Sadly, I knew what his response meant. He wouldn’t undo her spell. Even when we were younger, he wouldn’t reverse our magic against each other, forcing us to come to peace. “Please.” I turned to face him. “This is all your fault. That curse you put on the paintings. You have Sylvie in love with me and Esmé in love with him.” As the words left my mouth, I knew this was the wrong approach with Father. His face changed in front of me to his true form. Had I not been pregnant, I know I would have spent three days in the White Forest.

“I will not cross your sister’s curse.” His voice rumbled, then echoed in the quiet room like a storm.

“Can I reverse it?”

Father looked over at Émile’s form in the bed. “He’s too far gone and your sister is too powerful.” He crossed the room and stood over Émile, studying him intently. “You want him?”

“I do.” I was sobbing now.

“Will you accept him on any terms?” I knew what he was doing now, binding me to something. “I cannot give him back to you in the way you want. It is not in my power to do so.”

I would take Émile on any terms. “I’ll do it.”

The room was silent except for the curtain rustling against the wall. When I turned to look at him, he was gone.

I sat next to Émile’s bedside, expecting some improvement. By evening, he began coughing up blood, then defecating blood; blood ran from his nose, his eyes, and his penis. I mopped up sheets soaked with his blood. I took his shirts, knowing that he wouldn’t be needing them, and mopped up more blood. As I wiped every inch of him, I noticed that the cut on his hand remained pristine throughout, never healing even after a week. It was then that I knew what she had done. I held his hand and stared at the cut.

When the blood stopped flowing, I felt a sense of dread. His breath began to slow, but he gasped. I didn’t understand this. I had bargained with Father, but it appeared he didn’t keep his promise. Before dawn, Émile died in my arms.