"…What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying I love you…"

She sat at his desk, papers strewn about and the fire crackling lowly in the background. Everyone else seemed determined to avoid him at any cost; pity was not, after all, the most comfortable emotion for one to relay.

But there she was.

Lovely as ever, Cora's back pressed straight against his chair and she looked deep in thought, not noticing his presence until he was but a few feet away and in the middle of clearing his throat. She looked up and he saw it pulled across her delicate features. Yes, pity was difficult to relay, but it was all over her face.

Cora smiled, a sad half-smile, and moved to stand. "Darling."

"I—thought we could have tea," he explained simply, bringing his hands together and looking around the room, anywhere but into her eyes.

She nodded immediately. He knew she would grant him anything, would do anything in her power to take the pain away. There was nothing he needed, really, beyond the space to exhale and deal with the grief in private. But still—he knew she would walk to the edge of the Earth to spare him any hurt, and he loved her so terribly much for that.

"Can I get you anything else?" She had not moved, and continued to study his face, as if searching for cracks in the thinning veneer that she might need to mend. One hand extended, and clasped over his, the contact threatening to topple his stoic countenance.

He shook his head and took a step backward, not trusting himself. "No, no. Just the tea."

Again she nodded, this time pursing her lips as she looked down at his hands, his fingers drumming anxiously against his leg, and then—seemingly decided to let him be—she set about clearing up the mess of papers.

"What were you doing?" Robert ventured, moving to the corner of the room to pull the cord. She said nothing until he returned to the desk. And yes, again, it was a distinct sadness in her eyes.

"I was working on the flowers for the ceremony," she answered softly.

He wished desperately for her to reach out again, though he couldn't quite manage to move his arms the way he wanted and knew she would do nothing she thought might make him upset. Grief, as he knew, was a thick bog that took days, weeks, and months, to lessen its effect. It had been but three days. They were all still in the thick of it.

She lifted a page from the top of the stack and held it out, displaying a pencil drawing of a flower arrangement that had been sent over. Robert took it, haltingly, and blinked down at it several times, the image forcing its way into his periphery.

"It looks…" he searched for the words, none seeming quite appropriate, and settled on, "…fine."

Cora nodded and grasped at the page, but found his grip tight. "Darling?" She looked up at him, her eyes still laden with emotion he had no strength left to carry, and pressed a hand to his arm.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and willing them to behave. "She—I—I'm sure that—that Mama would have thought it fine."

He knew as the words began to tumble out that there was no use; he was, ultimately, ineffective in masking anything from his wife, especially this of all things. She'd been by his side when they received the news, had held him that night as he wept, freely and like a child, and had supported him these last thirty six years without hesitation. And now she stood before him once again, wrapping her arms round him as gingerly as she could manage, as he crumpled the paper in his fist and, in the privacy of the room, began to sob against her shoulder.

"Shhhhh," she hummed, soothing him as best she could.

And it helped, really it did. The fragrance of her perfume anchored him in place, and the feel of her palms making soothing passes over his back reminded him that there was, and would be, comfort, should he desire it.

"Cora, I—" his voice faltered over the words, the lump in his throat a painfully constant reminder of the loss he felt so acutely. "—you know that I—"

"I know," came her reply, her lips pressed to his neck. "I know."