The kitchen was a cavern of cold stone and copper glinting in the moonlight, a world away from the velvet-lined silence of the attic. Malcolm stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his shadow cast long and jagged across the floorboards. The silver candelabra in his hand trembled, the flames dancing like frantic spirits.
He didn't see a daughter standing there; he saw a rebellion. He saw the "perfect" code of his life unraveling in the presence of a dirty, soot-streaked girl who dared to look him in the eye.
"You have no idea what you’ve done," Malcolm whispered, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, low-frequency rage. "You’ve breathed the air of the common. You’ve tainted the sanctuary."
Corrine didn't move. She felt the cold draft from the back door on her heels and the heat of her father’s fury on her face. Between them, the boy outside the window had vanished into the night, leaving only the memory of the red apple behind.
"The sanctuary was a lie, Father," Corrine said. Her voice was no longer the bell-like chime of a doll; it was steady, grounded by the weight of the iron key she still clutched. "You didn't build it to keep me safe. You built it because you were afraid of the sun."
Malcolm stepped forward, the candlelight illuminating the madness in his eyes. "I built it to keep you pure! To keep you away from the rot of the world that took everything from me! You are a Foxworth! You are the crown of this estate!"
"I am a girl," she countered, her voice rising. "And I’ve seen the red. I’ve seen the light in the...