The cover was wooden as well, and not nailed down.
Wood scraped against wood as he shoved it fiercely aside.
It thumped upon the dirt floor beyond, the sound loud in his
eyes; all sound magnified by the total darkness.
     Breath coming in excited gasps, he reached inside
without hesitation. His hands, though, were gentle as they
explored what lay within.
     By chance, they encountered the skull first, the bone
as smooth and clean as if the woman it had housed had been
dead many years. His hands held the memory of her soft
golden hair, of her flesh like satin, of the soft fine line
of her brows and the flutter of her lashes. He caressed the
bone, not really feeling it at all; his memories more alive
than he.
     It was several moments before he noticed the oddity.
The bone underneath his hands was rounded and smooth. No
obstruction, no gaping holes. The back of the skull, not
the face.
     He explored further, hand tracing down the rag-covered
backbone, feeling the hard joints of the ribs at either
side. Down further, he encountered something even more
startling -- the hands, bones still joined together, were
chained at the wrists. And even lower, he found that iron
spikes and rings had been set in the wood, and the ankles
chained down as well.
     His mind, numbed, finally formed the picture: the body,
with its wrists and ankles chained, had been placed in the
coffin face down.
     A peculiar horror filled him. He had never been much
for society's conventions, but this violation of the
treatment of the dead cut somewhere deep inside. He wanted
to laugh again, let in the madness. Memories of old
superstitions danced in like ghosts; uneducated villagers,
old wive's tales and fanatics, afraid of their shadows when
the sun set. Chain the dead down; keep them from walking.
Turn the face of the witch toward hell. Let not the dead
rise up and walk to haunt the dreams of the living...
     There was a dizzy roar in his head which peaked and
passed. Somewhere, pain lived as well, but it was somewhere
far away.
     ...Charles...
     The voice again. Drifting in the stillness. Very
real.
     "Angelique," he whispered.
     There was warmth beneath his hands. Softness. His
fingers now pressed against warm flesh. Slowly, following
her form, he moved forward until his fingers tangled in
silky hair.
     "You love me, Charles. Say that you love me..."
"I do," he whispered. "I do love you." Awe, ecstasy,
shaken through to his soul. The echo of his words died in
his ears.
     "Take my hands, Charles."

                           39