His funeral was a few days after that. The entire homestead village attended, but I hardly saw them. Thomas' family had been told, and his mother wept by the grave, comforted by her husband. Rowan's wife sniffed and wiped her eyes, and Rowan patted her hand, but his stern eyes were on me, hard and cold.

I watched as Thomas' box was placed in the ground, I watched as dirt was piled over him. Connor was beside me, but I barely felt him there - numbness invaded every feeling, made me silent and pensive. Guilt pecked away at my soul, like the eagle that pecked Prometheus' liver.

I should have been there for him. I should have saved him.

He was buried holding a chain in his hands, and on that chain was a ring. Only I knew what that ring meant to him - only I knew that it was a symbol of the love he had shared with Francis.

It rained after that, such unceasing, relentless rain that I curled myself into an armchair in the living room and watched it through the window. I could hear Connor somewhere behind me, sitting alone in the kitchen while he mended a torn shirt. I knew he was watching me, but I paid him no heed.

Someone passed by the window, and I sat up straight. At first I dismissed it as one of the sailors, perhaps, or one of the much-beloved villagers, but in the rain I saw the flattened dark hair, the hands in his pockets. He was thin, and I couldn't see his face, but I was certain that it was Thomas. I shoved on a pair of shoes and bolted outside.

He was here. . . he was here, and I could save him. . .

As I ran out the door, Connor called to me, but I ignored him. The rain was beating down around me. "Hey!" I yelled after the figure.

But when he turned around, it wasn't Thomas.

He walked away, and I stared after him, looking at the trees and forest paths that surrounded this accursed manor. I saw flashes of Thomas. The bare trees were the same colour as his hair. He used to smile at the grey squirrels that fled from his approaching footsteps. I remembered all of the times we had walked around trees like these ones, and my throat closed up.

The rain got heavier; it felt like it was tearing through my insides, slicing me in two. I sank to my knees in the grass and pressed my hands over my face, and the rain seeped into my skirts. The cold bled into my bones. I stayed there and rocked in the rain, with tears falling down my face. I couldn't stop crying.

Why Thomas? Why Thomas, when he was so young, and he was so bright, and he had so much to live for. . .

I felt someone behind me and then the weight of a coat around my shoulders. Connor leaned down and helped me up. My legs were weak and my chest ached and Thomas wasn't there. I held on to Connor as he led me back towards the manor.

"It's okay, Cassandra," he murmured. "It's going to be okay."

We got back inside and Connor sat me down at the kitchen bench, then wrapped his arms around me. He stroked my hair, which was dripping wet, and I leaned into him like I was a child. Before Thomas died; before I joined the Brotherhood; before. Before all of this. . . this mess.

"Why did he have to leave me?" I wept.

Connor's grip did not loosen, but his voice was soft - a breeze whispering over grass. "I don't know."

I gave a voice to the poison inside my head. "It's my fault," I mumbled. "I should have saved him."

Connor's hands moved to my shoulders and pushed me back so he could look me in the eye. "He did it," he said, "not you. His choice was not your fault."

In my mind, I saved him countless times. I leapt into the water and pulled him out. I stayed back at the manor and stopped him from leaving. In my mind, I held him and cried with him and told him that things would be okay. And I made him soup, and he ate it.

But none of these actually happened. I left him alone, and I had not saved him.

Achilles had taught us that our bones were the only things breakable about us. Enforced it. If that was the case, then the place in my heart where I loved Thomas was as integral to me as my ribs, and it, like a bone, had shattered.

Connor's fingers dug into my shoulder blades, and I met his gaze. There was no pity there - only sadness. A small line between his brows betrayed his anxiety. I leaned forward into his chest once more, and he supported me there. It reminded me that our relationship wasn't a rescue mission after all, but an extension of our friendship, in which Connor had saved me and, just as often, I had saved him.

*

When my family came to visit, my self-appointed ten days of mourning were nearing an end. I was sure that Lydia and Gabriel were expecting joy at their arrival, but I could find no joy in my heart. Connor stood with me to greet them, and neither of us missed the furtive looks passed between Lydia and Gabriel. I had written to them of the fire in New York, but had not contacted them since their invitation to the manor. They did not know about Thomas, and I did not have the words to tell them.

Lunch was a tense affair. I wanted to speak but couldn't, and so remained silent. Connor and Achilles tried to make polite conversation with my parents, but all I could see was Meredith scowling into her plate and fiddling restlessly with her fork. Her golden curls were pulled back from her face, showing her delicate bones, her cream-pale skin, her dark eyes.

Achilles held up his cup: a silent request for Connor to fill it for him. Obediently, Connor picked up the jug and poured, eyes flicking up to the old man to watch for the signal that told him to stop.

"The weather has been miserable as of late," commented Achilles.

Gabriel nodded. "Yes. The rain hasn't cleared in three days."

Their small talk bored me. I set my knife and fork lightly down, careful not to scrape them against the plate. The unfinished food taunted me, and I could feel what little I had eaten taunting me from within, asking me, Why are you alive when he is dead?

Under the table, Connor placed a gentle hand on my leg; when I laid my fingers against his, he was warm against my cold hand. His thumb brushed the burn scars on the side of my hand.

Lydia reached over the table and placed a soft hand on my other, and beseeched me with wide blue eyes. "Cassie, darling, are you all right? You don't seem yourself."

Meredith threw down her fork - it clattered onto the plate, deafeningly loud, and all of us looked to her in surprise. Her face was dark with anger. "Oh, shut up."

Lydia frowned. "Merry, what's wrong?"

"Don't Merry, what's wrong? me," my sister snapped, voice full of venom. "I'm so sick of you treating her like she's something special. Poor Cassandra this and dear Cassandra that. It's like I'm invisible to you - because all you care about is her."

"Don't be silly," chided Gabriel.

She rounded on him. "I'm not being silly. When was the last time either of you inquired as to my life? When was the last time either of you bothered to care?" Her dark eyes burned when she glared at me. "You're so conceited that you don't even notice."

"Meredith," warned Gabriel; it was the first time I had ever heard him sound anything but gentle.

If she heard him, she didn't show it. "The world is yours, isn't it?" she spat at me. "We're nothing but pawns to you - Connor and Thomas, too. Did you ever actually care? Or are you just using Connor to warm your bed, and Thomas to fill the emptiness in your chest?"

Next to me, Connor stiffened, and I saw his eyes flicker as that familiar mask of coldness shut his face down. The barest rise of his chest betrayed the words he was about to say - I squeezed his hand under the table, and gave him the slightest warning glance. Don't.

Meredith was not finished. "Where is Tom, anyway? Did you get bored of him too?"

When I found my voice, it was cold. "He died."

The room went still. For a moment, Meredith looked stunned; her mouth opened, but no sound came. I couldn't even feel satisfied at having shut her down, because it was true. Thomas was dead. My sister's cheeks paled as it dawned on her that I was not being sarcastic, that I was serious. From the corner of my eye, I saw Connor and Achilles exchange a sad look; I saw my mother press her hands to her mouth.

I stood and threw my napkin down. "Excuse me," I said.

They watched me leave the room, but I didn't look back at them - not even at Connor. The plates taunted me and my sister's accusing eyes turned my blood to lead. When I reached my room upstairs, I released a long, slow breath. "Oh, Tom," I murmured. "I need you here."

I knew that I had to move on - I had to stop letting grief control my days. The only time when I did not think of him was that split second after waking, when I knew only peace and did not yet remember my own name; but that moment always ended too soon, and the grief came crashing back over me in stormy waves. Every day, I remembered him, for there was something in every day that reminded me of him.

I knew Lydia followed me upstairs before she even opened my door: I had listened to her soft footsteps on the stairs. She sat next to me on my bed; she smelled like perfume, and that comforted me. "My darling," she murmured, and wrapped me into a hug. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I had wept for Thomas and could weep no more. I leaned into my mother and stared at the wall behind her. "I didn't know how." I knew how: Thomas is dead because I didn't save him.

She rubbed my back and kissed my temple. "It's okay, Sassy. You're allowed to feel sad. Don't mind what Merry said."

Three days from now would mark the tenth day since Thomas' death, and after that, I would mourn no more - I did not adhere to ten days because of the belief that prolonged grief would prevent the soul's passing to the afterlife, as was Connor's belief; rather, I gave myself these days so that I would not be the puppet of grief for the rest of my life, and endanger the Brotherhood in my weakness. I sighed slowly.

I would not be a puppet. I was stronger than that.

When I pulled back from her, I made a decision. "I'm so grateful for all of the time I got to spend with him," I mused. "It's been a blessing."

Lydia smiled with her eyes more than her mouth. "Tell me all about those times."

I did.