They dressed her in black that morning, the way the whole town had taken to dressing since the sleigh came back. They carried her up the aisle past the window where the light came down in colored shards, red and gold pooling on the stone. The organ played low.
Charles built himself a smaller church to carry with him. A narrow arched frame in aged silver tone holds her fast behind glass, dressed in a bow of black antique lace where the window's stone tracery would be, strung on a long fall of faceted vintage jet beads in the old mourning tradition. He wears it the way some men carry a photograph. She catches light the way that window did.
