Another rose opened.
“You cut them.”
Another.
“Used them.”
Another.
“Named them waste when their bodies stopped surviving what you did to them.”
Another.
Another.
Another.
By the end, Ermes was barely hanging together.
Not dead.
The garden was too careful for that.
Too fair.
That was the worst part.
The roses were not frantic. They did not tear him apart in rage. They took him piece by piece with awful patience, as if every mouth knew exactly how much he could lose and still remain there to feel the next bite.
It was deranged.
It was obscene.
It was exactly what he deserved.
Penny stepped beside Perse.
Her face was wet now.
She did not wipe it.
“Did they beg?” she asked.
Ermes sobbed.
Penny’s gold flared.
“Did they beg you to stop?”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
A ro
