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saving.”
    She shakes her head at me sorrowfully, as if I’ve disappointed her.
    My irritation rises. “Why did you ask me my opinion, then, if you’ve already made up your mind?” My voice turns cold. “Violetta, soon you’re going to realize that things don’t end well for everyone. Some of us are broken and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.” I glance down at the poor creature struggling in her hands. The sight of its ripped wing, its crippled, deformed body, sends a jolt of anger through me. I slap the butterfly out of her hands. It lands upside down in the grass, legs clawing at the air.
    I’m instantly sorry.
Why did I do that?
    Violetta bursts into tears. Before I can apologize, she clutches her skirts and jumps to her feet, leaving periwinkle blossoms scattered in the grass. She spins around.
    And there behind her stands my father, the smell of wine hovering about him in an invisible cloud. Violetta hurriedly brushes away her tears as he stoops to her eye level. He frowns. “My sweet Violetta,” he says, touching her cheek. “Why are you crying?”
    “It’s nothing,” she whispers. “We were just trying to save a butterfly.”
    Father’s eyes settle on the dying creature on the grass. “Both of you?” he says to Violetta, his eyebrows raised. “I doubt your sister would do that.”
    “She was showing me how to care for it,” Violetta insists, but it’s too late. His gaze wanders to me.
    Fear hits me and I start to scramble away. I know what’s coming. When the blood fever first passed through, killing a third of the population and leaving scarred, deformed children everywhere, we were pitied.
Poor things.
Then, a few parents of
malfetto
children died in freak accidents. The temples called the deaths acts of demons and condemned us.
Stay away from the abominations. They’re bad fortune.
So the pity toward us quickly turned to fear. The fear, mixed with our frightening appearances, became hate. Then word spread that if a
malfetto
had powers, they would manifest when he or she was provoked.
    This
interested my father. If I had powers, at least I could be worth something. My father could sell me off to a circus of freaks, gather a ransom from the Inquisition for turning me in, use my power to his advantage,
anything.
So he has been trying for months now to awaken something in me.
    He motions for me to come to him, and when I do as he says, he reaches toward me and holds my chin in his cold palms. A long, silent moment passes between us.
I’m sorry for upsetting Violetta,
I want to say. But the words are choked by my fear, leaving me quiet, numb. I imagine myself disappearing behind a dark veil, vanishing to somewhere he can’t see. My sister hides behind Father, her eyes wide. She looks back and forth between us with growing unease.
    His eyes shift to where the dying butterfly is still struggling in the grass. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding at it. “Finish the job.”
    I hesitate.
    His voice coaxes me on. “Come now. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” His grip on my chin tightens until it hurts. “Pick up the butterfly.”
    Shaking, I do as he says. I grasp the butterfly’s lone wing between two fingers and lift it into the air. The glittering dust smears on my skin. Its legs scramble, still fighting. My father smiles. Tears shine in Violetta’s eyes. She had not intended this. She never intends anything.
    “Good,” he says. “Rip off the wing.”
    “Don’t, Father,” Violetta protests. She puts her arms around him, trying to win him over. But he ignores her.
    I try not to cry. “I don’t want to,” I whisper, but my words fade away at the look in my father’s eyes. I take the butterfly’s wing between my fingers, then rip it from its body, my own heart tearing as I go. Its naked, pitiful form crawls in my palm. Something about it stirs a darkness within me.
    “Kill it.”
    In a daze, I crush the creature under my thumb. Its broken carcass twitches slowly against my