in return.
“I don’t think going dark is the answer,” I say. “I mean, we don’t even know the consequences.”
“Oh, please, what do we need to know?” Bea starts to pace across the glade, like a general corralling troops. “On Earth we’re virtually powerless. Plus we’re underestimated at every turn, undervalued, treated like sex objects, paid less, regarded as second fiddle by virtually—”
“That may be true,” I interrupt. “But it’s hardly reason enough to turn evil.”
Bea raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like to live your life without fear?” She gives a little shrug. “The only way you’ll ever be that powerful is if you go dark.”
We’re silent. I don’t know what Ana and Scarlet are thinking, but I think of Leo’s words: predator or prey, kill or be killed. I think of Garrick, of my stepfather. I think of that soldier’s hands slowly taking the life from me. I can’t deny that it’d be a glorious thing, never to be scared again.
“You’ll be impenetrable in every way. And not just physically.” Bea looks to Scarlet. “All that pain you feel, the grief—you won’t feel any of it anymore.”
I think of Leo, of Teddy. “What about love? Will we still feel that?”
Bea hesitates, almost imperceptibly. “Yes. You will.”
Again, I think of Leo. I wonder if, if I went to my father’s side, I’d be able to make a bargain for Leo’s life.
“How long do we have till he comes?” Scarlet asks, again deferring to our resident expert. “Shouldn’t he be here soon?”
She sounds calm, but I can see that my sister is far more scared than she seems. Just like the rest of us, with the exception of Bea, who has quite clearly made her choice. I wonder if we’ll still know her afterwards—that is, if we survive. I wonder if our lives would be the same, on Earth at least, if we became dark. I realize how little I know about any of this, and I wish, even as I sense it’s too late now, that I hadn’t been too proud to ask. I notice then that Ana didn’t respond to Bea’s proposal. Indeed, she hasn’t spoken since.
“I have a feeling”—Bea stops pacing—“That he’ll be here any moment now.”
Wilhelm
“The four victorious.”
His voice is a rumble of thunder above the trees. Then he appears, stepping out of the mists and fog and into the glade. A chill wind picks up, churning the falling leaves. As he sets foot on the ivy and moss a tremor rumbles through the soil, shaking the ground beneath our feet.
I feel my sisters beside me. I feel their hearts begin to beat faster, I feel my own. Our father is ancient and immovable as a redwood, at his core a force of unparalleled ferocity. I can see that there is nothing he wouldn’t do.
“Congratulations, my dears.” Our father surveys us, his golden eyes glinting in the moonlight. He’s tall, thin, with white hair and a face so wrinkled he might be ten thousand years old. He steps towards us, his hands outstretched. When we make no move towards him, he stops in the middle of the glade and brings his hands together.
“So my four favourite daughters have finally come of age. I feel as if I’ve been waiting two centuries for this moment.” He raises both hands. “Welcome home, my girls.”
Dozens of shoots emerge from the soil, rapidly thickening and lengthening, fresh branches reaching out, growing leaves and blooms, until the rosebushes are sinking under the weight of hundreds of blood-red flowers that look almost black. He has turned our glade into his garden.
“A little gift.” He smiles at us each in turn.
We are a tense row—even Bea—standing as straight and stiff as if we’re balancing on a high wire and a single slip from anyone would mean the death of us all.
“I must admit, I thought you might not all survive the initiation. Too few do. I’m afraid my daughters often disappoint me in their . . . willingness to surrender.” He brushes a fallen leaf from his lapel. “But moving on. How are you each feeling now?”
We stare at him, silent, still.
“Oh, come now.” He grins, the falcon eyeing the clutch of mice in its claws. “Don’t pretend to be passive females—you’re so much better than that. You’ve got darkness in you now, and you should be grateful for it.” He brings his hands together and another chill wind blows through the glade. “Look at your miserable little lives—they don’t