The introductions earlier that day still hung in the air like after-notes of a hymn—Roman's steady voice as he presented Julia, not just as a companion but as his wife, and Lazarus's own announcement, bold yet tender, introducing Samantha as the woman he intended to make his bride.
In the hush of the church and the weight of the funeral, those words had been like anchors thrown into deep waters—declarations binding love even in the shadow of loss.
But now the mournful solemnity had softened, replaced by the glow of the evening.
The gathering had shifted into the great dining hall, where a single long table commanded the room.
It was a sight in itself—polished wood, draped in fine linen, silver cutlery laid with precision.
Platters were set down in intervals, carried in by quiet-footed attendants: roasted lamb, glazed vegetables, fresh loaves steaming as they were broken open, fruits arranged in towers of color.
