Chapter 28: Candles for the Lost - The Night Market

Three days had passed since the Cavendishes lost one of their own.

Death was normal. Death was expected. But not this one. And certainly not in this fashion.

The tower, in all its brutal grandeur, had entered mourning through the way its halls grew still, how its corridors echoed differently. Even the glass of its windows seemed to refract the skyline in a dimmer hue, as if the building itself had lowered its gaze in grief.

Below its towering frame, beneath the surface and splendour, lay the crypt. A space carved in dark marble and cold silver. Torches lit the arching walls with flickering light, casting deep shadows between the engraved tombs of those whose bloodlines had earned them a resting place here. But not all who lay in the Silent Nest had worn a Family name. Some had simply given all they had, and more.

Today, Viola joined them.

The procession was silent. The kind of silence that hummed. A tide of black coats and raven-dark dresses swept down the old stone steps. Every figure wore mourning attire. Most in black, as tradition demanded. But not all.

Four wore red.

Concetta. Mortis. Canis. Quinn.

From their collars to their cuffs, their mourning garments bled shades of wine and scarlet and brick. Red was not a fashion here. It was a declaration. A Family custom reserved for when grief turned to fury. When a life had been stolen, not surrendered. We were wronged, the red said. And we do not forget.

The ceremony began without fanfare. No hymns. No prayers. Only a soft tremor of organ music, and the sound of the ancient gates locking behind them.

At the far end of the chamber, beneath a vaulted arch, the casket lay draped in the family crest – obsidian and gold, the Cavendish crest of the burning tower completing it. A single white rose rested atop the lid.

Then Canis stepped forward.

He looked more subdued than usual. His usual rings were absent, his suit, shirt, tie and shoes a strong maroon, his sunny hair tied back. His eyes – always a little too bright, a little too clever – were sober now. When he spoke, he would command the room. Here, he simply let his words land where they would.

‘I first met Viola in an elevator,’ he said, resting his hand gently on the casket. ‘Of all places.’

A few heads turned. The image seemed too mundane, too modern. But he smiled at the memory, soft around the edges.

‘I’d been summoned to the upper floors,’ he went on, ‘for one of those meetings where you nod a lot at flip charts and numbers while fighting the urge to throttle all those involved. I, however, was tired. Hungover from socialising the day and night before with important people, still very . . . fragile. These were the early days, see, when I had yet to learn how to endure the almighty burden of being me.’

A few people – even in grief – allowed themselves a faint smile.

‘The lift stopped halfway. And she rushed in, all flustered. No introduction. Just this whirlwind in leather boots and a charity shop jacket, clutching too many box files, staring at me, like I was the one interrupting her moment. She looked me up and down, visibly unimpressed. Unsurprising, being that I was barely being held up by the elevator. No doubt she was intimidated by my presence, as many are. I saw her trembling. But she spirited it away, and informed me she was to be in this meeting of mine to ensure it went smoothly. To help, she said. Before oh so brazenly adding . . .’ He paused, lips twitching. ‘That, looking how I did, I would need all the help I could get.’

He chuckled, then sighed.

‘It was true. And unexpected. I laughed. Properly. First time in weeks.’

Canis stepped back from the casket, fingers lingering a moment longer on the wood.

‘Viola forced me to wear a pair of sunglasses she had on her and insisted that she did all the talking. All I had to do was agree at the right times. When I was addressed, asked to give my thoughts, she saved me from any inadvertent embarrassment I could have caused. She stepped in when I floundered. Pushed back on someone who asked questions they had no right to be asking. Later that night, I invited her to my floor. We sat on the balcony, the two of us – her with her feet up on the rail like she owned the skyline, and me playing the piano like it was the only language we both understood. And she sang.’

Canis steadied himself.

‘I don’t know if any of you ever heard her sing. Most of you probably didn’t. But she had a voice like wind over water. Not perfect. Not polished. But . . . true. No filters. No theatrics. Just Viola, giving you everything she had. And that’s what she did every single day for us . . . for a hundred and forty-nine years. For the Family. Always . . . there.’

He looked up, eyes glassed but dry.

‘And now, we have the honour of watching over her while she rests.’

He turned to Quinn.

‘Sister, do you—’

But Quinn, dressed in a construction of blood-red silks, one leg crossed over the other, her chin resting on a closed fist, didn’t answer. She simply shook her head, slowly, once. The gesture was not cold. It was final. There were, astonishingly, no words in her today.

Canis nodded and returned to his place.

Concetta rose from her seat.

If grief had a spine, it was hers. In heels and structured crimson, she looked like a general at a war memorial, her features carved from purpose. She didn’t need to raise her voice to hold the room.

‘Viola was a Cavendish. She was not a soldier. She was not a tactician. She never sought out blood. But she was ours.’

Her voice echoed, cool and resonant.

‘She was fearless. She was fierce. She had a tongue that could cut stone and loyalty that never once wavered. She stood for us when others fell. She loved us when others kept their distance. And she fought for her place with every inch of who she was. She, like many here today, may not be of hallowed blood. But she is Family.’

She let her eyes move across the crowd.

‘I don’t want to hear rumour. I don’t want quiet speculation about how and why and what’s to come. There is a time for answers. But it is not this moment. This moment belongs to her. And we will not poison it.’

She stepped forward, closer to the casket.

‘If you feel lost . . . good. That means you loved her. But don’t let your mourning become your ruin. Don’t forget who we are. We honour our fallen by living, and by remembering. And most of all . . .’

She reached out, her hand resting on the casket beside the rose.

‘. . . by continuing what they stood for.’

And with that, Viola was slowly lowered into the Vault.

The white rose stayed in place until the very end.

There was no sobbing. No wailing. Just the quiet pull of breath. One long, collective inhale from a Family refusing to break.

The kind of silence that said: we are still here. But we bear the scar.

The atrium had been transformed.

Where sunlight once pierced through glass from twenty storeys above, now the chandeliers burned low and heavy. Candles glowed in every recess, nestled among silver holders and empty wine bottles like a constellation scattered across furniture. The hum of low conversation drifted among the gathered – not the drunken, boisterous kind that usually followed funerals, but the slow tempo of grief quietly melding with disbelief.

There were Enforcers by the bar, drinks in hand, half in uniform, half in black. The musicians played in the far corner, a string quartet dressed in understated suits and gowns. The violin’s melody was achingly suitable. At the centre of it all stood a long table, laid with photographs, white roses and a large leather-bound book for written tributes. Viola’s face adorned the largest print in the middle. Not a glamour shot, just her laughing at something off-camera, eyes narrowed, smile inviting.

Pepper stood at the table with a pen in hand. She stared at the page. Her handwriting had stopped halfway through the sentence. For long moments, she said nothing. Then, with a frown and the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she added a final line:

Thank you for your trust. It meant more than I ever got to tell you.

She signed her name. Just Pepper. That felt like enough.

Turning away, she caught sight of Laik already seated in the shadows of the velvet couches near the back wall. He had that stillness to him, that very specific, very him way of occupying space without demanding it. A half-drunk glass sat in one hand, a second waiting beside it. He saw her approach and nudged the other toward her.

She sank into the couch next to him with a slow exhale.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured, taking the drink without asking what it was.

Laik glanced sidelong at her. ‘How are you holding up?’

Pepper didn’t answer straight away. She looked at the drink, gave it a slow swirl.

‘Not well,’ she said. ‘It’s such a shock. I shouldn’t have let her go by herself.’

‘You couldn’t have stopped her,’ Laik said. ‘None of us could’ve. Her mind was made up before she ever set foot in that bar. She was going to have a good time.’

Pepper’s mouth twisted. ‘That’s what gets me. Wishing I’d said something different, y’know? One different word, one minute earlier . . . maybe it changes the whole thing.’

Laik took a slow sip of his drink. His voice was low, but sympathetic.

‘Yeah. I know.’

He paused. Then added, ‘Reese is on the investigation team. Told me they haven’t found anything solid yet. It looks like . . . just some psycho. Street vamp, no affiliate, probably. Just someone twisted looking for kicks.’

Pepper rested her head in her hands. For a long moment she stayed like that, breathing slowly through her fingers. Then she glanced up – and caught sight of Quinn. She was standing alone in the line to sign the memorial book, a storm behind her eyes. The crowd ahead of her recognised her presence and peeled back, allowing her to pass without a word. She stared down at the table, unmoving. Then she hurriedly scrawled something with a flourish in the book, turned and paced away in a swirl of crimson.

‘God.’ Pepper watched Quinn leave with an escort forming behind and muttered, ‘All this makes me wanna be sick.’

Laik looked at her. ‘Has there been any word about your sister?’

Pepper pulled out her phone, checking the screen even though she knew there’d be nothing.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Called earlier. No change.’

He shifted slightly, guilt flickering across his features. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—’

‘No, it’s okay,’ she interrupted, pocketing the phone. ‘You were just asking. Doctor said . . . months. Best case. But she’s not exactly sprinting toward it, y’know?’

She gave a bitter smile that didn’t last long.

Laik hesitated, then in a quiet, awkward motion, reached out and gave her knee a gentle pat. It was clumsy. A half-formed gesture from someone who didn’t do reassurance very well. But it was real.

Pepper looked at him. Then, slowly, she leaned sideways, resting her head against his shoulder. The drink balanced on her lap. Her breath came shallow, and there was something fragile in the way she folded in on herself. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Around them, the music swelled. The violinist sent her tune dancing through the space, not joyful, not mournful. Just . . . full. A string of candles flickered as someone passed, their perfume that of rosewater.

They sat in silence.

Not because they lacked the words.

But because in that moment, words weren’t enough.