The flowers were laid by Mercury, and yet even she could not be sure what he would make of them, whether he would be affected by simple loyalty, or merely impatient and snappish with the sentiment. There was no one else to mourn him. Other comrades were also gone; and enemies were far more numerous. He had not lived a gentle life.

Neither had she. She was not to be led further into intimacy.

"Isn't that something people say only to comfort themselves?" she challenges X. A half-dozen years ago, she might have agreed with him. Or at least wanted to.