Mandy took a breath. She was familiar with all of the aspects of grief: the sound of it, screamingly loud or soft and subdued; the look of it, all wasting sickness or puffy eyes; the shape of it inside her own chest—something separate and foreign, but impossible to remove.

But the worst part was the smell.

The thick, heavy scent of tears had permeated the rooms in an old, oddball orphanage full of children who didn’t want anyone to know when they cried in the dark. It soaked into the sheets and clotted in the air. If you were the sort of child who could sense such things, you ignored them out of courtesy. But there was no hiding Cat’s tears—not her noisy sniffles or her red-rimmed eyes, or the way she wore her grief like her sweatshirt: something heavy and too large, hanging limply from her shoulders.

Almost as soon as Emmaline started speaking, Mandy got to her feet—not because she wasn’t interested in what the woman had to say, but because it was most likely to hold everyone’s attention. Emmaline’s elegantly clipped accent made her sound calm and capable, its edges softened, but still distinct. It was a very reassuring voice, and Mandy liked that about her.

She slipped unobtrusively from the room and ghosted back in a few moments later, pausing behind Cat’s chair to set something at the woman’s elbow. 

A glass of water wasn’t much, as gifts went, but Mandy didn’t know the woman well enough to do more. And she did know this much: it was nearly impossible to drink something and cry at the same time.

She resumed her seat just as Emmaline finished, flitting a glance around the table before dropping her eyes, waiting for the next person to speak.