I had pitied him.

I should have been in awe of him.

He had taken the cruelest hand a family can deal a person — you are ours, but you may never say so — and he had played it with more grace than any of the men who dealt it to him ever managed.

And I thought about the funeral.

Bertram Selwyn’s funeral, six years ago.

Fabian had stood at the very back of the chapel, far from the family, hands jammed in his coat pockets.