That’s not just the match’s flame sparkling in my little sister’s eyes.
It’s joy.
Motherfreakin’joy.
“Oh, Bash!” She claps a hand over her mouth, letting out a muffled, “It’s so beautiful!”
“Go on.” I take the match from her fingers, holding it close as she carefully takes the mason jar from me.
Inside, a Northern Blue flutters frantically.
“She’s so pretty!” Sybil breathes as she cradles the jar to her chest.
“How do you know it’s not a boy?”
“Boys aren’t pretty.”
“It’s usually the opposite in the animal world, you know. Birds, for example. The males usually have much brighter plumage than the females.”
“I don’t care,” she says. “It’s a girl. Stop ruining everything.”
I hold back a laugh, happy to watch Sybil watching the butterfly. For a few moments, everything else ceases to exist. I can forget about The Bad Place, about The Witch, about what happens when we’re notsatisfactory.
Sybil taps her fingernail against the glass, but the butterfly is oblivious. All it’s concerned with is trying to find escape.
I should feel sorry for it, but I’d capture another one in a heartbeat, just to see the awestruck glee on my sister’s face.
I guess that’s what The Witch saw too.
I’m guessing she didn’t like it.
Not. One. Bit.
Harsh, fluorescent light strips away the shadows, thehiss-clickof the long tubes on the ceiling making my skin crawl.
Evelyn appearing as a tall, slim silhouette at the foot of the stairs makes me want to heave up every bland, nutritious thing I’ve eaten today.
Who forces their children to eat steamed kale and sludgy egg whites for breakfast?
The witch currently descending the stairs, that’s who.
If I had the courage, and the strength, I’d smash the jar and try to ram a piece through Evelyn’s jugular. And one in each eye, just for good measure.
But that would be stupid, because if I failed, we’d both suffer for it. I can’t take the risk.
Sybil tries to cower behind me, but I’m right up against the shelving, so all she can do is squeeze against my side as The Witch approaches. The rim of the jar digs into my side, and Sybil’s panicked panting warms my flesh.
“Don’t punish her.” I try to sound calm, but my voice is shaking like a damn leaf. “I made her come down here. I was bored. I thought we could organize the shelves. It’s very dusty down here. We should clean it. May we clean it, Mother? Let us clean it, then you don’t have?—“
The witch’s backhand cuts me off so violently the last word is little more than a huff. “—to!”
“Are you saying I’m lazy, child?” Evelyn’s voice is as bleak and sinister as the fluorescent lights streaming into my eyes as I blink back tears and straighten to face her.
Sybil starts to cry.
Tiny, gulping, pathetic little sounds she desperately attempts to suppress.
But she’s too young to hold back fear.
