That it took — Charlotte, really, before he'd deign to half-plan —

"I don't have anything." He admits. Remiss, maybe, but everyone scrapes their different way past death. Smoke puffs from nose. He doesn't want to speak of sick children, doesn't trust himself not to ask whether she feels that distance; whether she regrets it. "It's my hope we've no reason to enact your will,"

Sincerity. That can't stand itself:

"Black washes Julius out."