“And you mightn’t be dead, yeah? How’s a bird supposed to know? But you’re dead to me.” Mallow tightened the rope.

Darcy sputtered, choking on the tears running down the back of her throat, on the bile climbing up it—and she wailed till it all mixed to froth.

Mallow stepped back from the stone table and Darcy’s trussed form. The old woman’s skin glowed red where she’d been dragged up the trail. Her knees and elbows wept almost as much as her face did, though none of it moved Mallow as much as it might have, once. She stood as cold and resolute as the funeral rocks that dug into the bones of Darcy’s back.

She pulled the bright red slippers from Darcy’s feet and hurled them over the cliffside, to be lost among the boulders or tangled in the trees. Their red would fade to grey, just like the meat on the rocks.

For miles around the cliffs, the birds’ nests shone with the tresses of the dead. Soon Darcy’s curls would shine like silver ribbons, woven through soft beds for delicate hatchlings.

Mallow threw one final rock at Darcy, spring a bit more blood to scent the air, then turned her back and began the long trek around the mountain. On the far side of the cliffs, the valley stretched out, open and welcoming and everything Darcy wasn’t, at least not anymore. And above the valley perched the Elevated School for Diminishing Young Ladies. Darcy’s kingdom, once. Not anymore.

Mallow wondered if Darcy’s soul would ascend to heaven on the birds’ wings, as the rite intended. But that wasn’t why she had done it. It wasn’t done out of respect. It wasn’t done for the birds, or for the safe passage of departed spirits. It was done because she had it coming, and because she’d seen too much.

There had never been any overt violence. No great wrongdoing. It was a slow brew of poison. A cruel jab here and there, any chance. Just enough to draw a bead of blood between them and keep Mallow always anemic.

Toxic, she was. And Mallow suddenly feared for the birds that had already gathered to feast on that heap of vitriol. Perhaps it would poison them.

Mallow tightened the straps of her pack. It was much lighter without the coils of rope, but her neck and shoulders ached from hauling the struggling woman up the trail. Should’ve given her more of the morphine. She’d been shocked by how hard the woman had fought. But was there ever a day we didn’t fight, once we made up our minds to do it?

A scream tore down the trail from above. Mallow wasn’t sure if it was Darcy or the birds.

***