By marriage, the Delaney's were your family. James was your husband. Horace was your father. Zilpha was your sister. For as long as you could remember, you had been around them, having worked for them since your own family fell apart.

James had asked you to marry him on his own accord. You'd accepted on your own accord. The basis of it was love, not agreement. Not wealth. You loved him, and he loved you. That's how it always had been.

Until he'd set off for Africa. He left you behind, making you promise that you'd look after his family, and he'd left you. As the years ticked by, more and more people believed James to be dead. You couldn't help but be partially convinced—he didn't write. He didn't come back. You could no longer imagine the rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his touch. He was only a cold shadow in the corners of your eyes.

His family kept you well. Through Horace's descent into madness, you supported him, you cared for him, as if he were your own father. As he passed, you had been by his side. You had fought for your say in the planning of the funeral amongst the men—most ideas of which were brushed off—but you'd said it. Horace would have been proud of that. James would have been, too.

As you sat in the pew, the family pew, the doors at the front of the church opens. Whispers flooded the hall, filling the air with a thick tension. James Delaney walked up the aisle, slipped two coins into the offertory, and sat down. He hadn't even looked for you.

At the graveside, during the burial, he muttered under his breath in this strange sort of language, casting what looked to be some sort of spell as he drew a stripe of red dust down his cheek. You ached to understand what had happened to him. What was wrong with him. Why he no longer sought out your presence in the rooms he entered. How he was even alive, here, now.

But as Horace was placed into his resting site, and the funeral was dismissed, you had no time to meet your husband's eyes before he turned to take his leave.