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“It’s awful.”

“I know.”

Amelia exhales softly.

“Margaret and I are going to the funeral. It’s in two days. They’ve opened attendance to people who worked closely with the family and the estate, and we thought you might want to come with us.”

I don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Good,” Amelia replies.

“We can all go together. Margaret’s arranging the car.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll send you the details once she confirms everything.”

“Okay.”

Before we hang up, Amelia’s voice softens.

“I still can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” I say.

The call ends a minute later. I look back at the announcement on my screen, then open my messages. I type carefully:

Blaire: I saw the announcement. I’m so sorry, Ross. I’m thinking of you, Sebastian and your mother.

I send it and set the phone down. No reply comes.

***

The cathedral is already surrounded by security when our car turns onto the street. Barricades hold the press behind a wide perimeter, and black vehicles line the curb in a steady procession. Margaret sits beside me while Amelia watches through the opposite window as another motorcade pulls up near the entrance. The scale of it is difficult to take in all at once.

Inside, the cathedral is nearly full.

Hundreds of people have gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling, and the front rows are occupied by faces I recognize from newspapers, financial magazines and television. Government officials, foreign dignitaries, American senators, business leaders and families whose names carry their own histories sit shoulder to shoulder beneath the stained glass.

Charles Kensington knew all of them.

Or they knew him.

Either way, the reach of his life fills the room.

Margaret, Amelia and I are seated several rows behind the family section. From where I sit, I can see the aisle clearly when the doors open again and the Kensington family enters.

Eleanor comes first between Ross and Sebastian. She looks smaller than I remember. Her face is pale and swollen from crying, and she grips both of her sons as though letting go of either one might make the ground disappear beneath her. Ross and Sebastian are dressed in black, their expressions controlled but devastated in a way that is impossible to hide.

My attention goes immediately to Ross. His face is drawn and exhausted. His eyes are red, and there is a strain around his mouth that makes him look older than he did a week ago. He keeps one hand beneath his mother’s arm as they move toward the front, steadying her when she falters.

He never looks toward me. There is no reason he would. There are hundreds of people in the cathedral, cameras outside, security positioned at every entrance and an entire family moving through the worst day of their lives under public observation.

The service begins. I listen to readings, memories and tributes from people who have known Charles for decades. Some speak about business, others about philanthropy, friendship or family. None of it feels polished enough to erase the shock of how quickly he is gone.

When the coffin is carried forward, Eleanor breaks down again. Sebastian reaches for her first. Ross stands beside them with his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes fixed on the coffin. For several seconds, he looks as though sheer control is the only thing keeping him upright.