Later, Bryn finds me outside, leaning against the Manse, purportedly watching Callum and Toast playing in the front garden. I haven’t seen Bryn since he visited me in the hospital, though we’ve spoken on the phone a few times. He’s in a suit, of course—not black; dark gray instead—but this one seems to fit. Perhaps he bought it very recently. “How are you doing?” he asks, squinting a little against the bright light. His face seems healthily lean now, rather than gaunt, and he has more freckles and more color than I remember. His hair could be any part of the brown spectrum—auburn, sandy, chestnut, plain old brown—depending on the light, but his eyes are a definitive pale blue.

“Everyone is asking me that. Right after they tell me what a lovely service it was.”

He tips his head, the smallest of movements. “Well, it was. And they all care. Which is surely preferable to the alternative . . .”

He’s teasing me. Very gently, but he’s teasing me. I stick my tongue out at him.

“How about I ask you something different then? It’s probably not the right time, but life is short.” He grimaces. “As days like this prove.”

I’m intrigued. “Go on, then.”

“Are you still with Jonathan Powell?”

“Oh.” My head swings round to him. Bryn doesn’t falter under the weight of my full attention. I’m starting to think I know where this is heading. “Um. Actually, no.”

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?” His eyes are smiling in the way that I can only detect now that I know him better. It’s exactly the kind of invitation that I think it is.

“I’d quite like to get a drink now.”

His mouth curls up at the corners. I like that I made it do that. “I’m not sure absconding on all these guests is really the best idea.” He pauses. “But I can hang around until they’ve gone if you want me to.”

“I’d like that.” We watch the small boy and his dog playing together for a minute. Callum is throwing a Frisbee, and Toast is leaping for it, twisting with incredible agility in the air to snap at it, yet somehow the Frisbee remains in pristine condition. I close my eyes and tip my head back against the stone of the house. The sun has a warmth to it that cuts through the breeze, a promise of summer to come. I may have more freckles of my own after today. “My father died,” I say quietly to Bryn, opening my eyes. It occurs to me that I may be standing exactly where my father was in the photo I have of him.

Bryn nods. “I know.”

“And my mother.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

There are tears slipping soundlessly down my cheeks again. I didn’t think I had any left in me. “Me too.”

•   •   •