They didn't bring his body home.
All they sent was a letter bearing the news. Signed and stamped with red wax and the general's seal. The sergeant had stayed and watched while Dahlia read the letter, then said that she and their family – her family, now – had the sincerest sympathies of the general.
Lieutenant Karol Tibor Gray was killed in action during a military skirmish with an armed band of mages. Connlaoth owes its gratitude and sympathy to Lady Gray and their three children.
That was all the letter had said. Dahlia had simply looked up, speechless, at the sergeant as his meaningless words fell from his lips onto the ground at Dahlia's feet. She barely heard them and, after waiting several minutes for a reply he did not get, the sergeant simply left, unable to offer condolence to a woman who could hardly believe she was a widow.
The next several days had been a blur. Dahlia had, somehow, told the children. It had been the only time she'd cried in front of them. She was, after all, their sole parent now. But even as she had told them, she couldn't quite believe it. It wasn't possible that Kerry, her Kerry, was dead. He had been part of her life for too long. They had only been kids when they met; she'd been his sweetheart since she was... twelve? eleven? Dahlia didn't know anymore, she'd lost count, but she knew that she could not imagine her life without him. It couldn't be real. It just couldn't.
In the weeks that followed, a new routine began to emerge. The management of the Gray estate now fell to Dahlia. Kerry's father had died only a year before, the victim of an illness that had consumed him in a mere matter of months. That had made Kerry Lord Gray and Dahlia, by extension, Lady Gray. So though Kerry's mother, Helen, still lived in the manor with them, responsibility now fell to Dahlia. Responsibility for the estate, responsibility for their children. Dahlia had always been one to keep busy, and now during the day she kept herself busier than ever before. She managed the books, tended the children, grieved solemnly with her mother-in-law, all with a brave face.
But when she was alone, she fell apart. Especially at night. She couldn't bear to sleep in the bed that she had shared with Kerry. But she couldn't bear to leave it. She'd slept here alone before, of course, when Kerry was away on military duties. But he always came back. He was always going to come back. But not any more. Every night, Dahlia exhausted herself crying in that bed and, when there were finally no tears left in her, she would lay on her side and stare wide-eyed at the empty space in the bed. Until she could cry again. On the rare occasion that she could sleep, she was plagued with dreams – some terrifying imaginings of Kerry's death, and some sweet remembrances of their courtship – either way she would wake up in a cold sweat and the entire process would start over.
But it hadn't gone unnoticed, and one night the housekeeper, a kind but usually reserved woman in her fifties, slipped unbidden into Dahlia's room and laid a hand on her employer's wet face. Her brother, she said, owned a bakery next door to what he swore was the best apothecary in Uthlyn. The housekeeper herself said that the only relief she'd found for the migraines that sometimes plagued her were there. Maybe, she suggested gently to Dahlia, she could find some help there, as well.
So Dahlia found herself now entering the small shop crowded with healing herbs and elixirs. She had dressed down for the occasion; the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself. But it was clear to look at her that she was not well, if not sick. Somehow the act of doing something for herself, rather than busying herself with her children, her mother-in-law, and the estate, left her feeling anxious. And the lack of regular sleep left her looking harried and drawn. It was a relief to her that so early in the day, the shop was empty. But it also appeared to be lacking a keeper. Mustering her poise as she hung back slightly near the doorway, she called into the shop, "Hello?"
