This interested my father. If I had powers, at least I could be worth something. My father could sell me off to a circus of freaks, gather a ransom from the Inquisition for turning me in, use my power to his advantage, anything. So he has been trying for months now to awaken something in me.
He motions for me to come to him, and when I do as he says, he reaches toward me and holds my chin in his cold palms. A long, silent moment passes between us. I’m sorry for upsetting Violetta, I want to say. But the words are choked by my fear, leaving me quiet, numb. I imagine myself disappearing behind a dark veil, vanishing to somewhere he can’t see. My sister hides behind Father, her eyes wide. She looks back and forth between us with growing unease.
His eyes shift to where the dying butterfly is still struggling in the grass. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding at it. “Finish the job.”
I hesitate.
His voice coaxes me on. “Come now. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” His grip on my chin tightens until it hurts. “Pick up the butterfly.”
Shaking, I do as he says. I grasp the butterfly’s lone wing between two fingers and lift it into the air. The glittering dust smears on my skin. Its legs scramble, still fighting. My father smiles. Tears shine in Violetta’s eyes. She had not intended this. She never intends anything.
“Good,” he says. “Rip off the wing.”
“Don’t, Father,” Violetta protests. She puts her arms around him, trying to win him over. But he ignores her.
I try not to cry. “I don’t want to,” I whisper, but my words fade away at the look in my father’s eyes. I take the butterfly’s wing between my fingers, then rip it from its body, my own heart tearing as I go. Its naked, pitiful form crawls in my palm. Something about it stirs a darkness within me.
“Kill it.”
In a daze, I crush the creature under my thumb. Its broken carcass twitches slowly against my skin, before finally growing still.
Violetta cries.
“Very good, Adelina. I like it when you embrace your true self.” He takes one of my hands in his. “Did you enjoy that?”
I start to shake my head, but his eyes make me freeze. He wants something out of me that I don’t know how to give. My shake changes to a nod. Yes, I enjoyed that. I loved it. I will say anything to make you happy, just please don’t hurt me.
Nothing happens, and my father’s scowl deepens. “There must be something more inside you, Adelina.” He picks out my ring finger, then runs one hand along it. My breaths quicken. “Tell me I’ve at least been given a malfetto daughter of some use.”
I’m confused. I don’t know how to answer. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to utter. “I didn’t mean to upset her. I just—”
“No, no. You can’t help yourself.” He glances over his shoulder at my sister. “Violetta,” he says gently, nodding for her to come close. She inches forward. “Come. Let’s see if your sister has any value.” Let’s see if she has any powers.
“No, Father, don’t—please—” Violetta begs, then tugs at his arm. “She didn’t do anything. We were just playing.” My heartbeat quickens to a frenzied pace. We exchange a frantic look. Save me, Violetta.
My father shakes her off, then turns his attention back to me and tightens his grip around my ring finger. “Are you worthless like that butterfly, Adelina?”
I shake my head in panic. No. Please. Give me a chance.
“So show me. Show me what you can do.”
Then he breaks my finger at the joint.
I bolt awake, a silent scream on my tongue. My crooked finger throbs, as if it’d been broken only a moment ago instead of six years earlier, and I rub it instinctively, trying as always to straighten it out. Dark tides churn in my stomach, the familiar ugliness that my father liked to nurture.
Then I squint in the light. Where am I? Sunlight slants into my unfamiliar bedchamber from arched windows, filling the space with a cream-colored haze, and gossamer curtains ripple in the breeze. On a nearby table, an open book lies beside a quill and inkwell. Plates of jasmine blossoms sit on dressers and balcony ledges. Their sweet scent was probably the reason why I dreamed of my sister and me in our garden. I shift gingerly, then realize I’m lying in a bed piled high with blankets and embroidered pillows. I blink, disoriented for a moment.
Perhaps I died. This room doesn’t really look like the waters of the Underworld, though. What had happened at the burning? I remember the Inquisitors lined up on the platform, and my hands struggling against iron shackles. I look down at my hands—white bandages cover both of my wrists, and when I move them, I can feel the burn of chafed skin underneath. My torn, dirty clothes are gone now, replaced by a clean silk robe of blue and white. Who cleaned and changed me? I touch my head, then wince. Someone also wrapped a cloth tightly around my head, right where my father had pulled at my hair, and when I gingerly comb a hand through my hair, I realize that it’s been scrubbed clean of its filth. I frown, trying to remember more.
Teren, the Lead Inquisitor. A beautiful, blue day. There were the iron stake, the soldiers, and the lit torch. They had thrown the torch onto the pile of wood at my feet.
And then I turned the sky black. My eye widens as the memory comes rushing back.
A knock at my chamber door startles me. “Come in,” I call out, surprised at the sound of my voice. It feels strange to give orders in a bedchamber that isn’t my own. I brush locks of my hair over the left side of my face, hiding my scar.