Tessa had volunteered as a nurse during one of the mundane world wars—she knew a mortal wound when she saw one. And Jem, during his decades in the Silent Brotherhood, had seen too many Shadowhunters beyond help. Far too many in the Dark War. He too could recognize death in all its guises.

Rosemary’s eyes flickered open. Her lips parted, as if she was trying to speak, but she managed only a rasping breath.

There was still one Herondale they could save. “Your child,” Jem said. “Where is he?”

Rosemary shook her head, the effort of motion causing her obvious pain.

“Please,” she whispered. There was so much blood. Everywhere, blood, her life streaming away. “Please, protect my son.”

“Just tell us where to find him,” Jem said. “And on my life, I will protect him, I swear—” He stopped, realizing there was no one to receive his promise. The shuddering breath had given way to stillness.

She was gone.

“We’ll find him,” Tessa promised Jem. “We’ll find him before anyone can hurt him. We will.”

Jem hadn’t moved from Rosemary’s body. He held her cool hand in his own, as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go. She knew what he was feeling, and it hurt. This was the joy and punishment of loving someone the way she loved Jem—she felt with him. His guilt, his regret, his powerlessness and fury: as they consumed him, they consumed her, too.

Of course, it wasn’t just Jem’s guilt, Jem’s fury. She had plenty of her own. Every Herondale was a part of Will, and so a part of her. That was what it meant to be family. And she had knelt by the cold body of too many Herondales. She could not stomach another meaningless death.

They would find Rosemary’s son. They would protect him. They would ensure this death was not in vain. Whatever it took.

“It’s not just that she’s dead,” Jem said quietly. His head was lowered, his hair a curtain over his face. But she’d memorized his face, his every expression. She’d spent so many hours, since his return, gazing at him, unable to believe he was really here, restored to life—restored to her. “It’s that she died alone.”

“She wasn’t alone. She’s not alone.” This was not the first time she and Jem had helped a Herondale into eternity. Once, she had sat on one side of Will, Jem on the other, both of them longing to hold on to him, both summoning the strength to let him go. Jem had been Brother Zachariah then, or that was what the world had seen: runed face, sealed eyes, cold skin, closed heart. She had only ever seen her Jem. It still seemed a miracle that he could open his eyes and see her back.