Jude walked to the house following the small, colorful crowd of mourners. Ahead, she made out Alfie, riding on someone’s shoulders, sagging a bit, like a sack of flour. As she approached the house, she saw that there were lights in the trees outside.

The door was open and the hallway full. Jude pushed through the press of people, clutching her branches.

“Where shall I put these?” she asked Doc.

“Who knows?” he said, holding up his palms and raising his eyebrows. “Ask Erika. She’s in charge of flowers.”

“Where’s Erika?”

“Who knows?” He made the same gesture of exaggerated helplessness.

Jude made her way into the kitchen, almost beaten back by the heat and steam and the smell of something burning. A woman in a kaftan was standing by the hob, stirring a pot.

“Would you like some punch?” she asked, holding out a ladle.

“I’m fine,” said Jude. “I’m just dropping these off.”

“I think they’re for the conservatory.”

Jude maneuvered her way into the conservatory clutching her armful of greenery. The room was crowded and full of the babble of voices. The trestle table was covered with plates and dishes of food, including the dips she had dropped off that morning, and a motley collection of glasses, tumblers and mugs. At the far end, she saw Vin opening bottles and heard his booming laugh. The doors to the garden were open and groups of people stood amid the clutter, smoking or vaping.

Danny passed by, a few feet away, but she didn’t seem to notice Jude, or anyone. People reached out to touch her, say a few words, but her face barely changed expression. Her carmine lips were a gash in her chalky face and she had a glassy stare. She was just stumbling through the motions. Jude thought she probably just wanted to lie in a dark room and wait for the day to end.

She propped the branches against a wall and straightened up, brushing off the leaves and twigs from her suit. She took a canapé heaped with sour cream and some kind of herby mixture and pushed the whole thing into her mouth, licked her fingers, turned to go, and found herself face-to-face with Tara and Andy.

“Hello,” she said thickly, still chewing. “How are you both?”

“How do you think?” said Tara, at the same time as Andy said, “As well as can be expected.”

“It was a lovely celebration.”

“Do you think so?” Tara raised her eyebrows. She was wearing a long skirt and a jacket that was cinched at the waist, like a character out of a Victorian costume drama, and her brown hair was piled on the top of her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was angry.

“I think,” said Jude carefully, “that it felt appropriate for Liam. The music, the place it was in, the words.”

“Andy wanted to read a poem,” said Tara.