A prince’s funeral was a grand spectacle, the tokens of grief as extravagant as those of piety for saints’ days. Not that Brinza was a rich enough kingdom to give Prince Pietro the send-off he deserved, but the chapel had white candles and black draperies and as many flowers as September could offer. Noemi’s parents had scorned the idea of hired wailers, but the funeral procession had picked up enough weeping common folk to make them unnecessary.
Noemi didn’t try to restrain her own tears; her brother deserved a show of grief. She had never been a lady of high dignity anyway—harsh and gawky, graceless and angular—and so she had sobbed through the streets to the chapel, eyes streaming behind her black veil.
She had family on all sides of her, at least, all drawing what comfort they could
