That’s when I see father. Flat before the dais, and as still as stone. It’s as if he’s thrown himself to the floor, seeking mercy from the Almighty.

“Father, what’s wrong? Why are you on the floor?”

I do not see the blood until I step up into the chancel. A great puddle of it on the cold slab, glistening and still growing. Red lines trace the grout of the flagstones. His head is not there. The stump of neck is an obscene display of gristle and bone, his lifeblood dribbling out from the thick arteries.

The brandy in my stomach curdles and comes back up. On my knees, I wretch and cough in a greasy sweat. I am brainless for a long moment, unable to comprehend the thing lying on the floor behind me. My first fevered thought is to blame the mermaid. That she has somehow slithered her way into the church to murder our father. But that is ludicrous.

It isn’t until I hear the screaming that my shattered brain clicks upon the true culprit. The screams come from outside, and from every house. Shrieks of bald terror and calamities of violence. I hear names among the screams, pleas to stop whatever is happening.

Lilja, no!

Heloise, stop!

No, Miriam! For the love of God, stop!

Bryndis, no! NO!

That last voice. Pip. I stagger outside, looking for my brother. I hear him cry out once more, somewhere on the far side of the church. I lurch around the stone wall to the yard, but there is no Pip there. No Bryndis.

Bryndis.

Could our sister really have done this wickedness to Father? Bryndis is no fainting flower, but she is gentle with all living things. I can no more picture her speaking a harsh word to Father, let alone docking his head from his neck. It is too nightmarish to consider, and yet some twinge in my belly tells me it is true.

I call out for my brother, but immediately shut my mouth when shadows pass over the wall of the church. At the sound of footfalls in the lane, I hide behind a tombstone and make myself very small. As much as I cannot stop trembling, I force myself to peek out from behind the stone. The village daughters emerge from their cottages and hovels and into the streets. The tools in their hands drip with blood, the metal clotted with scraps of hairy scalp.