Marielle's parents left shortly after that on the France, and after all the excitement and fuss and strain and exhaustion of dealing with them, she and Charles agreed that they were not going to New York for Christmas, or maybe ever. They were happy in their garret on the Left Bank, with their life together, his friends, even his writing had never been better. In Paris, in 1926, for one brief shining moment, life had been perfect.

As Charles pulled open the enormously heavy cathedral doors, even his bones felt chilled, and the leg throbbed more than usual. It had been just as bitter a winter in Europe. It had been so long since he'd been in New York, so long since he'd been in a church, as he walked inside and looked up at the enormous vaulted ceiling. In some ways, he was sorry he had come. It was depressing to see his father so ill, and so unaware of his surroundings and those around him. For an instant, he had seemed to recognize Charles, and then the moment passed, the eyes were blank and then closed as his father dozed heavily on his pillows. It made Charles feel lonely whenever he watched him. It was as though the older Delauney was already gone. He might as well have been. And for Charles, there was no one left now. They were all gone…even the friends he had fought with in Spain. There were almost too many to pray for.

He watched a priest in black robes cross his path, and Charles walked slowly to the back of the church, to a tiny altar. Two nuns prayed there, and the younger of the two smiled at him as he knelt stiffly beside them. His black hair was flecked with gray, but his eyes still had the same electricity they'd had when he was fifteen, and he still exuded energy and strength and power.