in memory of Periwinkle.
THE GOOD FIGHT
They gathered in the little courtyard, a small and solemn group garbed in black, a few of the women struggling unsuccessfully to hold back their tears. The splashing of the fountain echoed gently off the granite walls.
“There, there,” Napoleon murmured, brushing back a lock of April's hair. “He wouldn't want tears.”
“Well it's not his decision anymore, is it?” April turned away, burying her head in her hands.
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