"That's a good way of putting it," Qebhet agreed with a soft tilt of the head. "My father built our funeral home there in the twenties. He's run it ever since. He likes consistency, you see. I travel a little, but Harlem is, Harlem is always..." Home, she might have said; home was the word for it, except it couldn't be, because home was a place far across the ocean on the banks of life-giving Iteru, was an empire that no longer existed and a time long-buried and excavated and pillaged. Mortal language didn't have a word for such a concept, so instead she finished clumsily, "It's... the place my heart lives. In this country, at least."
As she said it, the toe of her shoe hit a crack in the pavement and she tripped. Much's arm, looped around hers, saved her from falling, but she still staggered against him before she found her balance again. "Oh! I'm sorry."