Narcissa’s Death Day. Lucius was a statue before the imposing marble stone, with its starkly engraved words, his face as carefully blank as the angel’s on his great-grandfather’s monument. No such decoration on Narcissa’s, only the bleak finality of sharp-edged letters and numbers.
He heard the wet crunch of footsteps, but remained immobile.
Behind his shoulder, a rich-toned voice spoke quietly. “It wouldn’t be a betrayal, Lucius.”
Small hands, ungloved and warm, gripped his own. “Go on,” her soft alto urged.
The pair stayed with him as he collapsed to his knees, tears falling and voice keening his long-held grief.