Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 11
It did mean he’d let go of Tavvy’s hand, though, so Tavvy had gone over to stand next to Dru, pressing himself into her side. It also left Ty on his own, and Kit made his way over to the other boy, feeling resplendently silly in white leather pants and jacket. He knew it was a formal mourning outfit, but it made him feel like he was cosplaying someone in an eighties music video.
“Funerals are always so sad,” said a woman who had introduced herself as Irina Cartwright, staring at Julian with a deep pitying stare. When he didn’t respond, she shifted her gaze to Kit. “Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Kit. “My father was eaten by demons.”
Irina Cartwright looked discomfited and hurried away after a few more trite phrases. Julian raised an eyebrow at Kit before greeting the next mourner.
“Do you still have . . . the phone?” Kit asked Ty, and felt immediately like an idiot. Who went up to someone at their twin sister’s funeral and asked them if they had their phone? Especially when there was no signal anywhere in Idris? “I mean. Not that you can call. Anyone.”
“There’s one phone in Idris that works. It’s in the Consul’s office,” said Ty. He didn’t look like he was cosplaying an eighties music-video star; he looked icy and striking and—
The word “beautiful” blinked on and off in Kit’s head like a flickering neon sign. He ignored it.
Elegant. Ty looked elegant. People with dark hair probably just looked naturally better in white.
“It’s not the phone signal I need,” said Ty. “It’s the photos on the phone.”
“Photos of Livvy?” Kit asked, confused.
Ty stared at him. Kit remembered the days in London, in which they’d been working together, solving—well, solving mysteries. Like Watson and Holmes. He hadn’t ever felt like he didn’t understand Ty. But he felt it now.
“No,” Ty said.
He glanced around. Kit wondered if the growing number of people was bothering Ty. He hated crowds. Magnus and Alec were standing with their kids near the Consul; they were with a beautiful black-haired girl with eyebrows just like Alec’s and a boy—well, he was probably in his twenties—with untidy brown hair. The boy gave Kit a considering look that seemed to say you look familiar. Several people had done the same. Kit guessed it was because he looked like Jace, if Jace had suffered a sudden and unexpected height, muscle, and overall hotness reduction.
“I need to talk to you, later,” Ty said, his voice low, and Kit wasn’t sure whether to be worried or grateful. As far as he knew, Ty hadn’t really talked to anyone since Livvy died.
“You don’t—want to talk to your brother? To Julian?”
“No. I need to talk to you.” Ty hesitated, as if he was about to say something else.
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.”
“Funerals are always so sad,” said a woman who had introduced herself as Irina Cartwright, staring at Julian with a deep pitying stare. When he didn’t respond, she shifted her gaze to Kit. “Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Kit. “My father was eaten by demons.”
Irina Cartwright looked discomfited and hurried away after a few more trite phrases. Julian raised an eyebrow at Kit before greeting the next mourner.
“Do you still have . . . the phone?” Kit asked Ty, and felt immediately like an idiot. Who went up to someone at their twin sister’s funeral and asked them if they had their phone? Especially when there was no signal anywhere in Idris? “I mean. Not that you can call. Anyone.”
“There’s one phone in Idris that works. It’s in the Consul’s office,” said Ty. He didn’t look like he was cosplaying an eighties music-video star; he looked icy and striking and—
The word “beautiful” blinked on and off in Kit’s head like a flickering neon sign. He ignored it.
Elegant. Ty looked elegant. People with dark hair probably just looked naturally better in white.
“It’s not the phone signal I need,” said Ty. “It’s the photos on the phone.”
“Photos of Livvy?” Kit asked, confused.
Ty stared at him. Kit remembered the days in London, in which they’d been working together, solving—well, solving mysteries. Like Watson and Holmes. He hadn’t ever felt like he didn’t understand Ty. But he felt it now.
“No,” Ty said.
He glanced around. Kit wondered if the growing number of people was bothering Ty. He hated crowds. Magnus and Alec were standing with their kids near the Consul; they were with a beautiful black-haired girl with eyebrows just like Alec’s and a boy—well, he was probably in his twenties—with untidy brown hair. The boy gave Kit a considering look that seemed to say you look familiar. Several people had done the same. Kit guessed it was because he looked like Jace, if Jace had suffered a sudden and unexpected height, muscle, and overall hotness reduction.
“I need to talk to you, later,” Ty said, his voice low, and Kit wasn’t sure whether to be worried or grateful. As far as he knew, Ty hadn’t really talked to anyone since Livvy died.
“You don’t—want to talk to your brother? To Julian?”
“No. I need to talk to you.” Ty hesitated, as if he was about to say something else.
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.”
