The funeral was finally, blessedly, over. Mr Fawley had not said a single word for the entire day, merely sitting stoney-faced in the front row of the room while it was left to Augusta to organise the guests, the food, the flowers, and everything else besides.
It had occurred to her, as her brother's body was lowered into the ground, that she had not even had time to mourn properly, as a sister should, and perhaps now that he was really gone, she would have time. But here she was, two days later, in black gloves and hat, going to organise her brother's last portrait, the one that would hang in the family gallery, the last Fawley of his name. No relations carried the name anymore.
She went into the little shop, setting a little bell to ringing, the book full of photographs under her arm. "Good morning Mr Kagan," she said politely.