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The cemetery lay quiet beneath a pale winter sky, the ground hard and unyielding, patches of old snow clinging to the edges of the graves.
A small gathering stood around the open plot. The priest, wrapped in dark robes, his breath misting faintly in the cold. The attorney. A handful of townspeople. Some from farther afield.
And Ronan.
By her side. A foot away. Uninvited. But there, nonetheless.
And she hated that she took comfort in his presence.
The priest’s voice droned on in Russian, low and rhythmic, words she understood but didn’t want to. Smoke curled from the censer, sharp in the cold air.
Her mind slipped — unbidden — to another funeral.
Three girls standing shoulder to shoulder, wedged between their grandfather and father. Uncle and cousin behind. A wall of soldiers surrounding them, rigid, silent.
Her mother’s coffin.
Grief then had been raw. But contained.
Like now.
The chant went on. And on.
Until, finally—
Silence.
The priest stepped back, the ritual complete.
Felicity crossed herself, the motion automatic.
Then she turned and walked away.
She didn’t look at Ronan. He wordlessly fell into step beside her as she made her way back toward her vehicle, boots crunching over frost-hardened ground.
“I want to apologize for yesterday,” Ronan said.
She kept walking.
“My outburst was unwarranted.”
Felicity said nothing.
“Just … know I’m here,” he added quietly. “If you need help.”
She reached her vehicle and stopped, fingers tightening briefly on the handle. “I appreciate you coming. Thank you.”
She climbed into the Bronco and drove off.
*
She and her housemates settled on an uneasy détente. They followed her from room to room, giving her accusing side-eyes as she cleared Galina’s personal items from the bedroom with practical efficiency.
Sewing supplies and clothing went into boxes and straight to the church charity drive. Someone in town would make use of them.
She bought a new bed. Galina’s iron bedframe and mattress were too old. Too lumpy. And squeaky. The memory-foam queen with its padded headboard was much more her style. And for the first time, the quilt Galina had made for her looked like it belonged. The black stitching amongst the vivid patchwork echoed the leather of the new headboard.
The sewing room became her office.
