They had buried Diana that morning, under a diamond-blue sky. When the rain began, after midnight, Stephen was sitting dry-eyed in the dark room.
Not quite alone. She stood with her back to him; the gloss of her black hair distinguished her from the shadows.
"Are you not content?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said, and turned to him a pale, pale face more familiar than his own. "Would you come with me now?"
Her dark eyes were gentle. "No," he said at length. "Not even yet."
And Death smiled, swept him a curtsey, and was gone.