My daughter was pale and shaking — but her eyes were sharp, and steady, and thinking. She cut her gaze deliberately toward a heavy brass candlestick lying on the floor near the altar steps, then back to me.

Eight years old, tied to a chair, and still my clearest ally in the room.

I gave her the smallest nod.

“Darius — now,” I said.

I need to say something about my daughter’s courage, because it is the truest thing in this whole account and I never want it lost inside the drama of that night.

Esme was eight.