[ His whole demeanor softens subtly, something coiled up and harsh in him relaxing just a bit. He's never gotten to do this kind of shared mourning before, has he? Not with any of the lives who'd mattered to him. Harold had made things that way himself, purposefully -- no one else knew about his father's death; Grace never knew Nathan, and so forth -- so he really has no one else to blame, but it feels remarkable, a fresh discovery.

Encouraged, he goes on readily. ] We did actually need the photographer's pictures, [ Harold acknowledges, ] though how this devolved into her rescuing the woman on horseback and me badly singing in an Irish accent, I'll never know.