Sunday tea has rules.

Not official rules, of course. Everhallow Cemetery is far too civilized to admit it has those.

But there are expectations.

The tea should be hot. The pastries should survive the walk. The chairs should not wobble. Beatrice Dallow should never be allowed to claim the last good scone without witnesses. And when the afternoon begins to soften toward evening, even the ghosts generally understand that tea has come to an end.

Generally.

Percival Moss has never been particularly impressed by the word.

This week in the Everhallow Almanac, we are taking the Sunday tea route through the cemetery—past the old ironwork, under the autumn trees, and toward one stubbornly occupied chair that really ought to be empty by now.

Bring a warm coat.

And perhaps an extra cup.

By late afternoon, Everhallow Cemetery always changes.

The tea cools. The paths quiet. Lantern light begins catching against old stone and ironwork, and the last dry leaves skitter beneath tables that were crowded only an hour before.

Most Sundays, that is when everyone goes home.

This Sunday, one chair remains occupied.

Percy Moss is still there.

Sylvie has packed nearly everything. Ben has finished the repair he came to make. The reasonable explanations have run out, and Percy appears entirely untroubled by this.

He has another opinion about the tea.

He has several opinions about Ben.

And he is refusing to answer the one question everyone would very much like answered.

Why won’t he leave?

Somewhere between the last cup and the first lantern, Sunday tea has become something else entirely.And in Everhallow, that is usually when the interesting part begins.