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“William, it’s been so long I hardly recognized you,” she said, stretching out a hand to shake his, being sure to speak in the direction of his good ear.

He pressed his hand in hers, his grip firm and reassuring.

“I imagine I look a little different, but I do still have the spectacles,” he said, touching the gold-rimmed glasses that perched on his nose.

She smiled at his polite demeanor. He’d always been that way as a child, the boy who thought things through and gave a considered answer to each question he was asked. He’d been quiet but ever-present, one of the few good things about moving from their family home and into the flat above the shop after Papa’s death.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, slipping into the role of hostess that she wore so easily those days. “We appreciate it.”

Izzie huffed, no doubt taking objection to Sylvia referring to them as “we.”

“Of course,” said William before Izzie could reply, “although I will confess, I’m in the awkward position of being here in both a personal and professional capacity.”

“Professional?” she asked.

“Willie was Mum’s solicitor,” Izzie explained, as though this should have been obvious to her.

Sylvia’s cheeks flushed.

“I’m actually glad to have caught both of you together,” he went on, having the good manners to overlook Sylvia’s embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have to speak of practicalities on such a day, but there is the matter of your mother’s will. I realize that it is a difficult time, but could I please ask that you join me at my office on Monday morning?”

“You would like both of us to attend?” Sylvia asked at the same moment Izzie asked, “Why does she need to be there?”

William cleared his throat. “It was your mother’s wish that you should both be present for the reading of the will.”

It was incredible that, even from the grave, Maggie Shelton thought she knew best. What did it matter if Sylvia attended anyway? Everything would go to Izzie, as it should, because Izzie had stayed and Sylvia had chosen a different life.

“Mrs. Shelton’s instructions were very clear on the matter,” William prompted.

Sylvia exhaled slowly and pulled out the small notebook she kept in her handbag. “Where is your office?”

She jotted down the address he gave her, and when she looked up, she caught her sister studying her, no doubt taking in her hat, shoes, and handbag. She stood a little taller, knowing that the cut of her Hartnell suit would stand up to even her sister’s very keen scrutiny.

“That is a beautiful brooch,” said Izzie in a way that told Sylvia she didn’t really approve of the diamonds and pearls pinned to her lapel.

“Thank you. It was a tenth wedding anniversary present from Hugo,” she said before turning her attention back to William. “I will see you on Monday.”

“Thank you,” said William with a neat bow of his head. “I apologize again for discussing business at such a time.”

“I must go thank the priest,” said Izzie. “Excuse me.”

Sylvia watched her walk off, head down, through the cemetery.

She hardly noticed that William had come to stand next to her until he said, “Will your sister be all right?”

She glanced at him and saw the very real concern etching his features. “I wouldn’t know. Izzie hasn’t confided her thoughts or feelings to me in a very long time.”

“Funerals are difficult,” said William.

“I’ve always found them cruel,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“People say they’re meant to be about the person who has passed, but I always think people are far more interested in those who are left behind. Who is showing an appropriate display of grief—tearful but not hysterical, devoted but not desperate. We’re meant to be stiff upper-lipped but not cold. Perfect in our grief.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him turn to her. After a moment, she twisted and met his eye.

“I sincerely hope that you don’t actually believe that anyone wants anything from you other than whatever your own true feeling of grief is, Mrs. Pearsall.”