Chapter 4

His fingers closed above my pulse, lightly enough to pass for patience. I kept hold of the tin, and the wire handle pressed a narrow groove into my palm.

"Don't make this harder."

The committee woman looked down at the three programs. Beyond the open door, chairs scraped the meeting-room floor, and the first scattered claps joined into one steady sound.

"They've started," she said.

Silas moved his hand from my wrist to the tin. "Give me the draft."

I had written it after supper while he slept beside the lamp. Eighteen years of names had passed through my hands: seven families this morning, eleven last year, nine the year before that. I had checked every spelling twice because grief made people remember errors longer than kindness.

The applause thickened beyond the door. Silas glanced toward it, then eased the handle from my fingers as though helping me set down something heavy.

"Wren, please."

I took the tin back. The folded page inside had settled against the rust ring, one corner dark where the last drops from the tap had reached it.

The committee woman lifted the blank program. "We can still put you after him."

"No," Silas said. "It's already begun."

She pinched the page between both hands. "Then perhaps Wren could close after the rose names. It would only add a minute."

"The order is set."

"Her name was on it."

Silas kept his voice low. "That was the earlier copy."

The woman looked at the ruler, then at the black mark on his finger. She folded the program once, opened it again, and tried to smooth the new crease with her thumb.

"I didn't know."

"You don't need to worry," Silas said. "I'll finish, and Wren can take the flowers up afterward."

"While everyone's gone?"

"They won't be gone."

"They'll be leaving."

"The families have had a long morning."

She held the door halfway open. Applause came through the gap, warm and even, then rose again when someone inside stood. Silas touched the folded sheet in my tin.

"Let me have that."

I pressed the paper flat beneath my palm. The damp corner tore first. I pulled the fold against the jagged enamel until the page split from top to bottom, then crossed the halves and tore them again. Four wet-edged pieces covered the rust circle.

"Wren."

I threaded the wire handle over my fingers. The committee woman stepped aside, leaving the open doorway on my right and the narrow service passage on my left.

"You can still sit with us," she said.

Silas watched the room instead of me. "Save her a chair."

I picked up the tin and went round the back way to the rose, and I wedged the broken corner into the groove the way it goes, and I watered it while they were still clapping.