“Light the Tree on fire, little Liesel,” Dieter tells her. “Darling Fritzichen needs you to light the Tree on fire.”
The tip of the knife appears in front of my eye. My vision switches from Dieter and Liesel, at the base of the Tree, to the edge of the blade, back and forth, far then close.
“Burn the Tree!” Dieter demands.
Why won’t she listen? He needs us. He needs us.
The edge of the blade comes closer to my eye. I can feel my eyelashes flutter against it with each blink.
Tears start to gather as the blade in my hand moves closer, closer.
Dieter needs me to do this. Dieter needs me. My brother needs me.
He needs me.
He needs—
I want—
I have—
The sting of pain. The tip of the blade catches my eyelid, and I flinch so it slides up, cutting through my brow.
Instinct overwhelmsneedandwantin a sudden surge ofNo, no, don’t do this—
Liesel screams. “Fritzi,stop!”
“You can stop it,” Dieter tells her, cooing into her hair, his arms wrapped around her. “Light the fire. Burn it all down, little Liesel. Witch fire in the heart.”
I draw the knife back, and it resets in front of my eye, and I’m shaking now, shaking with holding it back, with needing to gouge out my own eye—Dieter needs me, he needs Liesel, he needs—
He had me in a room in Baden-Baden, chained up. There was no blood then. Only burning, the smell of rendered flesh, his eyes glittering then like they are now.
He left marks on me. He left brands on me there and there and there.
He had me in the library. He pulled me apart in front of Otto.
And again, after Perchta’s tomb.
Over and over. His marks everywhere, proof that he is stronger than me, that he will always be more than me, that I will always be his.
My brother needs me to do this.
I want—Iwant—
I see the blood dripping off the tip of the knife that hovers just beyond my eye.
I follow it, looking down. And there is the brand he made, the edge just visible beneath the ruined collar of my chemise and kirtle, and the jagged carving of the Tree still unhealed and roughly bandaged.
I remember the other brands. The other scars.
My body is not mine. My magic is not mine. I belong to him; I am his, and these marks are proof that he dominates me.
No.
Stop.
NO.
