She wears her brightest, glossiest red lipstick the day she buries her family: she's mother and fatherless, sister and brother-less, cousin-less, full of they-should-mind-their-own-businesses.

Her hair is primly curled, her gloved hands rest on her knees, her black dress (actually, her mother's, Susan didn't use to have just-black-dresses) is perfectly ironed because Susan has learned (had learned, quite young, as a queen) that if you give people something to focus on, then they won't focus on what you don't want them too.

They talk about her bright lipstick, her shiny shoes, how she doesn't cry, and they don't mention the redness of her eyes and of the tip of her nose, the quiver of her lip: she pretends she can't hear what they say about her the way she used to when she was a queen, the way she has done since she came back, the way she will keep on doing so, head held high, back straight, staring forward, because once a queen, always a queen.