The very rough but current opening of Book 4:
The spring breeze whipped at the hem of my skirt and filled my nose and throat with salty sea air as we stood on the edge of the cliff, saying our farewells. My hair lashed at my face, but that’s not what caused the tears that stung my eyes. Grief caused them. And the boulder of guilt that had replaced my insides, making it difficult to breathe.
Tristan stood tightly against me, his hand intertwined in mine, returning the squeezes I gave every few minutes. Reassuring me that he didn’t hate me. “It’s not your fault,” he’d told me numerous times over the last two days, and I’d tried to make it my mantra. Still, I couldn’t help but feel that it was.
Mom stood at the head of our group, leading us in the prayer that we’d said and heard much too often these last few months. Bree stood on the other side of Tristan and Solomon to my right. No one else had come to this private funeral.