“You dare to choose them?” Auguste hissed. Another vein throbbed in his throat. He looked less handsome now. More deranged. “Over your own father?” Before Beau could answer, Philippe finally breached the platform, and Auguste lunged. It happened in slow motion. Beau whirled to drive him back, sweeping the torch wide, and a single spark snapped into the air. It hung motionless for a second—for a thousand seconds—before drifting almost lazily to the platform. To the hay. I could do nothing but watch, horrified, as we went up in flames.
