CHAPTER 2: Black Silk on the Wrong Arm

Julian walked slowly, as if every pew belonged to him already. He had always been handsome in the way careless men are handsome, with a smile that asked other people to forget what he owed them.
Celeste moved beside him in a black silk dress, one hand resting at his sleeve. She had been Adrian's charity consultant before she became Julian's constant shadow. People had called it loyalty after the illness. Eleanor had called it hunger, but only inside her own head.
They stopped beside the first pew without asking permission.
'Eleanor,' Julian murmured, bending as though to kiss her cheek. He smelled of cold rain and expensive cologne. 'You should not sit alone.'
Eleanor did not offer him space. She looked at the coffin instead.
Celeste leaned forward, her lips nearly touching the older woman's ear. Her voice was soft enough for manners and sharp enough for memory.
'After today,' she whispered, 'you will finally have to stop pretending this family still belongs to you.'
Eleanor's hand tightened around the handkerchief, but her face did not change. That was the first thing Celeste failed to understand. Old grief did not always shake. Sometimes it became stone.