The stage where Lord Reinhardt and Lady Helena had stood in their false splendor was no longer a stage.
It was a butcher's block.
Reinhardt's head was the first to go.
The blade caught him mid-scream, cleaving through collarbone, sternum, and spine in a single diagonal arc.
His body split like firewood, top half sliding away while the bottom half remained seated for one grotesque heartbeat before toppling.
Helena lasted longer.
Joy took her time.
She hacked off the hands that had burned and beaten her mother.
Then the arms that had held Maria down.
Then the legs that had kicked her when she fell.
Helena's final scream was cut short when the axe buried itself in her skull and kept going, splitting her torso down to the navel.
The two legitimate children never even had time to cry.
Then Joy turned to the crowd.
Uncles. Aunts. Cousins. Nephews. Grandparents.
Every branch of the Hawthorne bloodline that had watched Maria suffer and done nothing.
