I was still a hammer, but there were different kinds of nails.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why would you lure him into a trap?”
“Because I want him back. Whether he’s a Morton or not.”
“Sebastian is a Morton, blooded and true. That’s why he needs to pay.”
“With all due respect, Elizabeth, you’ll be outvoted.”
A sad smile. “Are you saying we would allow betrayal?”
“He’ll fix cars and grow poisonous plants. He’ll teach pain resistance and needlepoint. He’ll become best friends with the new mayor of Upper Falls, and one day be elected a local judge. And together he and I will make seven babies, brilliant and beautiful, to replace the little Mortons my father cut down.”
I’d come up with this speech in bed, watching the half-moon crawl across my skylight. All lies, but as easy to spin as the truth. Part of me wanted it to be real.
Mortons, but not. Careful, but powerful.
“That’s a beautiful story,” she said. “When we began all this, I hoped you’d only uncover Wolvaardts and Lindqvists and Seths—that our children were no longer infected with rebellion.”
“Because there aren’t enough of us to spare. So let Sebastian come home.”
“It isn’t entirely up to me.”
“Whoever wants to cull him will be outpoliticked, outcharmed, outvoted. Sebastian will survive. Let me go back to Helshire with that key, and I’ll prove it to you.” I gave her my oldest smile, a mocking look, from when I was a child who didn’t cry. “Or are you afraid I’m right?”
Her eyes went from my face to my knitting, waiting for my hands to tremble. I kept knitting like I didn’t care, like a true Morton would, not dropping a single stitch.
Finally, she tossed the key into my lap. “All right then. Perhaps Sebastian can be redeemed. But I promise nothing.”
I stopped knitting at last and picked up the key. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
She shrugged, gathering her needles and yarn. She went to the door to my room, pulled it open, and stood aside.
“Come on, then.”
A moment of dizziness passed through me. Was Elizabeth letting me out? I stood, expecting a slammed door, a cruel smile.
The door stayed open. But as I passed her, my grandmother stopped me with a touch.
“One more thing.” She handed me a knife.
I stared at it—a fixed blade karambit, cherry handle, Damascus steel. One of Peter’s impractical playthings, shipped back from Helshire after his fall.
She ushered me through the door. “You’ll know what to do.”
I followed the same dark hallway that Veronica had guided me down a week before. It led to the cement holding cell.
Waiting there, sitting in a folding chair and wearing a purple raincoat and ballet shoes, was my little cousin Mary.
“Finally,” she said, standing up. “This is the third time I’ve had to sit here all day.”
I looked at her, at the knife in my hand.
“Yes, bunny,” she said. “You’re supposed to kill me.”
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