The chill of the autumn night was a familiar comfort, a soft shroud settling over the graveyard. The only sounds were the rustle of dry leaves and the soft thud of earth meeting earth as Maeve methodically filled the newest plot. The transaction had been simple, almost pleasingly so. A group of men with shifting eyes and heavy coin purses had delivered the plain, unvarnished coffin, demanding a burial with no rites, no questions. She was happy to oblige; silence was a currency she valued more th...