Matthew turned his face away from the light. He crawled, as his father had crawled across another floor at the beginning of this endless day, until he was in the darkest and farthest corner of the room. He had not believed. He laid his cheek against the cold floor and refused to let himself weep again. He knew he could not be forgiven.

It was long past time for Brother Zachariah to return to the City of Bones. Tessa stood with him in the hall and touched his hand before he went.

The sweetest woman God ever made, he had heard Henry say earlier. Jem loved Charlotte, but he had his own image of the sweetest this world could offer.

She was always his anchor in cold seas, her warm hand, her steadfast eyes, and it was as if a flame leaped between them and a mad hope. For a moment Jem was as he had been. It seemed possible to be together in sorrow, united as family and friends were, to sleep under the Institute roof and go down in the morning to breakfast, sad but safe in the warmth of a shared hearth and human hearts.

He thought, Yes, ask me to stay.

He could not. They both knew he could not.

Good-bye, Tessa, he said.

She swallowed, her long lashes screening the shine of her eyes. Tessa was always brave. She would not let him take a memory of her tears back to the Silent City, but she called him by the name she was always careful not to call him when anybody but they could hear. “Good-bye, Jem.”

Brother Zachariah bowed his head, his hood falling about his face, and went out into the winter cold of London.

Finally you leave, said Brother Enoch in his mind.

All the Silent Brothers hushed when Brother Zachariah was with Tessa, like small animals in the trees hearing the approach of that which they did not understand. In a way, they were all in love with her, and some resented her for that. Brother Enoch had made it clear he was tired of two names ceaselessly echoing in their minds.

Brother Zachariah was halfway down the street where the Fairchilds lived when a tall shadow struck his across the pale streets.

He looked up from the shadows and saw Will Herondale, head of the London Institute. He carried a walking stick that had once been Zachariah’s, before Zachariah took a staff into his hands.

Charlotte will live, said Brother Zachariah. The child never had a chance to.

“I know,” said Will. “I already knew. I did not come to you for those tidings.”