Felicia lay sobbing on the steps of the ball room. Harold, in an uncharacteristic moment of kindness, sat on the step next to her shoulder and gave her three pats on her arm.
“The important thing,” he began, his face a oasis of calm though it was plain to see there was a flood of emotion held back by the dam of British Reserve. “The important thing is to forgive oneself. It wasn’t your fault that Lucy died. She had a destiny none of us were aware of.”
“You don’t understand.” Felicia raised her mascara-streaked face. “I wished Lucy could have her angel wings back..”
“You wished…” Harold stared. “Wishes are always barbed, you stupid dog. She has her wings, all right. She died and became an angel.”