Far from the velvet ropes and black umbrellas stood a girl in worn sneakers and a jacket two sizes too big. Her name was Tala. She was nine. She had slipped between the catering staff who never looked closely at small people. Tala’s gaze fixed on Mirelle’s portrait with bewildered intensity. She pressed her palms together, then whispered to herself, “I saw her. That lady. Yesterday.”

The priest lifted his voice. “Dust returns to dust.” The coffin began to lower.

Tala burst forward. Grass flew beneath her shoes. “Stop it. Stop!” Her small voice cracked the ceremony open like a stone through glass.