The sun shone. It seemed irreverent to shine today, falling across the young lady’s hand and shoulder as she sat at the window, too distracted to move it.“He was a good man.”“Yes.” Still her hand was in the sunlight, cuffed by a tight black sleeve.“It was a good service.”“Yes.”“I believe that your father will be favorable.”“Oh don’t, don’t!” Her arm slipped from the sill and her hands tangled in black skirts. “Don’t speak of that yet – it is too much!” She bent her face to her lap and a coil of hair fell. The young man stood over her, rigid and worried, hands clasped behind him.“I loved him too,” he told her when she was quiet. He said it as if it might have hurt him. “He was my brother.”“You did not love him as I did!” She was savage, mournful, terrified. Terrified of her own feelings, terrified that they were wrong, a betrayal. It had been one night, one dark smoky dreamy night, and it had tortured her, still tortured her even with her beloved gone. “It shouldn’t have been this easy,” she whispered.He understood – he clasped her hands in his and knelt beside her and told her so, told her that he would stay by her and understand as long as she let him.She turned her face into the sunlight. It was tear-stained and red, but still very fine. Her eyes were clear and sad, and she seemed weighted down with some terrible decision.“Give me my mourning period,” she told the young man, and sank back into the shadows, eyes closing and accepting him, accepting the night they’d shared. “It’s only proper.”He sighed, relieved, and released her hands, knowing that her word was a cord that linked them. “I will.”