The priest clears his throat, a rough sound that echoes, seeking to draw their attention. Annabelle flinches slightly, her focus slipping from the letter in her hands.
Her gaze shifts from the priest's face to where the gravedigger stood just moments ago. But the man is gone. Only the abandoned shovel remains, leaning against a mound of dark earth. An unceremonious escape. He fled, like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
The priest, however, remains stoic, his hands clasped in front of him. His smile is faint, forced by habit, but his eyes reveal his eagerness to conclude the funeral.
"Sorry to disturb you," he finally says, his deep voice resonating softly in the air. "But there is one last formality."
He pauses, allowing a brief silence to settle, giving them time to gather themselves.
"We must go to the church. A notary awaits to finalize the transfer of Annabelle's guardianship."
The news falls heavily, like a stone cast into a bottomless well.
Annabelle doesn't flinch. Yet, an imperceptible tremor stiffens the line of her shoulders. Her fingers nervously clutch the fabric of her white dress. The mere word "notary" pulses a memory she would rather have left buried.
"A notary?" she murmurs, as if the word itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.
The priest inclines his head slightly.
"It's a simple formality. Your uncles have accepted responsibility for your well-being. But it must all be made official."
He glances toward Georges and Nicolas, still frozen in uncomfortable silence.
Annabelle looks away. Slowly, her gaze drifts to another stone slab, a little further away. An austere marker, worn by moisture, where engraved letters are already fading under the assault of time.
Albert Vance.
Her father's name.
Her eyes grow misty and damp. Each carved letter seems heavier than the last.
Nicolas steps forward cautiously, his voice soft but awkward.
"Annabelle..."
She doesn't respond.
Georges remains in the background. His eyes still avoid Annabelle's, and he merely twists his top hat between his gnarled fingers, crumpling it.
"It's what he would have wanted," the priest's voice resumes, low, almost guilty. "For you to be surrounded and protected."
Annabelle grits her teeth, the taste of the lie burning her throat. A short, bitter laugh escapes her.
"Do you really think that's what he would have wanted?"
Nicolas steps forward, his face twisted with concern.
"We don't pretend to understand your pain, Annabelle. But we are your family. And even though we weren't there before, we are here now."
Annabelle retorts quickly.
"Not when he was sick. Not when he passed. Not when Mom was left alone. Not when she spent months crying and neglecting me, leaving me to do almost everything. It was Amandinne who was there."
The priest tries to cut through the rising tension.
"Annabelle, I understand your anger. But…"
She interrupts him, her voice cracking slightly.
"No. You don't understand. You're not listening."
A heavy silence falls over them.
At last, Nicolas, out of words, slowly shakes his head.
"Come."
He extends his hand to her, and she hesitates. But the fear of being abandoned again forces her to comply. She grasps his hand reluctantly, her head lowered, refusing to show her weakness.
Georges, silent until now, finally finds his voice.
"We can't change the past, Annabelle."
She says nothing in return, choosing to remain silent as most of her anger subsides.
Moments later, the priest leads the way, his austere silhouette standing out against the pale sky. Nicolas still holds Annabelle's hand, his fingers clumsily wrapped around hers. He sneaks glances at her, desperately searching for something to say, a comforting word, but nothing comes. Each attempt dies in a sigh.
Georges follows in silence, his gaze fixed on the ground to avoid stumbling. The dirt path stretches before them, lined with wild grasses and motionless trees. Annabelle remains silent. Her steps are mechanical, her sweaty hand limp in Nicolas' grasp.
Soon, the church appears around a bend. A humble building, its dark wooden walls worn by the years. Two figures wait before the portico.
The mayor, dressed in a somber suit, stands rigid. Beside him, Amandinne.
The moment Annabelle sees her, a shudder runs through her. A surge of emotions. Her hand jerks free from Nicolas' grasp.
"Amandinne!"
Nicolas reaches out as if to stop her, but his hand hesitates before falling limply to his side. Annabelle's voice cracks, swallowed by a sob. She runs, her small feet pounding the dry earth. The distance vanishes in an instant. She throws herself into Amandinne's arms, clinging to her like a lifeline. Her frail body trembles uncontrollably.
"Why? Why didn't you come?"
Her words drown in her tears. A torrent she can no longer hold back. Her fists clutch the rough fabric of Amandinne's dress.
The former servant immediately embraces her, her hands stroking Annabelle's tangled brown hair. But her touch lacks warmth. It is gentle, measured, almost calculated. Her eyes, slightly misty, scan the faces around her. A fleeting glance toward the mayor, then the uncles.
"My poor darling… If only you knew how much I suffered not being there."
Her voice is low, tinged with a false sincerity. Each word carefully chosen. She slides a hand along Annabelle's tear-streaked cheek, lifting her trembling face.
"I wanted to come, but… they told me it wasn't appropriate. That it wasn't my place."
The mayor watches, fully aware that it's a lie, but he remains silent. His role is merely to hand Annabelle over to her uncles. These men seem to care for her and will undoubtedly be more appropriate guardians.
Amandinne sighs, deep and deliberate. Her gaze still searches for approval, but no one speaks.
"But look at you, so brave. I knew you'd be strong. You're just like your mother."
Annabelle, despite her tears, lifts her eyes for a moment. A seed of doubt takes root, her instincts unsettled. Amandinne's voice is sweet, but something rings false.
Nicolas clenches his jaw, visibly uneasy. Georges finally steps forward, placing a gentle hand on his niece's shoulder and pulling her toward him. She offers no resistance.
The mayor remains stone-faced, silent.
But Annabelle hardly notices. The storm of her grief is too consuming. She turns and clings to Georges, seeking in his embrace the warmth she so desperately lacks.
And all the while, Amandinne continues to play her role.