"She told me she wouldn't pretend she didn't know what it cost," Natalie said. "The first day I met her. And she never did. Not once. She was the most honest person I've ever known. I think that's why I couldn't face her. Because I knew she'd never lie to me, and I couldn't stand to look at her and know I was going to break my word."
Claire was crying openly now, silently, her face wet and her shoulders still. She did not wipe her face. Natalie did not reach for her. She knew she had not earned that, and might never.
"She sang that song to me," Claire said at last, hoarsely. "The river song. When I was little. I didn't know she sang it then."
"She did."
They sat with that. In the back room, the door had not moved. The gray light lay on the floor between their chairs in a long pale rectangle, and dust turned in it slowly, and outside on Second Avenue a bus went by with a long sigh of brakes.
After a long time, Claire wiped her face with her sleeve and stood up. Natalie stood too.