“I was the one who insisted he do the spell with me. The whole thing was my idea,” I say.

“You only had to do the spell because he killed William,” Lena reasons.

Finn looks down at his shoes. Is he ashamed? Is he thinking of a clever trick to get out of all this?

But what I’m wondering most of all is why I don’t want him to die. I should, I should want it with every beat of my broken heart, but I don’t.

Finn and I belonged to each other the moment he told me he’d seen me in his dreams his whole life, and we still belong to each other now. But when the warmth and affection and something that might have been love died, all we were left possessing of each other were the crimes. We still hold them now, the awful, ugliest parts of each other, fisted in our sinful hands. We’re tied together forever, bound by blood and pain and mistakes. But we are still each other’s.

“I killed Mrs. Vykotsky. I deserve this,” I say. “Please, let me do this. Please, just let me go.”

I take a step toward the veil and they all shout, “No!” or “Stop!” at the same time.

Finn raises his face from his boots, something determined in the set of his eyes. “Nah,” he says casually. “Let me do it.” He quirks a half smile.

“No,” I say quick and decisive. It strikes me with a blow straight to my chest just how fiercely I don’t want him gone.

He takes three careful steps and closes the distance between us. His eye is still bruised, a trickle of blood is half dried across his cheekbone. And here’s that look. The one that’s just for me. The one where he looks like he loves me with a ferocity so intense, neither of us can bear it. I wrap my arms around his waist, almost an embrace, and with a tug, undo the ropes around his wrists.

He reaches up and for once, I don’t recoil from his touch. With shaking hands, he tucks one strand of hair behind my ear. I lean my cheek into the callused palm of his hand and close my eyes.

“I wish you’d have let me give you forever.”

“No.” The tears stream down my face, silent and unstoppable.

“I have to,” he says so gentle, just for me.

“But I don’t want you to go.” I can’t make sense of it, my ugly heart, the way it’s shattering. “It should be me,” I protest.

He shakes his head. “You know that isn’t true. You’re… good, Frances.” Good. What a strange word. I don’t feel good now, I haven’t felt good in a long time. And Finn may have blood on his hands, but mine are irrevocably stained too.