Inside the mausoleum we held our candles high.
‘Two wives?’ Cara said, her shadow moving between the three tombs.
‘One after the other,’ I said. ‘Not both at once.’
In the gloom we saw that holes had been punched in each stone woman, above their hearts. Peter’s candle dimmed as he lowered his hand into a chest cavity and peered inside, like a surgeon rummaging inside a patient for their heart.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘All turned to dust.’
‘So awful.’ Cara kissed the dusty lips; a tear fell.
I never said that the women would have been buried with their jewellery.
This is a Friday Fictioneer 100-word piece of flash fiction. This week’s picture is provided by our hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I wrote an article this week about copy editing and proofreading a novel. Read it here.