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Hands lift to wipe away tears, deep inhales swell chests, fingers curl into fists as if to crush out lingering heartache. Whatever they do, they all aim for the same goal—to stop weeping.

I understand this about them, only through my friendship with Eamon and my fascination with the scripture back home, learning all I can about anything at all.

These are the last tears that will be shed for Aleana.

When folk cry over the dead in this culture, the soul is said to return to the land—dragged out of the afterlife—to console the living. That is painful for the dead.

So we all cried with the black flames.

And now those are gone, our tears must disappear too.

This is their way. One Quiet to grieve: the funeral.

After this, folk must wait for the Sabbat: A time that comes once every year in all lands, a time to speak to the dead in wishes and letters and dreams and prayers.

But in this crowd of fae, it’s hard to say if many of us will make it to the Sabbat. With most of us in the Sacrament, Eamon to fight his honour duel, the only guaranteed survivors will be Morticia and Melantha and General Agnar.

The thought of Eamon’s impending duel just next phase—it thickens my throat.

If he dies…

How will I even know?

I’ll be in the Sacrament, in the second passage, and so I will not know if Eamon survives it or not.

I gulp down the lumpish sensation and, eyes still wet with tears, I draw in his arm closer to me. I hold it in an embrace.

His hand firms on mine, the grip of someone hanging off the edge of a cliff.Don’t let go.

I don’t.

I hold on.

General Agnar kneels at his daughter’s ashes. No emotions flicker over the stone of his expression. A stubborn boulder, this male is, one by the sea that never wavers, never crumbles under the constant assaults of the waves.

I decide that about him, because not so much as a twist of his lips betrays his heartache as he starts to gather a small pile of ashes.

He does this, silent, until seven small mounds of ash are neatly arranged over the ground. The air is still, as though it has joined us in silence.

Agnar lifts a black metal bangle and sets it on one pile.

Then a shudder of movement.

One by one, the males draw closer.

Daxeel moves first for an ash pile, his own plain black bangle dangling from his finger. Caius is next, his bangle firm in his fist. Then Eamon, whose hand slips from mine, and he tugs his from the pocket of his breeches. Rune, Samick and Dare approach like shadows, until all the males stand at their own ash pile.

One by one, they kneel and place their bangle on the dusty mounds of remains. They each add pressure until the black metal indents—then is fully submerged.

Stillness steals them again.

Knelt at the ash mounds, hands and bangles buried in the dusty remains, they each bow their heads, frozen.

Melantha steps forward. Her broken voice lifts with a faint melody, “To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber.”

Morticia lifts a bell and rings it.

I flinch, the clang of the bell vibrating through my bones.