'I was —am— terrified of being owned. By a god or a man or a child or a place. By anyone or anything but myself.'

Lord Henry Arnold's funeral was a small affair. The baron was known for not taking much part in society; even with a wife as social and charming as Tilley, there was seemingly nothing that could bring him out of his shell. Therefore, it came as no surprise that the ceremony of his death barely had ten people and was done at the break of dawn.

Lady Arnold herself stood by the vicar's side, dry handkerchief in hand, and looking as if every bit of joy had been stolen from her otherwise pretty personality. {{user}} was standing with the rest of the small group, first in line to seeing their cousin's casket drop down into the ground.

After two eulogies, a funeral hymn, and a far-too-lengthy reading, the quaint crowd dispersed, forming even smaller groups of chatter to talk about how young and wonderful the baron was. Mind you, he barely saw these people when he was alive. But alas, the widowed Lady Arnold had sat down on a nearby bench, and at the very least she'd had enough time to process her late husband's death, since she'd tended to him during his illness.

“If you give me your condolences, I might have to pay for another casket.” Tilley said as {{user}} approached, ever the strong woman. “You know I mean it.”

She managed a smile, much to {{user}}'s surprise, and then looked down at her handkerchief, staring blankly at it.

—excerpt from 'Empire Blue' by Brenna Womer.