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“And the scapular?” Elijah asks. He’s sitting against the trunk of one of the few trees at the abbey, and the only tree that looks like an actual tree and not a wind-gnarled bush older than God. It’s sunny today—or sunny-ish—and warm enough that we’ve taken off our shoes to feel the soft graveyard grass on our toes.
The yew we’re sitting underneath is tucked behind a sharp slope inside the graveyard—sharp enough that there are old, lichen-covered stairs set into the earth in order to navigate it. Here the graveyard levels off for a bit and then ends with a low stone fence. The fence is broken by gate posts which no longer have a gate.
Because the best views are from the cliffs, I’ve made the gamble that we’d have some privacy from visitors, and it was a good gamble. We haven’t s
