“It hurts to cry," she said, her voice raspy."It hurts worse not to.""Did you cry?""For four days straight.""Is that how long it took you to bury them?""Yes, ma'am," he said in a voice that sounded like stone grating against stone.”

“Long, long ago, (said the voice), five hundred years ago or more, on a winter's day at twilight, a young man entered the Church with a young girl with ivy leaves in her hair. There was no one else there but the stones. No one to see him strangle her but the stones. He let her fall dead upon the stones and no one saw but the stones. He was never punished for his sin because there were no witnesses but the stones. The years went by and whenever the man entered the Church and stood among the congregation the stones cried out that this was the man who had murdered the girl with the ivy leaves wound into her hair, but no one ever heard us. But it is not too late! We know where he is buried! In the corner of the south transept! Quick! Quick! Fetch picks! Fetch shovels! Pull up the paving stones. Dig up his bones! Let them be smashed with the shovel! Dash his skull against the pillars and break it! Let the stones have vengeance too! It is not too late! It is not too late!”

“You don't die. You just... get really angry and then after you're angry you hurt a lot and then the best thing is that one day you remember something she said or did and you laugh instead of crying.”

“And then he saw the tears begin to slide down her bruised face.“How badly are you hurt?” He should have checked her chart on the way in, but he'd wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible.“Nothing interesting,” she said, sounding faintly disgruntled. “Just a sprained ankle and some bruises. It's my heart.”“Your heart?” he echoed, panicked. “Do you have internal injuries...?”“It's broken,” she said, soft, plaintive, the tears still sliding down her face.He muttered a curse. It was just the drugs talking, but he could feel his own heart twist inside. She lay in the middle of the wide hospital bed, but she was looking very small, and he simply climbed up beside her, pulling her into his arms with exquisite care, not wanting to hurt her any more.She let out a small sound, and for a moment he thought it was a cry of pain, but then she moved closer, putting her face against his shoulder, and he could feel her crying. “I missed you,” she said, her voice muffled.“I know.” He held her gently—she suddenly felt fragile, and he'd almost been too late.”

“Then she cried without tears, which is said to hurt even more like dry labor.”

“I was going to say, No, no, don’t cry, I’ll go outwith you. Anything, but don’t cry. . . . But I stillcouldn’t make my voice work.And then he sort of cleared his throat and said,“Georgia, don’t feel bad. It’s always tough to hurt someone and tell them the truth. I know that. You’re a really lovely girl. Lovely . . . mad . . . butlovely. I’ll always like you. Don’t worry.”