Christophor struggled to free himself from me and keep hold of the knife. But there was no way to overpower yourself. We wrestled there ineffectually, neither able to move the other.

‘She must die!’ he said.

Blood from the innocent and the learned flooded the deep lines of the star, summoned by some dark sorcery. The smell was so strong I almost gagged. But still more was needed to complete whatever was happening to Olesca, to bring Berith into this world. I understood that. Christophor just saw Rebecca. A woman he could never meet, but one he could loathe.

‘You can’t see past your jealousy,’ I said, ‘even here? Even now?’

‘Jealousy?’ In his shock, he softened momentarily. Enough for me to pull his hand away, to put myself between Rebecca and the knife.

‘Yes, brother. It’s how the boy hopes to break us.’

‘But we are not broken,’ he said.

‘No. We’re simply different men. And that’s fine. You don’t have to love her, as I do, Christophor.’

He glanced at Rebecca.

‘But you do have to accept our love,’ I said.

‘It’s the great comedy of it all, isn’t it?’ Rebecca said softly, still not looking at either of us. ‘To think we could change things if we’d just made different choices.’

‘Brother, please,’ I said.

Olesca, his face still pressed against his cage of thorns, called, ‘There is no acceptance!’

‘You love her?’ Christophor asked.

‘I do.’ I said it without hesitation, without guile. No deception or illusion, no bending of reality, just sincere feeling. The witchfinder in him could recognise that much, at least.

He looked to each of us then, seeing us properly for the first time without the distance of night and day. Two people in the later stages of their lives; scarred in their own ways, not naive in their union, but finding some kind of solace in each other.

‘I’m sorry,’ Christophor said.

As brothers, we both accepted his apology.

He dropped the knife. ‘I am not broken.’

‘I am not broken,’ I echoed, letting go of him.

The ground shook in response, sending dust and dirt into the air. A great shadow fell across us, and suddenly Rebecca was gone, her coat and shackles falling to the ground beside the knife. My night-brother pulled his plain wooden cross from beneath his shirt.

‘I am my brother. My brother is me.’ He called it steadily. ‘I am my brother. My brother is me.’

The dome of thorns bulged and buckled. Guttural cries came from the beast as its claws broke through the cage, reaching for the air, for existence in this world.

Christophor stepped forward, and I followed. As we closed in on the dome, the thorns began to untangle. More, they began to fracture and split into shards. I joined him in his chant, his prayer, as it buffeted against the beast’s howl. The shards of thorn scattered from us like ripples in a pond. For a single heartbeat I saw the beast Berith fully. Its huge leathery wings. Cloven feet. Yellow eyes. It stood over Olesca. It reached one last time towards Christophor, either trying to find purchase in our plane or perhaps to take one final, vengeful strike.