“Interesting proposition.” He smiles, as if cheered by a particularly delightful thought. “Would you kill one of your sisters to save him?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course not.”
“That’s a shame.” He sighs. “Since you can’t get something for nothing. Not on Earth, not in Everwhere.”
“But I . . .” I want to protest, to bargain, but I’ve lost words and reason. I feel the shock of my sisters beside me. We might have contemplated evil in the abstract, but it’s clear that none of us had truly considered what it might entail.
“It’s of no matter anyway.” Wilhelm floats a hand above the rosebushes, brushing their petals. “I can’t spare him. He broke the rules. Without rules there’s anarchy. And we can’t have that, now, can we?”
I close my eyes and pray.
“Oh, that won’t do you a bit of good,” my father snaps. “Not here. Right, let’s get on with it, shall we?” He looks to Bea, who nods. “But it isn’t fair that he misses this spectacle, is it? Since he was supposed to kill you himself. Not quite the same, but it has a sense of poetic justice nonetheless, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bea claps once and, in the echo of the sound, Leo appears: standing under an oak tree, shocked and confused. Whatever had kept him away, it wasn’t by his own hand.
“All right.” Wilhelm plucks a rose petal. “Now that we’re all here to witness it, I’ll give you one last chance to choose. What’ll it be? Dark or light? Life or death?”
We’re silent.
“I’m waiting.” Slowly, he begins to rip the rose petal. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I don’t glance at my sisters. I wish we’d had the chance to form a plan. Still, I hope that our father’s bark is worse than his bite. He reminds me of my stepfather, when he’d escalate his threats—the more extreme he became, the more desperate he felt, and the more the balance of power shifted between us.
“Come now, I haven’t got forever.” Our father sighs. “Well, I have. But I’m not wasting it waiting.” He pauses to consider. “Am I asking too much? Do I need to give you a little incentive?”
He looks at me and I feel myself wilting under his gaze, like a flower under a hot lamp. I glance at Leo.
“Good idea!” My father’s eyes glint gleefully. “Let me show you how to bind someone—your first attempt lacked a little finesse.”
Instantly, the hanging branches of the tree lift and curl around Leo’s wrists and ankles, wrapping him to the trunk so fast he cannot run, so tight he cannot move. My hands are clammy, my heart racing. I was wrong. There’s no balance of power where my father is concerned. He has it all.
“Well then, Bea,” Wilhelm says. “Would you like to do the honours?”
For a second I’m frozen by confusion, shock. I watch my sister raise her hands.
“Wait!” I shout. “No, wait! What are you going to do?”
I run towards Leo, focusing on those branches, flicking my fingers, clenching my fists. But nothing happens. His bonds don’t slacken, don’t loosen even a little.
When I halt, I’m close enough to see the tears in Leo’s eyes. Bea hesitates, then steps forward. She lifts her hands above her head again and I hear an almighty ripping, as if the ancient oak were being torn asunder. Instead, hundreds of thorns are ripped from hundreds of roses. They rise into the air, gathering like a swarm of bees. I lift my hands and they start to fall. Bea brings her hands together and they rise again. We stand apart, fighting for control of the thorns. I think I see a flash of regret in her eyes, but it’s obliterated by the intensity of her determination. Now we’re soldiers on opposing sides. But she’s stronger, more practised than I. And her focus is undivided.
The thorns turn, aiming at Leo: a hundred arrows pointing at his heart.
“No!” I run through the rosebushes, over the stones, the moss. I run as the thorns fly. I throw myself in front of him, a moment after every inch of Leo is pierced. Too late. He is impaled on the tree, crucified.
As I fall to the ground, praying he might survive the attack—he’s hardly human, after all, he’s a soldier, a star—the man I love is blown apart, exploding as if a firework had detonated in the centre of his chest, scattering his dust to the four corners of the glade.