Wild daffodils, jonquils and angel’s tears marked Bellatrix’s grave. Each golden blossom had no need to fight for attention amid the vast green of the fields. Drooping like droplets of molten blood; fanning like peacocks in the breeze; fluttering petals whispering in a low murmur that mimicked her nonsensical hums.
No slab was scrawled with the beloved code of the Black family. Toujours pur desecrated no stone in the vicinity.
Lorcan didn’t glance around to check, did not scrabble in the field hoping to overturn a piece of rock, no matter how misshapen that might have been, inscribed with those letters, no matter which order they were in. That had been for when he had first been led here.
Anything he could provide for her, he wanted to give. Nothing at all is what he could scrounge up, even as he grasped with fervour in pouring rain, pulled his hair. No luck.
Lover boy? Joke of the century. Lorcan shed his boyhood long ago, and now his lover joined his innocence beneath the dirt.
His suit sleeves were stained still from the sunny flowers he had dug up for her the week prior. They’d caught his attention; bright, bold and brilliant, just like her. Ignoring her sister to his back, and her no doubt disapproving glance to his soiled attire, he knelt in the sea of grass blades. They prickled his skin through his trousers, slick with morning due. Tasting the chill, he greeted a ghost, “I’m here again, skapa.”