The priest is finished. As soon as the last words are out of his mouth, Mrs Bakas and Mrs Milionis fall to their knees at the edge of the grave and begin to wail, arms stretched up to heaven. The other women are weeping loudly. Zoë feels their eyes on her but, remembering her promise, she clamps her mouth into a line and steps forward with Pavlo. They pick up handfuls of earth, let them fall onto the varnished black lid of the coffin, onto the flowers, making them jump and scatter. Zoë stares at her hands, and at her brother’s: long, pale, trembling as he rubs his fingers together, trying to dislodge the last crumbs of soil. He is an orphan now. But I, she thinks, am twice an orphan. I have lost my mother for the second time. She knows she ought to cry but her grief feels like sickness, not sadness. I don’t think I have any more tears left, she thinks. I wonder if they’ll ever come back? Because I want to cry now. I want to climb down into the grave and beg Charon to take me too. But I promised. Instead she takes Pavlo’s arm and steers him away from the graveside, feeling his resistance, feeling all his thoughts and fears pulsing beneath his skin. He turns his face to her and his eyes are huge, staring out through the dark hollows around them. She notices that he is trying to grow a moustache.

They walk out through the gates, where more hearses are already waiting to unload their burdens. The plumes on the horses’ heads are blowing in the wind. A white herl comes loose from one ragged ostrich feather and twirls through the air, coming to rest on Pavlo’s lapel. He picks it off and stares at it, silently.

‘Does it mean good luck, do you think?’ Zoë says, to break the silence between them, which is starting to press down on her. She hates the way her voice sounds artificially bright.

‘An undertaker’s feather.’ Pavlo closes his eyes and a faint smile stirs the corners of his mouth. Then it is gone. ‘Sounds like a poem. Mama would laugh.’

‘She would, wouldn’t she?’

Pavlo takes out his handkerchief, folds it around the delicate wisp and tucks it carefully back into his pocket. ‘We’re alone now,’ he says. He twists his hands together and moans. Zoë puts her arms around his shoulders and holds him tightly. He is rigid, but then he goes quiet. He puts his arms around her too, and rests his chin on the top of her head, looking back towards the gates. He is hardly there at all under his suit. Zoë takes hold of him and hugs him as tightly as she can. ‘We’re not alone,’ she says. ‘Mama said …’ She stops. She wants to cry but she mustn’t.

‘What did Mama say?’