There was a low, mournful sound as if of a horn blowing, and people turned to stare back at the city. Kit followed their gazes and saw that a procession was leaving the gates. Dozens of Silent Brothers in their parchment uniforms, walking in two lines on either side of two biers. The biers were carried at shoulder height by Council guards.

They were too distant for Kit to see which bier was Livvy’s: He could see only a body lying on each platform, wrapped in white. And then they came closer, and he saw that one body was much smaller than the other, and he turned to Ty without being able to stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Ty was looking toward the city. One of his hands was opening and closing, his long fingers curling under, but other than that he showed no signs of any emotion. “There really isn’t any reason for you to be sorry,” he said. “So please don’t be.”

Kit stood without speaking. There was a cold tension inside him, a fear he couldn’t shake—that he had lost not just Livvy but Ty as well.

*

“They haven’t come back yet,” Isabelle said. She was composed, immaculate in gear, a white silk band holding back her hair. She was holding Simon’s hand, her knuckles as white as the flower in her lapel.

Emma had always thought of grief as a claw. The claw of a massive monster you couldn’t see, that reached down out of the sky and seized hold of you, punching out your breath, leaving only a pain you couldn’t wriggle away from or avoid. You just had to endure it for as long as the claw had you in its grasp.

She could see the pain of it in Isabelle’s eyes, behind her calm exterior, and part of her wanted to reach out and hug the other girl. She wished Clary were here—Clary and Isabelle were like sisters, and Clary could comfort Izzy in the way only a best friend could.

“I thought you knew,” Simon said, his eyebrows wrinkled as he looked at Emma. She thought of Clary saying that she couldn’t tell Simon about her visions of death, that he’d fall apart. “I thought they told you where they were going.”

No one seemed to be paying much attention to them—Jia was still deep in conversation with Jocelyn and Maryse, and the other Shadowhunters present had descended on Julian and the others to offer condolences. “They did. They went to Faerie. I know.”

Simon and Isabelle moved instinctively closer to her. She hoped they didn’t look too much as if they were huddling, sharing secrets, since that was exactly what was happening.

“It’s just that I thought they’d be back by now,” Emma said.

“They’re meant to get back tomorrow.” Isabelle made a cooing noise, and bent down to scoop up Max. She held him in her arms, nuzzling her chin into his hair. “I know—it’s awful. If there had only been a way to get them a message . . .”

“We couldn’t exactly ask the Clave to delay the funeral,” said Simon. Shadowhunter bodies weren’t embalmed; they were burned as soon as possible, before they began to decay.

“Jace is going to be wrecked,” said Izzy. She glanced back over her shoulder to where her brother was holding Rafe by the hand, looking up at Magnus as they talked. “Especially not to have been here for Alec.”

“Grief lasts a long time,” said Emma, her throat tight. “Lots of people are there for you in the beginning, when it first happens. If Jace is there for Alec later, after all the noise of the funeral and all the platitudes from total strangers go away, that’ll be better anyway.”

Izzy’s eyes softened. “Thanks. And try not to worry about Clary and Jace. We knew we wouldn’t be able to be in touch with them while they were gone. Simon—he’s Clary’s parabatai. He would feel it if anything had happened to her. And Alec would as well, about Jace.”

Emma couldn’t argue the strength of the parabatai bond. She glanced down, wondering—

“They’ve come.” It was Magnus, reaching to take Max from Isabelle. He gave Emma an odd sideways look that she couldn’t read. “The Brothers.”

Emma glanced over. It was true: They had glided almost soundlessly into the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea. Shadowhunters fell back as the biers carrying Livvy and Robert passed among them, and stopped between the pyres.

Livvy lay pale and bloodless, her body swathed in a white silk dress, white silk binding her eyes. Her gold necklace glittered at her throat. Her long brown hair was scattered with white flowers.

Livvy dancing on her bed, wearing a pale green chiffon dress she’d bought at Hidden Treasures. Emma, Emma, look at my new dress! Emma struggled against the memory, against the cold truth: This was the last dress she would see Livvy wear. This was the last time she would see her familiar brown hair, the curve of her cheek, her stubborn chin. Livvy, my Livvy, my wise little owl, my sweet little sister.

She wanted to scream, but Shadowhunters didn’t cry out at death. They spoke the old words instead, handed down through the ages.

“Ave atque vale.” The murmur went through the crowd. “Ave atque vale, Robert Lightwood. Ave atque vale, Livia Blackthorn.”

Isabelle and Alec turned to face their father’s bier. Julian and the other Blackthorns were still pinned in by well-wishers. For a moment, Emma was alone with Simon.

“I talked to Clary before she left,” she said, the words feeling like a hot pressure in the back of her throat. “She was worried something bad was going to happen.”

Simon looked puzzled. “What kind of bad thing?”

Emma shook her head. “Just—if she doesn’t come back when she’s supposed to—”

Simon looked at her with troubled eyes, but before he could say anything, Jia stepped forward and began to speak.

*

“Shadowhunters die young,” said someone in the crowd. Julian didn’t recognize the man: He was probably in his early forties, with thick black eyebrows. He wore a patch on his gear with the symbol of the Scholomance on it, but little else differentiated him from the dozens of other people who had come up to Julian to tell him they were sorry his sister was dead.

“But fifteen—” The man shook his head. Gladstone, Julian recalled. His last name was Gladstone. “Robert lived a full life. He was a distant cousin of mine, you know. But what happened to your sister should never have happened. She was only a child.”

Mark made a strangled noise behind Julian. Julian said something polite to send Gladstone on his way. Everything felt distant, muffled, as if he or the world had been wrapped in cotton padding.

“I didn’t like him,” said Dru, after Gladstone had gone. The skin under her eyes was shiny and tight where tears had left traces that couldn’t be washed away.

It was as if there were two Julians. One was Julian Before, the Julian who would have reached over to comfort Dru, ruffle her hair. Julian Now didn’t. He remained motionless as the crowd started to surge apart to make way for the funeral procession, and saw Helen lift Tavvy up into her arms.

“He’s seven,” he said to her. “He’s too old to be carried everywhere.”

She gave him a half-surprised, half-reproachful look but said nothing. The Silent Brothers were walking between them with their biers, and the Blackthorn family stilled as the air filled with the chant of the Nephilim.

“Ave atque vale, Livia Blackthorn. Hail and farewell.”

Dru jammed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Aline put an arm around her. Julian looked for Ty. He couldn’t stop himself.

Mark had gone over to Ty and was talking to him; Kit stood beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, altogether wretched. Ty himself was staring at Livvy’s bier, a spot of red burning on each of his cheeks. On the way down from the city, he had peppered Julian with questions: Who touched her in the Silent City? Did they wash the blood off her? Did they brush her hair? Did they take her necklace? Did they let you have her clothes? Who picked the dress for her to be buried in? Did they close her eyes before they tied the silk over them? until Julian had been exhausted and near snapping.

Ladders had been placed beside the pyres, each one a massive stack of logs and kindling. A Silent Brother took Livvy’s body and began to climb the ladder. When he reached the top, he laid her body down; at the second pyre, a Silent Brother was doing the same with Robert Lightwood’s corpse.

Diana had also gone to stand beside Ty. There was a white flower tucked into her collar, pale against her dark skin. She said something quietly to him, and Ty looked up at her.

Julian ached inside, a physical ache, as if he’d been punched in the stomach and was just now getting his breath back. He could feel the bloody cloth tied around his wrist, like a circle of fire.

Emma. He looked for her in the crowd, saw her standing beside Simon. Cristina had come to stand with them. The ladders had been drawn away, and the Silent Brothers stepped forward with their lit torches. Their fire was bright enough to illuminate even the daylight scene. Emma’s hair sparked and caught its brilliance as the Silent Brothers took their places around the pyres.