"Octavian." It was Magnus's voice. He was standing in the doorway still, looking down at the small tearstained boy in front of him. There was a great weariness in his eyes, but also an immense compassion: the kind of compassion that came with great old age.

He seemed as if he would have said more, but Rafe and Max had joined him. Silently they filed down the steps and went over to Tavvy; Rafe was nearly as tall as he was, though he was only five. He reached to hug Tavvy, and Max did too—and to Mark's surprise, Tavvy seemed to relax slightly, allowing the embraces, nodding when Max said something to him in a quiet voice.

Helen got to her feet, and Mark wondered if his face wore the same expression hers did, of pain and shame. Shame that they could not do more to comfort a younger brother who barely knew them.

"It's all right," Simon said. "Look, you tried."

"We did not succeed," said Mark.

"You can't fix grief," said Simon. "A rabbi told me that when my father died. The only thing that fixes grief is time, and the love of the people who care about you, and Tavvy has that." He squeezed Mark's shoulder briefly. "Take care of yourself," he said. "Shelo ted'u od tza'ar, Mark Blackthorn."