Nomi’s heart ached. Helena’s own father had let her be taken?

She didn’t want to think about what her parents would have done if they’d known she could read and write.

Serina appeared at the head of the path, speeding up when she noticed the commotion.

“Are you well?” she asked when she reached Nomi’s side. She glanced at Maris and Helena, who still stood within each other’s arms.

“Fine,” Nomi said, smiling. “We’ve had another reunion.”

Serina relaxed. “And how is Malachi?”

“He hasn’t woken up yet,” Nomi said. “Maybe you can see if there’s anything more we can do?”

“Of course,” Serina replied.

Nomi and Serina ducked into the infirmary, leaving Maris and Helena in the sunlight.

Nomi stood in the center of a ballroom. Lights glimmered. Colors flashed. She was the only point of stillness in the room; dancers surrounded her, twisting and twirling. She noticed, with growing unease, their masks—not the sparkling masks of the masquerade, but heavy black ones with slits for eyes. Executioner masks.

Her gown was the color of old blood. Heavy. Constricting. She tried to move, but it held her fast.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Before her, the Superior sat on a raised dais. He, unlike his guests, wore no mask. His thin, ill face stared straight forward. Straight at her.

Three figures sat beside him.

Malachi.

Renzo.

Serina.

They wore black. No masks. Blank, dead eyes.

Nomi gasped. She pulled against the cage of her dress. Couldn’t move.

The dancers didn’t slow. They twirled around her, oblivious, their black masks turned toward their partners, expressionless and eerie.

Through the crowd, one figure moved with purpose. He noticed the people on the dais. He noticed her. As he reached the Superior, Asa turned and met her panicked gaze. He moved to stand behind his father. Then he drew his dagger and slit his father’s throat.

Nomi tried to scream.

No sound came out. The musicians didn’t falter. The dancers didn’t deviate.

Asa moved down the line. His mild expression didn’t change. And he never looked anywhere but straight at her.

Nomi felt the pressure of a sob building in her chest, but it had no outlet. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t save them.

Asa calmly slit Malachi’s throat.

In silence, the Superior and his son bled across the dance floor. Their blood eddied like a river; it stained the delicate slippers and fine leather boots of the dancers. It rippled toward Nomi’s red dress and her dirty bare feet.

Her heart pounded frantically; her muscles strained.

Asa smiled.

The dagger slid across Renzo’s tan skin. His blood flowed red. Nomi lunged uselessly, railed uselessly, screamed silently as her soul churned in anguish.

Asa raised his knife to Serina’s smooth throat. Nomi went blank with rage.

And somehow her scream broke through.