Grantchester Meadows Southwest Cambridge, England Thatcher studied the headstones along a lushly forested row of graves. They were within an overgrown corner of the cemetery, and losing daylight quickly. Most of the markers were cracked and broken, difficult to read in the dusk. Some were centuries old, others prematurely aged by the extreme environmental conditions. Perpetual rainfall kept the ground sopping with mud. Her boots sunk deep into the earth. She stumbled over a shallow, overgrown root and toppled to the ground. “Bloody hell.” She sat there for a moment, annoyed. Mud covered the front of her Gianfranco Ferré suit. The outfit was ruined. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered in a world where passage graves came alive with noise and slaughtered entire populations. “Dr. Thatcher!” David called from across the field. She forced herself to her feet, wiped the brown sludge from her pants, and headed towards him, careful to not trip again.
