(Isobel's Point Of View)
The funeral was at a cathedral in Midtown, the kind of place that made you feel small just standing in it. The air inside smelled faintly of incense and old stone; light from high stained-glass windows fell in tired, colored stripes across polished floors.
I wore the only black dress I'd packed, simple and knee-length, nothing fancy. When I came out of my room, Julien was waiting in the hallway in a tailored black suit that probably cost more than my rent. The fabric had that quiet expensive weight to it; his shirt was crisp, his shoes shined to an unnecessary gloss.
"You look nice," he said.
"So do you."
We didn't talk much in the car. He stared out the window, jaw tight, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his knee. The city slid by in a blur of taxis and faces; I felt like an observer watching my life from a distance.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just... it's going to be a long day."
