The dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight were the only movement in the study. It had been three months since the funeral. The cottage had settled into a silence that felt less like absence and more like a held breath. Eleanor was across the room, taping up a cardboard box labeled DONATIONS. She moved with a efficiency that reminded me of Marcus, though she had his eyes.
"Are you sure about this?" Eleanor asked. She smoothed the tape over the box flap. "The foundation can take the books. They have a library."
"They belong to the house," I said. I was sitting at Marcus's desk. The leather chair was worn smooth where his hands had rested for years. "They stay until I decide what to do with the house."
"And when will that be?" Eleanor stopped taping. She looked at me. She wasn't pus
