‘I wanted to know more about your sister, but I found the newspaper article. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but …’ I trailed off as she switched her focus to Patrick, apparently bored of me.

‘You’re spoiling my lovely carpet,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘Mirabelle, grab his legs. Help me carry him downstairs. Now.’

‘But—’

‘Now, or …’ she flicked her head at the knife in her hand, and I believed her. I believed she would hurt me too, or worse, if I refused to do what she said. She didn’t need me now that she had Emma. Emma was little and sweet and perfect. I wasn’t like that. Not any more.

Heart pounding, I moved to crouch behind Patrick, whose face had gone sickly white. I gently lifted his hand away from his wound and picked up his other wrist, surprised to find his skin cold.

‘Three, two, one!’ Mother said, and we heaved and picked him up.

He groaned as blood oozed from the slice in his side. His face contorted with pain and he bit his lip as we half-dragged, half-carried him out of the room, across the landing and down the stairs, stopping every two steps to get our breath.

‘You’re heavier than you look,’ she said with a strange smile.

Emma appeared in the hallway chewing her nightgown. Mother snapped at her to go up to my bedroom and stay there.

‘It’s OK, Emma,’ I murmured, my eyes following her as she slipped past me and ran up the stairs.

‘What are you going to do?’ I said.

We had carried Patrick into the kitchen leaving a trail of thick, gooey blood in our wake. Patrick looked like death. He was losing too much blood. A sweet, metallic scent drifted around the kitchen.

Mother placed the knife on the counter and told me to sit down. I did as she said, though I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to move if a chance came. She leaned against the counter watching Patrick, her head tilted to the side, eyes glazed, her expression almost bored. A zigzag of dried blood smeared her right cheek and her nostrils flared as she struggled to regain her breath. Her tongue flicked out of her mouth to wet her thin, dry lips.

Chapter 25

‘What are you going to do now?’ I repeated.

‘This mess is sickening,’ she said, ignoring my question, her voice raw. ‘Clean it up.’

She grabbed the dishcloth and threw it at me. It hit me in the face. I hesitated. She glared, snapping at me to fetch the bucket from under the stairs.