The boy, it howled. The boy, it wailed. The boy.
It pushed heavy mists, cloaked the city with weepy fog, and sent torrential rains to flood the streets and wash up trash and dirt. During the day, the wind wept, and at night, it shoved itself through the bars of my window to brush against my sweat-soaked skin and ask, Where is the boy?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t answer.
How do you console the wind? How do you hold something that can’t be held? How do you stop something from weeping when you want to weep too?
Jagger laughed when he heard the rumor Darin killed Jacob.
Supposedly, Darin killed Philoneas too, although no one knew for sure.
I think I would’ve felt it if it happened. I hadn’t felt anything though. Maybe the torrent of their deaths had been swallowed by the misery of my own.
Regardless, no Ward had descended on New York to avenge their deaths or claim to be the new principal, and Uliea was curiously missing.
Jagger was gleeful. He cackled with a rockslide-tumble laugh that segued into jocular odes to the death of all conjurers.
The death of any conjurer was worth celebrating.
That was why, ten days ago, he broke his own “no technology” rule and brought a giant screen into Hell Gate’s great hall so all his creatures could watch the funeral of Celia and Ragnor Bard.
Rou cooked a feast. I’d never seen so much food. All desserts, of course, because—as she said—a conjurer’s death was sweet, and the death of two conjurers was doubly sweet.
We had chocolate silk pies, double fudge brownies, white chocolate brownies, chocolate eclairs, raspberry trifle, strawberries and cream piled onto chiffon cake, hot fudge sundaes with fudge that always stayed hot and ice cream that always stayed cold, milkshakes that were thick and icy and could be sucked up a straw perfectly, caramel corn with caramel that didn’t stick to your teeth, and root beer floats with root beer that stayed frothy and ice cream that only melted if you wanted it to.
The funeral lasted six hours and was watched by everyone everywhere. Bars, churches, schools, prisons, taxis, hospitals—everybody tuned in. The funeral brought the world together. Everyone believed Celia and Ragnor had died in a tragic car accident. According to the news, thousands of people called in sick the morning after the news aired, distraught at the unexpected deaths of their young idols.
Two million people lined the streets of New York for the funeral procession. White horses pulled Celia’s glass coffin, and black horses pulled Ragnor’s. There were bagpipes. I’m not kidding. They had a procession of bagpipes. An honor guard. And of course, a half-dozen different famous bands and musicians singing tribute songs as the coffins were carried into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for the funeral.
Was the President there?
Yes. Yes, indeed.
Was half of Hollywood?
Sure.
Most of the music industry?
Yeah.
But do you know who the cameras zoomed in on most?
Luvic.
Luvic Bard.
While I shoveled spoonful after spoonful of hot fudge sundae into my mouth, I watched Luvic put on the best performance of his life.
He was gloriously, beautifully, tragically heartbroken.
The cameras constantly turned to him because he was gorgeous in his grief.
When he lifted his sister’s casket with his fellow pallbearers, his expression stayed stoically, heartbreakingly resolute.
When Celia was lowered into the ground, a single tear spilled down his smooth cheek.
When a little girl broke free from the crowd and gave him a white rose to place on Ragnor’s casket, he kneeled down, accepted the rose, and held back a waterfall of tears.
