The Accidental Afterlife of Thomas Marsden Read Online Free PDF

the performance.
    But not to stay or speak to anyone. Well, he’d see about that. He’d wear a cap, though, if it mattered that much.
    â€œGot an extra,” he said to Charley. “Silas won’t go.”
    â€œSounds like a jaunt. All right, then.”
    He left Charley prodding at his boat with a stick again and headed for the graveyard, the tallest of the tombs and headstones poking the sky like needles up ahead.
    The grave was still there. Less a grave than a patch of earth, it was true, with no marker, nowhere for mourners to kneel. A sad thought, that perhaps there was no one who would mourn. Perhaps this boy under a few inches of earth was the last of Thomas’s own blood.
    My name is Thistle , said the note in Thomas’s pocket.“Your name is Thistle,” said Thomas aloud. It would have to do. There were no flowers laid down, and he didn’t like to imagine what flowers might grow come summer. Young, bright things that rotted far too soon.
    It seemed he couldn’t stop from imagining.
    Against all he had ever been taught, without shovel or spade and under the bright light of day, Thomas began to dig. The dirt stung his palms and made his fingernails so grubby he was surely in for a proper hiding from Mam—from Lucy—later, but deeper and deeper he went.
    Skin, when he reached it, was colder now, the chill and the stain from the earth seeped into it. Clean enough, though, to see his own face again.
    The spot on his cheek was nothing special. It wasn’t in the shape of any one thing, or even very large. A tiny smudge always darker than the rest, as if Thomas never scrubbed that patch hard enough with the soap.
    How odd, that this boy should have it too.
    Thomas inspected Thistle’s face. He really was exactly the same.
    Overhead, the watery sun oozed down the sky toward the hills. It would frost tonight, Thomas could tell by the scent of the air. Likely the last one before summer’s warmth arrived for good.
    London was beautiful in frost. From this small hill,Thomas felt as if he could see the whole city, its jumble of towns and trees and spires stitched together like an old blanket. Of course, he could only see a tiny corner, really, one frayed edge of the city spread so enormously around him.
    Thomas knew well its graveyards and cemeteries, the places where folks went to be forgotten. He knew the way to the shadowy door where Silas traded the things they dug up for small coins and the way to the market where Lucy spent them. He knew the hidden crannies where food could be had for air and promises.
    But beyond those, there was all of London, and beyond that, all of England and then some, of which Thomas knew nothing. Out there, somewhere—he had no inkling where beyond the first clue, the theater, but somewhere —were secrets. About him.
    Charley was right. Thomas should find them.
    â€œOi! You there! What you up to?”
    No voice like that ever promised good news. Without looking, Thomas scooped a few handfuls of earth and threw them to cover the face in the grave once more. Slow, limping, uneven footsteps followed as Thomas jumped up and ran across the graves to a gap in the fencing just big enough for a small, thin boy to wriggle through.
    He was on the wrong side of the hill for home now, but no matter. It wasn’t yet dark, and who gave a whit if nightfell so completely that he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face? The whole lot of them—Silas and Lucy and whoever dumped him in that grave when he was a baby, if the story was even true—could go eat an onion. That’d make ’em cry far more than if Thomas didn’t go home.
    The moment of rebellion was fleeting. He wanted to go back, so’s he and Lucy and Charley could go to the theater, but there was a hint of possibility in the thought of running away. He didn’t have to do as Lucy and Silas bade him anymore. He didn’t have to stay with them one