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1. The Edge of a Knife

The Edge of a Knife

Skye won't stop fussing with my hair.

I sit on the floor at the side of her bed and she puffs out one of the space buns she's tied.

"You have to look amazing." Her words are faint, but I still hear the smile beneath the exhaustion.

I don't tell her that no one will care about my hair—no one will pay any attention to it—because she cares about my hair and that's what matters.

The half of it that isn't in the two little balls atop my head brushes my chin as I turn to look up at her.

"With the dress you picked out, I'll be stunning."

Skye's smile is tired, but she twists another strand of purple out to frame my face. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Me too."

Her smile falters as she turns away, pulling off her wig—yet more of my hair—and setting it on the foam mannequin head.

"I wish I could come with you."

I don't .

My baby sister looks ten years older than me, not the other way around.

She isn't old enough to dance for the Devil… but her body has been failing her for years.

I scurry to stand as she reaches for her pillow and help her lie down. I shouldn't have let her sit up for so long.

Skye shifts, grimacing as she tries to get comfortable and I pull the bedsheets up around her. "You need to rest."

"I've been resting for years. Surely it would have solved something by now if that was the answer." She smiles up at me, but it's a tired, frustrated thing and then a yawn wracks her body, making her bones pop and crack.

"Maybe you're right." She cringes. "One more night of good sleep, and tomorrow, we will tackle our problems together."

Squeezing her hand, I don't agree with her.

I promised myself I would never lie to her and sometimes it's easier to say nothing at all.

"Sleep well." I turn off the lamp at her bedside and kiss her hot forehead before leaving her to sleep through another hellish night.

Thankfully, she's seventeen for a few more weeks. Her hell won't be literal this year.

Closing the door quietly behind me, I pause in the hallway of the convent, looking down at the black and white tiles beneath my feet.

I don't belong here.

The sisters tolerate me out of the love in their hearts and by the grace of God… or so they say.

But they don't let me have any peace.

As I turn to walk to my own room, I hear the clicking of heels and know that tonight won't be any different.

"Iona! Come say your vows before it's too late." Sister Norris hurries up beside me, her countenance grim, her habit fluttering behind her. "Not tonight, sister." I offer her a smile I know she won't understand.

"You cannot mean to go through with this."

We've had this argument before. "I know what I'm doing."

"Not even God knows what you're doing."

Good. It's better that way.

"Go back to the women you can save tonight. There is not much time left for them."

I offer her a smile and then shut my door in her face.

As soon as I snick the lock, I let the panic free from its tight cage.

I've been running out of time for months. But now… now I can't dawdle.

I rush to tear my shirt off and shimmy out of my pants. My dress is hidden behind the changing screen, ready to step into and I wiggle it up over my hips and zip it up, happy the corset-style top isn't a lace-up.

Sister Norris and the others who have donned their habits won't be pulled down to dance for the Devil. They are married to God. And marriage or death are the only things that can save a person from going to hell on All Hallows Eve.

Smoothing the dress down, I bite my tongue. It's purple, not black like it should be.

I put my hands in the pockets and fluff out the heavy skirt.

The bits that make it pouf are removable, but I don't want to lose them until I need to. And when I'm sure they aren't going anywhere, I smooth my hand down the slit over my left leg and sweep the copious fabric to the right.

The knife is made of iron and it's probably too small to do anything to the creatures of hell, but I strap it to my thigh anyway. Like the map tattooed on my arm, I don't know that it is going to actually help me.

I just have to hope.

Someone outside my door goes shrieking down the hall toward the room where young women can save themselves.

I have to go tonight. I've done too much to hesitate in the final minutes.

The letter I wrote for Skye sits on the dresser beside the cross necklace my mother gave me. If I don't make it back, the first will explain the second.

Beside them, a vial of holy water.

Plucking it up, I stare at it for a bare moment before I down it like a shot and let the small glass drop to the thin carpet at my feet.

It's just water. The blade is just a knife. And I am just a woman. What chance do I have in hell?

There is a second cage in my chest, beside the one that held panic. But I keep the fear locked away tight.

Miracles require sacrifice.

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