“Oh, Nuri,” she said sitting next to him, “I do so love it when you make these announcements of yours.” When Sorcha and I left, Dirva and his mother were discussing funeral plans and wills with Nuri. It was, somehow, sweet and macabre at the same time.

* * *

Nuri died in the early afternoon on the 13th of Fourthmonth-Last, 6572 IC. Spring had settled over the City, and that time of day was hot, but not yet blistering. The time of day had been chosen for its warmth and the golden light in which the City basks then. The day itself was chosen because the Pet was full and close; the moon the previous evening had been a thin white ring. The days after a ring night—a night where the Pet is closest to Aerdh, hovering between us and the dusty craters of the Moon—those days are known to heighten magic.

I was there that day, but I was not present for the death. I walked Sorcha to the door and sat outside on the stoop. Nuri was not my family. Bearing witness to his death felt an intrusion. Not long after I sat down, Liro arrived. “You’re still here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Liro sat next to me. “You’re here for Sorcha, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

He patted my shoulder. “Good. Good. You mind if I sketch you? It’s a heavy day. I need something to take my mind off it.”

“You want to sketch me?”

“I do.”

“It would be an honor.”

“It’ll be a sketch,” he said, pulling a pad of paper and a pencil from his shirt. We sat there for hours. I watched the golden light turn pink, then red, then lilac. The air cooled. The streets were as loud as they always were, but the day felt quiet anyway. And Liro sketched; the whole time, he sketched. He produced a dozen or more drawings of me on that stoop, my back bowed, my chin resting on my knees. You can see the depth of my worry in those sketches.

Just before dusk, Sorcha burst through the door. His face was streaked with tears. He ran for the street and caught me by the hand as he passed by, dragging me with him. He said nothing the entire walk back. The others in the squat house knew what the day would bring, and they had enough respect to have cleared out when we got there. He led me up the stairs, his hand clasping mine so tight it hurt, and pulled me into the bed. He wept for hours. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. I felt everything, every shard of loss. He wept for hours, and I held him while he wept.

* * *