“Why?” he demanded. “Stephanie, what the hell is going on?”

Leave, Erik had said. But where were we supposed to go? More importantly, how could I convince my father to take us away?

“Dad, please!” I pleaded as, inside, the blazing light from the chandelier flickered a warning. “I-I’ll explain everything on the way, I promise. But right now, we need to go.”

He studied me, eyes searching.

“Fine,” he said as he strode back into the house. “Stay here while I get my keys.”

“Wait—” I called, cut off by the exact thing I had feared might happen if we became separated by entryways.

All on its own, the front door swung shut with sudden violence, slamming in my face.

“Dad!”

Charlie screamed. Shuffling her to one arm, I took hold of the doorknob. The nightmare wasn’t over yet.

Inside, through the stained glass, the lights flickered a second time.

“Dad!” I shouted again, rattling the locked door in its frame. “Go out the back! Get out of the house!”

I didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, clinging fast to my little sister, I tore around one side of Moldavia. Reaching the rear door, I found it wide open, like someone was playing a game with me.

“Dad?” I screamed into the house—and felt my heart immediately loosen when he came into view, his expression even more confounded as he took in the sight of the lights going haywire.

Sensing another trap, I waved him toward us.

“This way, Dad! Hurry!”

Scowling more out of confusion and irritation than fear, he started in my direction, closing the distance with a fast walk.

“Run!” I yelled too late, bits of plaster raining down on him. Then came the tinkling of crystals followed by the snick of metal snapping.

It careened into view then—plummeting straight for his head.

The ancient and dust-caked chandelier.

FORTY-TWO

Ze do k

I took care in crossing to Stephanie’s side.

Not to be seen.

To steal there. Before she could leave

me.

How did we come to

the landing so fast?

How else?

Through Charlie’s closet do— Or, rather, us.

Stop. Leave your

knife

sheathed.

I

Don’t!

want to do this.

But.

How else to make her stay?

No. Not the chandelier.

You mustn’t.

Ha ha! Yes, the chandelier!

Smashing idea!

You’ll kill him.

Only if he’s lucky!

Tell me.

If she is to go, what other choice have we?

None!

Your knife blazes.

You must

not

aim for the chain!

I

I

I

I

I

HER

There’s no more time.

No matter what we now become.

chhhccckkk

The chain cried only once at its severing.

Mr. Armand dove, of course. Perhaps in time. Perhaps not.

Yes. What a crescendo!

What a display!

The cacophony of crystal kissing—rending—the floor.

The light snapping of bone.

Bravo!

See what you’ve done.

The girls. Now they

are crying, too.

It

doesn’t matter.

Not when time wasn’t impo rtant to be gin w ith.

No t whe n i t was n’t import a nt to m e.

N o t whe n we’d b e e n s o un will ing t o se e re as o n.

T i m e . . . B es i d es i t, w e have so l i t t l e l e f t.

A n d t h e h o u r s.

d i d s h e n o t m a k e t h e m s o m u c h m o r e b e a r a b l e ?

True. Time didn’t matter. Not to me.

Not without her.

But.

It was about time, I would say.

For we’d never liked that chandelier anyway.