Twenty miles southwest of the University of North Carolina, there is a large residential development called Pembray Village. To the public, Pembray is a quiet, private community situated on the rolling, picturesque acres of two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old farmland. The historic Pembray compound buildings include a three-story bed-and-breakfast, a five-star spa on-site, and a Michelin-star restaurant that only serves vegetables grown on the property from heirloom seeds. In the spring, the gazebo overlooking the postcard-perfect lake is one of the most sought-after wedding venues in the state. What the leisure magazines and locals don’t know is that Pembray, like many such luxury compounds across the country, was constructed by the Order of the Round Table as a gathering site whenever needs required it. When Onceborn vacationers asked about making reservations at the award-winning inn this week, they were told it’s been closed for “renovations.”

I watch cars unload from a quiet spot under the awning of the inn. I barely remember my mother’s service. But I know it didn’t look this: a hundred rich white people in fancy funeral clothes spilling out of a steady stream of limos and luxury cars. Local celebrities, a few famous alums, the mayor, I think?

I’m not at all surprised that the only people of color here are a few Merlins and me, but it’s still messed up. Even if my identity were out in the open, I’m not sure I could handle being surrounded at a funeral by this many emotional white people gawking at the Black-girl Scion of Arthur. On the one hand, it’s true whether they want it to be or not. On the other… ugh. When Nick publicly claimed me as his Squire, the response at the gala was its own battle. I don’t have the energy to fight against white folks’ disbelief today.

A string quartet plays Bach on the perfectly manicured emerald lawn under a cloudy morning sky. In the distance, the glass surface of Llywelyn Lake ripples in silvers and grays from the occasional breeze. The air smells like rain and expensive cologne. I’m certain there had been flower displays at my mother’s gravesite, but nothing like the ten-foot-tall living wall of fresh dahlias, carnations, and ranunculus that serve as a backdrop to the nine high-backed chairs spread across the dais. The guests walking toward the seating area wear black suits, long coats, dresses. They move with heads bent, whispering to one another while eyeing the urns that sit on a black cloth–covered table in front of the congregation.

There are four urns. One of them is empty because Evan’s body was never found.

The unsaid thing about funerals is that directly after the communal mourning for someone you love, after everyone is gone and the connected grief dispersed, comes a solitude beyond imagining. A great, gaping nothing where a whole person and life and future used to be. The other side of a funeral is abyss.