“Whose funeral did you go to?” I give her a strange look. “What?” “You’re holding a mourning wreath. Like the ones at funerals,” she explains. Now that I really look at it, I realize I’ve seen the wreath before. That explains all the looks and condolences I received on my way here. I try to recover. “I’m showing just how sorry I am.” She chuckles, her expression contemplative. “You’ll need that when she’s done with you.”
