Tres.

Directly to Flynn’s left now, were the large mahogany double doors where he stood, but he could not yet bring himself to enter. He understood the crowd was fast approaching, and soon the entire service would be filled. He assumed that if he did not make haste, he would be forced to wait outside with the rest, which he assumed would be around a couple hundred. Though moved by it, this was not an option. He would not be able to hear the service, for the distance and over the wailing. Hurrying in, he swam through some thirty people already ahead, searching breathlessly and frantically for an adequate seat. For a panicked moment, there was none in sight; until it dawned upon him that he was looking in the wrong place. There was still the section reserved for Sir Theodore’s relatives, and though Flynn’s reasoning said quite clearly that he was merely a pupil to the man, and nothing greater; his heart had firmly assured that he was as much a son as any man already seated there. Flynn had loved him as such. His legs took direction solely from that blood pumping organ, and advanced upon the pew, just three rows in rear of the casket, which Flynn was certain was there, but refused to acknowledge.
He nearly sat on her, Flynn was disoriented. The stress of the ordeal, the anxiety of facing the headache head on, and the paranoia of being asked to leave, had all been molded into a wrecking ball which was slamming into him with such force. He struggled to collect himself; realizing at once when she took note of him, that her countenance, though unconventionally alluring, was also somehow hardened, unfemininely. He was mistaken, yet still he assumed that she knew he did not belong there. Even so, it was worth a try. He inquired upon the seat beside her, and for an agonizingly long moment, she did not...seemingly refused to respond. Each stared brazenly at the other, Flynn more expectantly.  Jane felt as though she ought to lie, but some desperation in his gaze overtook her. She glared up at his pleading visage, before turning her head in confirmation that no one else had claimed it.  Flynn hesitated before shakily taking a seat beside her. To his left, he could feel two pairs of eyes who were certainly puzzling upon his identity; but they left him after a beat and he was renewed by relief. He was not certain he would have handled any form of inquiry. So for the first moment since he arrived, Flynn believed he was internally serene enough to breathe, and truly take note of his surroundings. He felt that this was all inevitably fleeting, and he would do well to take advantage of such. It seemed from all directions there was a largely emanating vibrato of shuddering cries. He studied their faces, every huddled mass of hopelessness, every dampened cheek told a story; and though Flynn longed to know theirs as well as he knew his own, he quite understood if they did not wish to disclose. For in this service, it was now approaching the traditional time for the abandoned beloveds to offer their personal accounts and experiences with the adored, the recently dispatched. Then, he noted her moving ever so slightly from the corner of his eye, felt the rustle of her jacket against his, and though he dared not make eye contact, he did recall her facial structure, and subsequently...it dawned upon him. He was not the only one who did not belong here.
As Flynn knew him, Sir Theodore was a man of very defined, imperial features. So identifiable, so dominant, that those distinct almond eyes, high cheek bones, thick russet waves and sun-kissed flesh were ever present in even the youngest descendants present; and they were of course, genetically diluted by outsiders. Yet, Mr. Theodore’s hereditary elegance persevered; and to Flynn’s right there was a plump colicky infant in the arms of an equally distressed mother. They were both clearly members of the Rothbourne clan, he noted, as fat tears streamed down their high cheekbones.
With that thought, Flynn knew that she who sat stiffly beside him was not. She seemed young, too young to have been the spouse of a blood member. He momentarily concluded that she must have belonged to the couple beside her, but this seemed highly improbable. The maternal looking woman was tall. Unusually tall for the natural, or socially accepted standard of femininity, Flynn thought that if she and the man stood, they would appear almost comical. She was also olive, and lusciously curtained by burgandy flowing waves. The male with his arm around her in consolation, was sandy and rugged, youthful in the eyes, despite greying on top. He wore cowboy boots, which Flynn appreciated for whatever reason. Little pretty bitter was none of these things. She was curved, slightly freckled and concealed by mousy chestnut locks. There was nothing noble about her physical attributes, and Flynn felt somehow comforted in that they were equally outcast; the only difference being that she was tolerated, and he had yet to be discovered.