even willing to offer you more time to complete it as I am currently here on business, not pleasure," the man was saying when I finally snapped back to the present. His face was hard as steel, crueler even when he stepped toward me. One of his gloved hands found the bag of rocks I had brought back, and he dug inside to lift up a pale blue cluster of crystals. "Ah. Yes. This is the one."

"Pardon?" Mother wrinkled her nose.

"This morning, news arrived from Aeil that a girl had stolen a selection of crystals directly from an alchemist's shop. They were to be used in some manner of spellwork that day, and the girl reportedly snatched them from the man's storage." He lifted the crystal and eyed me, a thin lipped smile cracking his features. "Her description matches your daughter's exactly."

My back straightened. "I'm not a thief. I didn't steal anything." I didn't mention that I didn't recognize the crystal. Or rather—I did. It was a celestine, my namesake, but I hadn't seen it anywhere in Aeil.

"What proof do you have? This crystal seems enough to me." He turned to Mother again, the celestine still in hand. "There have been other reports. I will have to check your wares, if you will allow me."

My Mother's brows drew together. "Sir, my daughter is no thief. If you wish to see proof of purchase, I'm certain she has it in that bag."

Sandpaper coated my tongue as the man began to rifle through my bag. There were plenty of other crystals and stones to sort through, and he did so with an edge of impatience to his movements. Finally, he dug up the pocketbook of receipts and my coin purse. He and my Mother counted the remaining coins and matched the stones with my records.

I stood there sweating, glancing occasionally at the window on the far wall. It faced the shop next to us, where a stern-looking man and his even meaner-looking son shaved and carved wood. I once saw the man chop off the finger of a supposed thief. I didn't think they would help me.

"Celestine..." The warning in my mother's voice was clear. I didn't have to look to know they had finished and the man was moving on with his investigation.

The room shrank in around me, too small and too tight. There wasn't even room to breathe. When I looked up, Mother had crossed to my side, one hand hovering as if to reach out to me. There was doubt etched into her face. Doubt in her eyes.

"I swear I'm not a thief," I whispered, pitiful and small. I thought of the grave bell and the closeness of a coffin. I thought of the sweet scent of earth piled atop me. I thought of the shallow breaths I would take—as I was taking now.

Mother chewed her lip, glancing at the man who had disappeared into our little storage closet. She nudged me toward the stairs. "Go," she whispered. "There are men out front, but the bedroom window is unlocked. I'll keep the soldier busy and find you once he's gone."

"Where do I go?" I didn't know why I was already trembling or how to stop it.

"Anywhere. I'll find you. Just go!" She shoved me again, harder this time, and I stumbled onto the stairs. They creaked beneath me. Both of us froze, but the man didn't reappear.

My second flight up the stairs was more frantic, stumbling about with my heart in my throat. I raced into the bedroom and tore the curtains back. The sunlight had dimmed as evening had come on. Voices sounded below me, paired with heavy boots clanking up the stairs. My fingers were shaking so badly I almost couldn't get them under the window. I pulled and pulled until finally the pane slid up.

"Hey!"

Holding my breath, I ducked out the window and vaulted over the edge. For a moment, it was just me and the wind screaming in my ears as I fell, and it was then that I regretted everything. My feet hit the ground, something cracked, I fell sideways with a gasp, and then I was free. Except for the shock lancing up my leg. And the man shouting at me from my mother's window.

My tears were hot as I blinked them away, and I forced myself to stand. As soon as my left leg took on weight, it protested with a fresh wave of pain. I limped away, ducking behind the building on our other side. All I could hear was the bells in my ears and the clank of my armored pursuers. I headed for the narrow alley I had taken to get here and limped through. Its walls weren't too narrow, but they were enough to split up the men behind me. Only one dove in after me, and his metal-plated shoulders scraped the walls if he didn't walk directly down the center.

I was feeling rather smug as I emerged from the dark and entered the sunlight again, enough that I looked back to see if I was far enough ahead. In my moment of stupidity, I collided with a solid rock ahead of me—namely, the armored chest of the man from the workshop. The impact knocked me onto my backside with a yelp.

Cold chains clamped around my wrists before I had even made it upright again. Something inside me snapped as the man hauled me upright. I could no longer hear whatever nonsense he was spewing, only the hum of anger in my veins.

"I'm not a thief," I spat at the man. I really did spit, right on the toe of his boots. Someone gasped.

He had the audacity to smile. "You're more than that, aren't you, girl?"

Then he led me away, limping, and I hated to think about what else he might know. I didn't see my mother, only rows upon rows of the king's soldiers, all gathered to celebrate the completion of their mission. It was never her that they wanted. For whatever reason, it was me.

Hello and welcome to Grave Bell, my newest silly project! :D

I started this because I wanted a break, I wanted something new, and I wanted something a little more absurd. This is very much still in the first draft stage (I don't even have an outline yet. The story comes to me on its own terms) but I do have a backlog of updates and a NEED to throw this story out there. So here we are lol.

I hope you all enjoy! I'll see you in the next update.