Voices from inside the house grew louder. Her father shouted, her mother pleaded. Feet struggled and shuffled in the dirt just beyond her hiding place. Her brother rushed forward as the men shackled her parents. But Nicholas’s well-aimed kicks in their shins did little to stop progress toward the carriage. His fists pounded their lower backs. The determination on his face was as impressive to Scarlet now as it was horrifying to her then. Finally, one of the men tired of him and struck him to the ground. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face.

“No! Leave him alone.” Her mother’s voice tore through Scarlet again as she recognized the desperation in it.

“He’ll have to come with us.” The leader jerked his head toward the carriage, and his partner moved to pick Nicholas up.

Scarlet felt her younger self struggle, saw the indecision, saw her feet move forward to reach her brother. Her adult subconscious urged her on, begged her to move. “Go, Scarlet! Run to him. Cover his body with yours. Drag him away. DO SOMETHING!”

But young Scarlet backed up, cowering.

They tossed her brother’s unmoving body into the carriage with her parents, and then the horses started moving.

Running out into the street, shouting and calling, she watched after them, her mother’s tear-streaked face turned to her out the back window. Young Scarlet waited until the carriage rounded the bend, and then she fell into a heap in the dirt.

Sorrowing with that fallen little girl, her adult mind recognized for the first time the futility of any eight-year-old assistance. Throughout her life, she had blamed herself for cowardice. But now, decades later, a small measure of healing comforted the edges of her wounds, working its way inside. Although her heart still grieved and she could not yet quiet the searing guilt, forgiveness had begun and, with time, would make itself known to her destructive self-recrimination.

The dream closed around her, and Scarlet rose up through a dark tunnel into a blinding light. Squinting and turning her head, she tried to protect herself, but a voice said, “Look.”

She shielded her eyes and tried to see into the light. Nearly blinded, she saw nothing but white until she focused and saw through it. There she saw Marie Antoinette, with her daughter, dressed in white. Marie smiled. “I live.”

Relief, joy, filled her. Marie—yet alive.

But then Marie’s clothing changed, and Robespierre’s laugh sounded from Her Majesty’s lips. Wearing her dress from the execution, she marched forward on the guillotine platform.

“NO!” Thick, warbling dream silence enveloped Scarlet’s shout. Helplessly, she watched Marie again fall prey to the knife.

Marching after her in a clown-like manner, the DuPonts followed her, and each of their children lost their heads; even the toy horse took a turn at the guillotine.