The days following Dad and Harry's showdown with Molly's killer were a terrifying blur.
I was dragged to the White Council's chambers in Edinburgh to stand trial for my breach of magical law. I had very few details to draw on. I couldn't describe a single detail of the castle to anyone who asked. A burlap sack had been shoved over my head the second I entered, and I was held in a damp, dank cell for what seemed like an eternity.
In reality, it was less than a day. The Senior Council and a number of wardens had to be assembled for the proceedings. My father was in attendance. That, along with the fact I'd been possessed by the spirit of what appeared to be an evil necromancer, weighed the odds in my favor. The vote had been close. Way, way too close for comfort. A French wizard named LaFortier was all in favor of having me axed. In the end, it had been the testimony of a man called Joseph Listens-to-Wind that had exonerated me. He couldn't invade my mind to get the whole story, but he could at least attest that we were telling the truth.
It was more a favor to my father than anything else. He'd helped to kill a wendigo and save countless victims down the road. He was also regarded favorably by many in the council for some of his more well-known victories. I was given the Doom of Damocles, and Harry stuck his neck out to protect me yet again. He agreed to be my mentor and, should I ever screw up again, to accept execution right alongside me.
The fallout at home was worse.
The sense of loss at the Carpenter house throbbed like an open wound. Mom had to be sedated for a night or two. Everyone cried. Including me. I hadn't wanted it to be true. I'd just wanted to know one way or the other. The mystery had been killing all of us.
None of the bodies could be identified definitively, but we were holding a burial anyway.
Harry, my siblings, Mom, Dad, and I crowded around the small hole. The shoebox contained the pendant of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, all of our homemade cards, pictures, and some of Molly's personal belongings. A red granite headstone would be placed on top of it within a week.
Hope's little hand flexed around mine and she pressed her face into my side, sniffling. Her tears soaked into the black button-down shirt I'd worn to the gravesite. I held an umbrella over Hope, Harry, and myself watching soberly as the gravedigger covered the three-foot hole with dirt. Mom sagged against Dad's side. He was crying too, though quietly.
"I'm so sorry," Harry whispered. "I should have..."
He trailed off helplessly. I half-expected Mom to scream at him. Instead, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze, tears still streaming down her face.
"Thank you, Mr. Dresden. For saving my son. For trying to save my daughter. I won't forget it."
Harry looked as shocked as I felt at this mercy, instead of the condemnation he'd expected. It brought tears to his eyes. He trudged away from us, guilty that he was weeping, feeling as if he was unworthy to share our grief. He'd been invited to the dinner after the memorial service. I already knew he wasn't going to attend.
He felt he didn't deserve it. I couldn't disagree with him more.
He'd saved my life. Walloped the son of a bitch who'd killed my sister and helped bring him to justice. It was a debt I couldn't repay.
But I sure as hell was going to try.