Page 56 of The Book of Heartbreak

Your ancestors don’t have to be your legacy. Have the courage to honour their memory, but reserve greater courage to walk your own path. Only the brave accept themselves for who they truly are.

Excerpt from The Book of Betrayal, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

Everyone remains speechless after my confession. Grey is the first to break the silence.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he says, scratching his head.

‘You essentially had your ex babysit your own child? I have to hand it to you, Five – your cunning knows no bounds. Deception at its finest! I’ve never encountered such a masterpiece of malevolence.

If there were wickedness awards in the Infernal Dominion, I’d gladly nominate you. ’

‘Piss off, cherub,’ Five hisses, and then he turns to me. ‘Is this how you repay my mercy? You’d be long dead as the child you were with that cursed, pathetic heart. I kept you alive with those resurrections. I deserve your loyalty.’

‘Never,’ I mutter. ‘You’re nothing to me. You deserve nothing but punishment.’

‘Do you understand the consequences of this, comrade?’ Gabriel says, voice steely.

‘I have a child from a mortal.’ Five shrugs. ‘So what? Stop pretending as if I’ve summoned the apocalypse.’

‘And you blackmailed me into changing the curse records!’ Nine shrieks.

‘Yet, instead of coming forward,’ Grey sighs, ‘you did exactly what he asked.’

‘I didn’t want to lose my job and end up back in Hell,’ Nine defends herself. ‘It’s too hot there, and the pay’s shit. Archangel –’ she drops to her knees – ‘have mercy! At least I only manipulated documents, not mortals!’

‘You have a point,’ the archangel says. ‘You still deserve punishment, though. I’ll reassign you to .

. .’ Gabriel pauses, thinking. ‘Department of Research and Divine Development. As a test subject. No powers. No pay or benefits. Not until they figure out what went wrong with that ill-fated rehabilitation initiative.’

‘Archangel, mercy!’ Nine roars, but with a dismissive flick of his hand, Gabriel banishes her without a second glance.

‘You, however, will be dealt with by the Divine Disciplinary Board,’ the archangel declares, turning to Five. Then he cracks his fingers, and the fiery halo on Five’s head diminishes.

‘You cannot.’ Five trembles as though he’s about to combust.

‘I can, and I will.’ Gabriel shrugs. ‘A tribunal will likely send you back to Hell. To the lowest rank. You’ll suffer for an eternity.’

‘No.’ A tremor runs through Five’s voice. ‘I am Five the Fifth! I slaved away for the Governance. I spent years on your woeful tasks—’

‘Oh, spare me,’ Gabriel snaps, and in an instant, Five begins to shrink, dwindling until he’s no larger than a pinkie finger. His outrage dissolves into a faint buzz.

‘You can’t get rid of me like this!’ he squeaks out.

Grey crouches down and scoops Five up in his palm. ‘What was that? Can’t hear you.’

Munu and I watch the scene with cold detachment. Five has finally grasped how much trouble he’s in, but his terror leaves me unmoved. I don’t hate him – not any more. Yet, even as pity stirs faintly within me, I know no punishment could ever suffice for the devastation he’s caused.

‘Canim,’ Munu calls to me. ‘You broke the curse. You did it.’

‘Yes,’ Grey says, handing Five, who is now no larger than a fly, to Gabriel. ‘And so, as I was saying, Sare must go back to the world to continue her . . . worldly things.’

‘I guess she can.’ Gabriel shrugs. ‘And after all this –’ he eyes Five – ‘malarkey . . . I’d say the mortal deserves some compensation.

A blessing. Perhaps she can choose if she wants to go back to her miserable life, or float to the Heavens for a perfect eternity with her ancestors, including you, Munu. ’

‘Eudokia,’ she corrects. ‘I’m Eudokia Doukas, not Munu. Not any more.’

‘Splendid,’ Gabriel says flatly. ‘Sare, the choice is yours.’

I consider the offer. Mum is there in the Heavens, and Muzaffer. I didn’t even call him grandfather, not once. I didn’t even hug him.

‘I-I—’ I stammer. It would be so easy to let them have me, unite with my family. Meet Iris. I’m almost ready to give up, to forget life and its troubles, but then I remember Harika’s advice.

When the time comes to make a decision: choose love and not hate. Choose hope, not despair. Choose life, not death. Choose courage, Sare Silverbirch.

She must have warned me for today, I realise in astonishment.

Look ahead, Sare, Muzaffer’s voice lingers in my ears.

Behind me lies a ruin, a life I never had the courage to truly embrace.

‘I want to return,’ I declare. I won’t look back. I will live. A surge of longing for Leon fills my being. I can’t abandon him. I haven’t even told him how much I love him.

‘Of course you do,’ Gabriel says, casting me a downward glance. ‘These mortals!’

‘Archangel, may I have a word?’ Grey whizzes over.

‘I was thinking if we had stronger ties with mortals, things could be different? Say, we throw a few kiosks in some of their cities or open a social media account, that sort of cost-effective thing to promote our holy efforts. Why is our hard work always hidden?’

‘I need you to sign an NDA.’ Gabriel grimaces, ignoring Grey’s enthusiasm.

‘Please forward it to my assistant Deidre and I’ll have a look.’

‘They gave you an assistant, cherub?’

As they continue their banter, Eudokia and I gravitate towards each other.

‘Farewell, canim,’ she says.

‘Is there no way I can still see you?’ I feel devastated to lose her now. My only friend for all these years, her absence in Istanbul has troubled me more than I admitted to myself. Letting go of her is almost as hard as giving up my life.

Eudokia’s face radiates as if she is wrought from silver, a vision of strength. She carried the burden of cursing her own family, of being tormented by Five’s cruelty. But now, at long last, her imprisonment ends.

‘It’s time to part ways,’ she declares, her tone bitter-sweet.

‘You don’t need me any more. And I have waited a thousand years to ascend to the Heavens.

I must find Theodora, my poor sister, and apologise to her for everything I’ve done.

I can only hope she will forgive me. I didn’t know, Sare. I had no idea how wicked Lazarios was.’

‘Theodora will forgive you,’ I reassure her. ‘Just like I did.’

And then I do something I’ve always yearned to do, had she not forbidden it.

‘I love you,’ I announce. ‘I will miss you so much.’

She frowns at me, wide-eyed, but then her face smooths into a proud and peaceful smile.

‘I l-love you too,’ she says. ‘You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever known. Take care of your heart, okay? Don’t let anyone break it.’

‘I promise.’ I laugh. ‘I’ll take care of my heart.’

‘And don’t you dare forget me, Sare Sila Silverbirch.’

‘As if that would be possible,’ I say. It’s strange to accept my emotions without fearing them. But, like Eudokia, I am unshackled, liberated at last.

‘Until we meet again.’ She stares at me, eyes like goggles. And then she pulls me into a hug.

‘Until we meet again,’ I repeat, wrapping myself around her. What will I do without her?

‘Are you ready?’ Gabriel looks at me wearily.

‘I’m ready,’ I confirm.

‘Then by the authority of the Governance, in the light of Our Boss Almighty’s blessing, I weave you back to life.’

And I shut my eyes, ready to be reborn.

People compare death to sleep, but death is a river. It flows in the dark, eager to pull you into its current, away from the life you lived, which could be a drop of water, or an ocean, depending on how brave you are.

The life I return to isn’t what I left behind. It’s not a drop of water but an ocean without the barriers of fear.

My eyes flick open and I see that I’m in hospital, lying in a bed.

A small room with a window too large, filtering the broken light of a late afternoon.

I feel my arms and legs, my stomach, mouth, fingers, knees.

This isn’t a dream, or a trick. I am alive.

‘I survived.’ My voice is a croak.

‘Sare?’ Leon hovers above me. ‘By all that’s sacred, you’re awake.’

‘My heart—’ I place my hand on my chest.

It’s here, it’s mine. And it’s not my enemy any more.

It beats without the bitter curse. A pulsing chorus of emotions surge between my ribs: grief, relief, longing and the joy of being free.

They stir, sharper, freer, more powerfully than ever.

Sorrow is the first to overtake me, a blue tide, cold and warm at the same time. I hug it and grieve for Muzaffer.

But I still breathe. There’s no fluttering.

‘I broke the curse,’ I tell Leon. ‘I won.’

‘I thought you were gone.’ Leon holds my head in his hands. ‘I found myself back on the shore after Five’s trick, and I took the boat to the tower, and found you lying there.’

‘It’s okay,’ I fumble. ‘I survived.’

I survived death. I survived my father.

I survived the curse.

There’s a completeness in its absence. I’m whole. I’m myself.

I’m Sare Sila Silverbirch, four months shy of eighteen, five times heartbroken. And still alive.

No matter how much a heartbreak might hurt me, it will no longer kill me. Not any more.

Despite the release of embracing all the emotions I had long suppressed; grief still overwhelms me. In mourning for Muzaffer, I think I also allow myself to finally grieve for Mum. And even for Iris, who I never met.

I cry three times, shedding all the tears I’d held back in life until his death. There’s a liberation in crying. A power in letting go.

The first flood comes in tides while I’m still in hospital, trying to come to terms with my grandfather’s sudden death and everything I discovered about my lineage.

I sit up in the bed, tugging at the IV in my arm, and give into ugly, trembling sobs. I weep for Muzaffer, for Mum, for Iris, myself, for the fact that I have no family left any more.

And no Munu.

Leaning on Leon’s shoulder, I let the tears flow.

‘It will be okay,’ Leon comforts and I know it’s true. ‘I’m here.’

He feels like home.

The second episode of tears arrives on the morning of Muzaffer’s funeral, in a place called Gasilhane, where the Turkish wash their deceased before laying them to eternal rest. The room is like a hotel bathroom; white marble, pale as Death itself.

It’s only Azmi, the washer and I who are present. Perhaps there is also Allah, because the name is on everyone’s mouth, but even if Allah is present, they remain unseen.

‘Mr Gümüshus is with Allah now,’ Azmi keeps saying. ‘We come from Allah and Allah is where we end.’

Muzaffer lies on a slab covered by a towel, his thin face in peace now, finally free of his sorrow and grief. His pain has come to an end.

The washer, Gasal, is clad in white robes with a face bearing the numbness of a lifetime spent washing the dead.

He pours a jug of water over him, and Azmi’s whimper echoes between the walls. We cling to one another, and I can no longer tell who trembles, or if we’re both quivering as one in our grief. My cries are silent, but Azmi howls like a giant child.

The third time I weep is when I say my goodbyes to Muzaffer.

The Turks don’t have large funerals, it turns out. They don’t have caskets or fancy cars like the British do; people don’t dress up. But they weep, and mourn, and swear oaths to remember. There are some things, then, where every culture is the same.

A small crowd is gathered: Azmi, Gokhan, Leon, Harika, Pelin and myself huddle together in the graveyard.

The imam is a middle-aged man with black hair and a grey beard. ‘ El Fatiha ,’ he begins to pray.

Death isn’t forgetting, Munu echoes somewhere in my mind.

My grandfather is enshrouded in a thick white cloth, and they lift him from the crude casket to lower him into the earthen grave. It’s too soon, and I will miss him too much.

‘ Hamd, Alemlerin Rabbi Allah’indir ,’ the imam intones. Azmi whimpers, his arms limp by his sides. Leon and Gokhan throw spades of dirt to cover his body. With buckling knees, I walk up to look down into the grave.

He looks shrunken somehow. Shorter.

This is the moment I begin my third and longest cry.

‘ O Rahman ve Rah?m’dir ,’ the imam says.

I think of Mum’s funeral, how it changed my life and brought me to Istanbul, where I finally managed to break the curse.

This funeral marks another end.

But this end, I feel in my bones, is also a beginning. Perhaps all ends are.

Still, I weep. My balance tilts, and I drop to the ground above his grave. My palms graze the damp dirt, my wail lifting the birds from the branches of the cypress tree.

My cry is no cloud. It’s a storm. One to wash away everything that came before.