There were others gathered in the courtyard—servants who had worked with her, villagers who loved her, and those who served closest to us, among them Killian. We took turns laying flowers around her—lavender, lilies, whatever had yet to die beneath the snow in the garden. I watched closely when it was Killian’s turn. His features were hard, but his eyes were sad, and he lifted his hand, hesitating before he brushed his fingers against her ruined lips. His mouth moved, but I could not hear what he said, and at some point, it felt too intimate to watch.
