William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

was not in yet, so he was technically still an innocent man. She could lay no claim to be family, but she was a representative from the hospital; Thorpe had never taken that from her. Surely if they would permit him to see anyone at all, other than his lawyer, since he had no relative, it would be a colleague from his place of work.
    She should hurry. They could bring in the verdict at any time, and then it might be too late. She turned and began to climb back up the steps.
    She did not know if he would even wish to see her, but she must try. Whatever happened, and she refused to think it through to the end, he must know now, before the verdict, that she believed in his innocence.
    She had feared he could have killed Elissa. The provocation was so great it was too easy to understand a moment of fear overcoming a lifetime’s morality and restraint. The act could be over and irretrievable in moments, before the brain had caught up with the action of the hands.
    But she did not believe he could then have gone on and deliberately killed Sarah Mackeson. No fear whatever would have driven the man she knew to do that. She must look him in the face and he must see in her eyes that it was so.
    “Can’t give you long, ma’am,” the guard said reluctantly, his voice tense, his eyes glancing back to be sure he was not observed by any higher authority. He was doing this as an act of compassion, and it made him nervous.
    “Thank you,” she accepted sincerely.
    “I can give you ten minutes, that’s all,” he warned.
    “Thank you,” she said again. Ten minutes seemed desperately short, but then ten hours would have been, too. Whatever the time, there was always an end to it, a parting which might be the last. If that was what she had, then she must make every second of value.
    He unlocked the door and pulled it open with a scrape of iron on stone. “Visitor for yer!” he said, and allowed her to go in.
    Kristian was standing, staring up towards the high window where a square of gray daylight was visible. He turned in surprise, but when he saw Callandra his expression was closed, unreadable. He had no idea what to expect from her, and he was exhausted in mind and spirit. He had no reserves with which to face her needs or doubts. Every certainty had been torn from him, even his own identity was no longer what he had believed. His heritage had been an illusion, and the reality was alien, worse than alien, because it was known and faintly, subconsciously, held to be inferior. He was no longer one of “us.” Without his having changed or done anything, he was inexplicably one of “them.”
    The wife he had admired for her courage and honor had committed a fearful act of betrayal, and kept it secret from everyone, seeing him, talking to him every day, and hiding it.
    Callandra knew he was not able to discuss any of it. As happens to someone who is desperately ill, everything in the world had changed and he was no longer supple or strong enough to react to it.
    She smiled at him, as if it were a normal day. Should she say anything that mattered, say that she believed in him? That it made no difference whatever to her whether he was a Jew or a Christian? That she was not outraged by Elissa’s acts, nor did she hold him accountable for how he reacted now?
    He met her eyes, his own hollow, skin blue around the sockets as if he were physically ill. He was searching her, and not able to find the words to ask, perhaps not knowing whether it was unfair, expecting of her something she could not give. Perhaps he was even afraid of the answer. Was she here from pity, loyalty, anything that was half a lie, and entirely a hurt?
    She made herself smile at him fully, without reservation, and felt the tears brim her eyes. “I cannot imagine what you must be suffering,” she heard herself say without thinking first. “Or how you can absorb what you have heard. But families are not who you are, good or bad. You cannot judge why they did what they did. We were not there to see the passions or know for whom the sacrifice was made. What you believe, how you behave towards others, and within your own truth, is who you are. No one can alter that except you. And you should not try, because who you are is good.”
    He bent his head to hide the well of emotion in his eyes.
    “Is it?” he said, his voice choked.
    “Yes,” she answered with certainty. “Maybe you were not always wise with Elissa, or even fair to her boredom or lack of