The room is emptying too slowly.

His eyes land on Marit. His gun follows.

And they stop.

“I’m sorry,” Hugh says, and seems to mean it. “I don’t know you.”

Marit tries to run. She’s barefoot, she’s injured. She slips in the exact wrong direction. Hugh’s bullet rips through her neck, life spilling out of her in great gushing spurts onto the parquet floor.

I crawl to her, pressing my hands firmly around her neck. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” There’s no way to stop it; she’s drowning. “Oh God, Marit, no!”

She tries to say something, but only gurgles come out, only blood.

Her eyes scream for help, flash with one last plea, and then flatten.

Blank. Gone.

“And that’s six. One to go and the Day is over, the Day is over, the tithing day is done.”

Hugh sings it like a nursery rhyme as at last everyone spills from the house like ants, descending the stairs while clinging to the stone banister, sprinting across the darkening lawn.

Hugh follows them out onto the steps, humming to himself.

I look back through the dining room, everything blurring, and I see Sally’s left hand clutching Max’s collar as he rears up and barks, her right holding Charlie tightly. His face is buried against her, but oh God, he’s seen it all, my baby has seen his father do these things.

I have to stop this.

9:31 P.M.

I run out the door. Hugh has paused in the middle of the steps, scanning the crowd. I head straight for him, knowing the risk I face in intervening, a wild shove down the stone steps, a blast, my death the seventh sacrifice.

I stand behind Hugh for one blink, taking in the world for what might be the last time. Purple clouds skim the horizon. The wind plays in my hair, and the setting sun lights up the sea. It looks like Elding is on fire. I’m struck with fierce certainty: I want to die on Lute. My home.

Whatever happens, I accept it. I agree.

As I breathe in the velvet salt air, I reach for Hugh, grabbing his arm, not tightly, an attempt to soothe. He turns to me, his gun sinking, thank God. With his free hand, he reaches out and strokes the hair on the side of my head, and I think I’ve reached him, I’ve calmed him, but before I can grab him more firmly, he darts down the remaining steps.

He’s headed for the green, revolver ready. I’ve accomplished nothing.

The older folks are moving slowly in the near distance. One—Mr. Rivers?—has fallen, and Martin Tinker has doubled back to help him.

I’m going to have to find a way to wrest the gun away from Hugh. If I run down the steps and hit him low—

“Shoot me!”

I turn in horror.