The ceremony could’ve ended there, and it would’ve been enough for Barnabus. Gemma knew he loved her and wanted to be married to her and was choosing this life with her. That had been lacking for so long, a heavy cloud hanging over their lives.

“And are you marrying him because you want to, no matter that he’s sometimes a dull cove and writes penny dreadfuls that don’t have a single monster and ain’t about street urchins like the stories written by real authors?” Fletcher wrote about monsters and street urchins, something Gemma’s laugh indicated she was well aware of.

“Again,” Barnabus whispered, “you don’t have to insult the groom.”

“I’m marrying him because I want to,” Gemma said. “And if the rest of what you’re meaning to say ain’t nice to him, I’ll belt you.”

Fletcher made a show of reading through the rest of his notes for the ceremony and dismissing it all as unusable.

“Guess all that leaves me to ask is—Gemma, do you love Barnabus?”

“I do.” She looked at him once more, the tenderness in her eyes nearly stealing his breath.

“Are you choosing to spend all your life with him and marry him no matter the messiness that got you two churched the first time? Honestly choosing it?” Fletcher repeated the final question he’d posed to Barnabus.

“I am.”

“Well, then. I think that makes you pretty well married.” Fletcher stuffed the paper back in his pocket. “See you both at your funeral.” He popped his hat on his head and slipped out.

Barnabus pulled Gemma into an embrace. She set her hands on either side of his face. He kissed her softly and tenderly. As dangerous as the coming days would be, as difficult as it would be to successfully manage their escape from the Kincaids and the Mastiff, it meant they would never be torn apart again.

And that would be worth all the danger and difficulty in the world.

Bodies of Light

Bodies of Light

being a Fictionalization of Reported and Corroborated Mysterious Phenomena

by the late Dr. Barnabus Milligan, physician,
whom the publishers of this work grieve deeply

Chapter Five

Weeks had passed since Dr. Sefton Palmer had seen patients, attended bedsides, or interacted with any of the society he once had kept. Nothing was given place in his life but the question of lights. Nothing.

He stood in a graveyard at the very outskirts of London on a January night, one year to the day when he had first seen the columns of fire over a bog in Ireland. One year with more questions than answers. One year of replacing his doctoring with this pursuit. One year that had brought him to this place of death in the company of one who made his living disturbing the peace of the dearly departed.

Palmer had thrown his lot in with a resurrectionist.