The funeral and then (almost immediately afterward) the coronation passed in a blur of fashion and ceremony.
Hamlet still wasn’t himself, but my fear for him subsided somewhat. He wore black even to the coronation, and the look on his face was sour, although he kept himself clean and icily polite.
Christmas passed in the margins, quickly, as though we participated in something illegal.
“Here,” said Ophelia, handing me a small red box wrapped neatly with string. The two of us sat in her bedroom. We’d been discussing Hamlet’s state of mind and I grasped this new topic with eagerness.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the box from her. It felt so light it could have been empty. I shook it near my ear. Only the slightest paper-light shift registered as a sound.
She laughed. “Stop! It’s your
